#also forcing myself to stick to MY OWN choices and not to copy someone else’s

[dots-in-my-head]

Child of the spirit

[semischarmed]

Guess, Part 2

“Correct”. 

Months. 

The word still rang in Shane’s head. He felt lightheaded, as if speaking the word brought it into truth. Months. Noah had been like this for months. This wasn’t some clone or copy or illusion. That was the horror in it. This was Noah, for all intents and purposes. His roommate’s actual flesh. 

“Noah was such a jerk in high school…” Arthur recalled without a hint of pain. In fact, he seemed to revel in it. “Such an asshole- it was only right he was my first”. Arthur leaned over, giving Noah’s cheek a lick. “Wasn’t like I had a lot of choice- the body is one thing, but drilling my strings into someone’s mind takes a lot out of me, leaves me vulnerable.” The nerd snuggled up to Shane’s roommate, running his hands over the man’s musculature. “That’s why I love karma so much.” He let out a moan as he tapped Noah’s forehead. 

“This dumb meathead was the perfect start. I slipped a bit of myself into a fold of his brain. Gave little hints here and there at first. The guy doesn’t question anything at all. Even his own thoughts. I started with little suggestions but eventually just started feeding him my thoughts directly to see how he would resist. Idiot thought they were his thoughts. By the time enough of me wormed in… ” Arthur leaned over, gently prodding Noah’s lips with his tongue. 

Shane felt himself burn with jealousy. Noah’s body let out an involuntary “ah”, as Arthur’s tongue greedily explored. The nerd moaned as he got more and more into it, now slowly rocking back and forth as he hungrily tasted Noah’s mouth. He looked back at Shane, before continuing, “By the time enough of me wormed in… he thought he was the one pumping his dick every night to the thought of sticking my strings inside his own friends and family.” 

Noah’s face went flush as cracking noises were heard throughout his body. His entire body sagged limp before contorting in unnatural angles. After a few seconds of soft grunting, he began to speak to Shane directly, tears welling despite his vacant expression. “I’m too stupid to be a person. I.. need… Arthur. I need to think his thoughts, to speak his words. I need to be his muscle… his seed”.

Arthur half-pouted, half taunted as he pulled his cheek next to Noah’s, “See?” 

Sure, Noah might have been a bit dumb in high school, but in the years Shane had known him, the guy was not as stupid as Arthur kept implying. Worse still, it sickened Shane to see his best friend be forced to degrade himself. Shane could gag if he wasn’t so terrified. It wasn’t just his thick muscle or his pretty face. Memories, dreams, social life. Anything that could have ever belonged or will ever belong to Noah now bound to Arthur as well. Worst of it all, Noah was forced to feel the perverse pleasure Arthur felt in the loss of his agency. 

Arthur beamed back. Noah’s did in turn, face dutifully reflecting its master’s feelings. Beyond the disgust with the newfound knowledge, Shane caught a glimpse of mischief in his roommate’s eye. Like there was something else Arthur had been withholding. 

Shane’s dick stirred as he saw Noah pull down his shorts, meaty cock now poking through the opening of his boxers. Fuck he’s hot. Seeing Arthur also begin to strip down promptly brought him back to reality. Escape.

At this, Shane realized there was no hope of resistance. He nervously let out a chuckle before trying to rationalize an escape. He eyed the door, only for the sight to be partially blocked by Noah’s large arms. With a predatory smile, the Noah meatpuppet licked his lips.

“Dude, look at me. Look at him. You don’t need me…”

Shane gagged as he saw drool escape a euphoric Noah’s mouth. It dropped in strands, nearly viscous as it shone back. Noah’s fingers went to work, greedily violating their owner’s mouth as the coated themselves in the clear liquid. Arthur’s head hung back in pleasure as Noah began to grope his master’s body. 

“-d, do you mind if I speak through Noah here? Just feels right talking to you through this body,” Noah moaned. “Anyways, you’re fine just the way you are… hmmm, could probably use some more muscle but I just need you for Jesse, bro.”

“Jesse?” Shane was puzzled. He didn’t know a J- Wait. 

“Yeah bro, your bro. That Jesse.”

- - -

For a second time, Shane’s stomach dropped. Jesse? Shane barely talked about his older brother. Jesse had been a somewhat absent older brother. He was quite the adventurer, always going on backpacking trips, often braving the harsh wilderness with just the pack on his shoulders. Shane was puzzled, Jesse had only recently been back in town, temporarily staying at their father’s place. Shane hadn’t recalled ever mentioning his older brother. Shane shook his head in disgust, at the thought of Jesse being a puppet for this demon.

“Don’t worry Shane,” Noah crooned playfully as he brought Arthur up to his body. The gym rat’s meaty arms caressed the nerd, slipping past the hips of smaller man a grabbing Arthur’s body possessively. “We’re giving our bro real special treatment.” At that, Noah’s hands began gently playing with Arthur’s flesh. They drummed across the nerd’s chest with an off-putting tenderness. The jock’s left hand then snaked behind Arthur, cupping the nerd’s ass before worming deeper. Arthur’s mouth opened involuntarily. Shane could see stars in Arthur’s eyes, no doubt from the sensory overload. 

“What- I- Have- in- mind….” Arthur let out in grunts and half-breaths as Noah pulled out sticky fingers and pushed in another piece of himself. Defined hips began gyrating faster and faster “Is -more -than -a puppet…. A privilege” Noah grunted, a high-pitch whine escaped Arthur’s lips. “Oh Jesse!”

Arthur's whimpers increased in pace. “I'm gonna pack myself deep and tight inside that bod. He'll have to fit the full density of all my strings, of all my flesh... but I know that man will hold. Jesse's body has toughened worse. I can't wait to be inlaid inside that meat. Now it's going to do what it was born to do. To be my perfect vessel, thinking his thoughts for him, moving his body for him, jamming our strings inside more bodies. I can't wait for you to see Jesse's full potential, pulling and possessing and controlling other men... Shane, I can't wait to be your brother. “Jesse’ll love this! Once it’s my love pouring out of him. Once I'm tucked nice and safe inside that body of his... we'll be unstoppable.” 

“He’s gonna be pulling the Chief’s strings, my strings… your strings“ Noah barely spoke, focus and athleticism diverted to speed. The pace was breakneck, whimpers became groans became yelps of raw pleasure.

“And you’re gonna put me in him!” Arthur and Noah roared in unison. The jock arched his back, lifting the squirming nerd. Arthur’s smaller form kicked his feet involuntarily as ropes of hot white shot out of him. The amount geysering out of the perverse union seemed far too much for either man. 

Noah’s head slumped over Arthur’s clavicle while the nerd sampled the seed now coating his chest and stomach. He closed his eyes, in satisfaction. “You always taste so good when I’m shooting your batter out.” 

Arthur’s eyes focused back on Shane, as he dragged his body to Noah’s side, inching himself closer to Shane. 

Noah sat back up abruptly, head still slung forward. Arthur’s hand collected into a fist, causing Noah’s to follow. At that, the jock’s flush cock stirred back into life. Noah’s head still slung as his hands began grasping at his already glazed, meaty cock. Slight discomfort placed itself on the man’s mouth, as he began to knead it again. 

“I bet Jesse’s batter will taste even better… “

This was by all accounts a nightmare. Shane felt himself petrified. He pieced together some of Arthur’s MO. If Noah was any indication, Arthur had to dominate someone mentally before being able to puppet their bodies. The Chief, then, and the police force?

Noah had still only animated in an eery silence, aside from some slight groaning as his hands continued to stimulate his tired meat. “Seeing his son and I fuck raw in his own bed was enough. I just needed a few strings inside, anyway. Watching my strings come out of Noah, and wiggle before jamming into him. Forcing his body . His mind was easy after that.” Noah licked his lips, as Shane imagined the police chief doing the same. “And what police force wouldn’t listen to their own boss?”

Arthur continued in sinister glee, as he watched Shane piece together his plan. “That’s why I need you, for Jesse”. He moaned. “What man wouldn’t feel mind break at the sight of their own little brother defiled, perverted, mine.” Shane gagged involuntarily. Fuck. 

“W-well you said he was tough. How do you know he won’t resis-“

“My insurance? You think I’m starting with him? No. He’s not going to just be my puppet. He’s going to be me. String by string, neuron by neuron- this is going to be a process. We’ll need all the help we can get- I’ll worm into every person in this town if I have to. And you’re going to be my perfect little puppeteer. We can start with dear old dad.” 

Noah’s head shot up, sticking his tongue out before resuming its empty expression “Oh, and by the way, I lied.“

Noah cummed again. His body only uttered one word- a word that shook Shane to his core. No pleasure painted Noah’s face this time, as Arthur revealed in the second helping of euphoria. Tired beyond tired, the sweaty jock slumped immediately back into the folds of the sofa.

Years. The word shattered Shane. It violated every emotion of memory of his best friend. Like a dagger twisting in his heart, he felt himself torn at the word. Every single aspect of “Noah”, fabricated. Every emotion, every bond, every secret between the two. It was all some sick facsimile of a friendship, a puppeteer’s twisted play. 

Still reeling from the revelation, Shane could barely process the next words spoken by Arthur. 

“Now for another game… I’m sure you thought it was weird how you liked my precious Noah flesh here all of a sudden… “ Shane felt dick harden by itself as a body deaf to his commands pulled closer to the two and sandwiched the Arthur between his and Noah’s sweaty bodies. This time, Shane felt himself speak ”Guess how long you’ve been mine.”

- End Part 2 -

Will this have more parts? Who knows if or when, I hate writing haha

[ufoparty]

How did you get into art and what's the best way for people to get into it?

being bad at video games

GENUINELY i got the kingdom hearts manga because i couldn't get very far in the game and as i looked at the art i thought "i want to make stuff that looks like this." so i began with copying and then started drawing freely with obvious references to KH art (eyes mainly lol). pretty much every skill leap i've experienced since then has also happened once i discovered an art style i wanted to borrow something from. plus series with very engaging characters+plot makes me want to explore it more (i.e. i get hyperfixated) so i've ended up practicing a TON with little frustration because it's usually catharsis/Jokes™ that are the driving force rather than making something that looks good.

(not to say i don't ever doubt myself, because there are pieces in my head i wanted to make years ago but didn't because i lacked the technical skill)

i can only really give advice about getting into character art, because i've never been very interested in making abstract or photorealistic art or whatever. they definitely have their place but that's just my preference. that being said:

being super invested in something whether it's your own story ideas or someone else's is a great gateway to art. if you ever have the thought "haha it would be funny/cool if this happened" and the imagery/expressions stick with you moreso than like, Phrasing (personally different ideas i've had have struck me as being more suited to written work vs. drawn, or vice versa), just go ahead and draw it. and do it every time you think of something else. you don't have to show anybody. i drew fruits basket comics in 6th grade and never showed a soul. those drawings are for You

looking at other people's work.. novels, manga, cartoons, paintings, design, typography.. even if the work as a whole is something you're not that into, if there are stylistic choices you appreciate then take them. you can just straight up redraw someone else's art if you want to get a feel for how it all fits together, as long as you don't post it/claim it as your own (my rule is: no posting copies of a peer's art without permission, but yes to a famous/dead artist as long as credit is given). when you mash influences together it becomes something unique to you very quickly because no one else is going to be drawn to the exact same things as you

a major DON'T is second-guessing yourself. it's super easy to compare yourself to others especially as you get older, because if you start making art at like. 45 you may think you need to be at the same skill level as another 45-year-old who's been doing it for 30 years. it can be hard not to think this way especially if you're looking at other people's art like i suggested lol but get in the habit of hyping up your own ideas to yourself. "this such a good idea." "wow i'm so funny." "this is silly but no one has done it before so it's my job to make it."

there are people who could say all of this more eloquently and succinctly, and who follow their own advice more often--i haven't followed the third bullet in a while :o) but when i think of the most productive periods in my life these are the things that stand out the most. so i hope even just like one sentence is useful. also having adhd or autism can make this easier so try that too 👍

[chiscribbs]

Any tips or words of advice for new artists?

Oh, gosh, uhhh... xD

Honestly, I don’t know what I can say that hasn’t been said a hundred times before; “keep practicing, don’t compare yourself to other artists, use references, experiment with all types of media,” etc. etc. 

Those are all important things, and you should definitely take them into account (just not at face value, because there are helpful and non-helpful ways to do all of these things. You can easily look up videos with instructions on how to do them in a helpful manner.)

The thing is - I still don’t consider myself a “professional artist,” even though I’ve gotten to the point now where I’m occasionally getting paid for my work. I’m still learning, still improving, still getting the hang of things on a daily basis. And truthfully (though this might be a little presumptuous of me to say), I think that’s the case for most artists? There is no point at which we become “pro artists,” it’s a constant effort to improve, one area of our work at a time. It doesn’t matter what school you go to or what company you work for, your art doesn’t suddenly become better the moment someone sets a price to it. 

I guess if I had to give any advice that’s been helpful to me, personally, it’d be this: 

Don’t go into it thinking there’s one specific correct way to be an artist.

Different people will tell you different things, based on what’s worked for them in the past, but what works for them will not necessarily work for everyone. There is no hard-and-fast rule in art. If there was, all art would look very similar and not particularly unique.

I think getting caught up in pin-pointing the “right way” to draw or create only serves to stunt your growth in the long-run.  Try things out, experiment, learn what works best for you. And once you’ve learned that, don’t just stick to it all the time either! Keep trying other things! The more skills you have under your belt, the better!

Too often people get hung up on finding their “niche” or “style.” And those are all good things to have, but you can’t force them. Art is like food; the best way, I believe, to figure out what you like is to first try your hand at all different things.

For example: I’ve always preferred sketching over painting. I took a class on painting, but could never wrap my mind around the technique, it didn’t hold my interest. So when I was given the option, I would choose the medium I was most comfortable in, every time. You can look back at my old art and see just how...well, monotone and sketchy it is. xD However, learning to mimic the TTS style has sort of forced me to become more familiar with line-less art techniques. And the more I’ve practiced with it, the more comfortable with it I’ve become. It’s gotten to the point now where painting comes a lot more naturally to me, and I can even say that I sometimes enjoy it!

This is a preview of a painting I’m working on now (left), compared to one I did about 2 years ago (right):

(The most recent one, I was able to do without the use of a sketch layer - which is something I never thought would be possible for me, since I’ve been so reliant on them in the past!)

Learning this style has also taught me a lot about silhouetting, color palettes, backgrounds, dynamic lighting and shape exaggeration. And that’s not only applicable to Tangled (though it’s definitely been one of the strongest influences for me, as of late.) There have been other styles that I’ve tried to mimic which have helped my art to grow in completely different ways, as well. When I was little, I used to pause our Lion King VHS/DVD and try to copy down what I saw on the screen. For the longest time after that, TLK was my go-to style.

It’s good to learn from other artists whose work you admire, it helps you get a feel for what sort of styles and imagery are most appealing to you. 

***Note: That doesn't mean you should just adopt someone else’s style that you like as your own and draw that way from then on out. That won’t help you in the long-run, nobody is going prefer a copycat style over the original, when given the choice. But, learning how to copy other styles can absolutely be an extremely beneficial skill! Especially in animation!***

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This is getting lengthy as heck, so I’m gonna bottom-line it:

When it comes to art, the best advice I can offer is: don’t just follow one or two people’s “How-to-Art” Guidebook and assume it will give you all the answers. 

I can almost guarantee you, no artist that you love got to where they are by doing that. They were almost definitely influenced and inspired by many different sources, and learned how to incorporate elements that they loved about those into their own work. 

Tips are great, don’t get me wrong! They can be very eye-opening and help you grow exponentially as an artist. But they’re only there as trail markers that are meant to point you in the right direction, not a yellow brick road that will lead you to where you want to be. Ultimately - what makes your art your art...is you.

Just - try things out! Test your limits! Step outside your comfort zone on more than one occasion so that you can adapt and learn new techniques! Art is an ever-growing skill. And you, as an artist, are ever-growing and changing right along with it. There is no finish line you need to reach, so just focus on honing one specific skill at a time, and as long as you’re making an effort to improve, then you will.

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Oh, and one more additional note: it’s a good idea go back and look at your old art from time-to-time. Sometimes we aren’t able to see how far we’ve come until we look back and remember where we started.

[choices-and-voices]

hi sorry if this has already been asked somewhere but im was wondering if you had any tips on how to get the best experience without having to pay ?

Hi there! Don’t worry, this question hasn’t been asked before, and I am honestly super flattered that you value my opinion enough to ask it ☺️ I’m not sure how helpful my tips will be because I don’t exactly consider myself an expert in this, but here are some things that came to mind! I’ve gone into quite a bit of detail, but if you want a quicker overview, just stick to the bold headings. Also, if any of the people reading this have good tips of their own, please lmk! I’m always learning new things about how to do this too 💕

1. This one’s a bit obvious, but still – take the opportunities that the game gives you to earn free diamonds. That means watching the bonus ads every day (5 diamonds/day), playing through chapters as often as you can (including replaying old books if there are no new releases – 2 diamonds/chapter), and watching ads at the end of book chapters for an extra diamond. Obviously, all this is a bit of a balancing act – you want to be playing Choices often enough to build up your diamonds, but not so often that it takes over your life and makes you feel frustrated, because what’s the point of it if it’s not fun anymore, y’know? So I’ve always been careful not to overdo it. Even if all you do is watch the bonus ads every day, that’s 35 diamonds/week – basically, one big diamond scene a week – which is honestly not too shabby.

2. At any one time, only play 1-2 books that you’re really invested in, and try to supplement that with another 2-3 books that you’re not really invested in or are replaying just for diamonds. As tempting as it can be to rush through every good-looking book in the app all at once, that just leads to a situation where a) you’re trying to divide your free keys between waaay too many releases, and b) there are so many demands on you for diamonds, you never get to consistently spend them on anything. So I personally think it’s best to only read a couple of good books at once, and instead of marathoning them, break them up with chapters from less-good books – this builds up your diamond stash for spending on the good books. Which leads into my next point:

3. Don’t zip through books too fast – even if most of the chapters are already released, spreading them out helps you earn more diamonds for them in the meantime. I’m really lucky to have been playing Choices for so long that almost all the books were presented to me in weekly release format – if I downloaded the app for the first time today, and saw all the fully-released books on there, I feel like I would be way too overwhelmed to play. So I reckon that, even if a book isn’t technically a weekly release for you, make it a weekly release! You might decide to play all the books you’re really invested in on a particular day when you have more free time – say, a Sunday. Then, you have Monday-Saturday every week to earn diamonds for those books, and something to look forward to at the end of it all. As for what you do with those diamonds:

4. Be smart about what you spend diamonds on. There are a couple of different components to this tip – it involves things like a) figuring out which types of purchases are worth diamonds in general, b) figuring out which types of purchases you want to prioritise in certain books, and c) planning ahead before you start playing a book chapter about where you might want to spend diamonds. To address each of those things one-by-one:

a) Figure out which types of purchases are worth diamonds in general. Off the top of my head, there are 6 main types of diamond purchases in Choices: ‘friendly’ scenes with LIs (12-25 diamonds), ‘steamy’ scenes with LIs (25-30 diamonds), scenes with your whole friendship group, collectible items (e.g. the tapestry pieces in Bloodbound, the clues in Veil of Secrets, etc.), outfits, and pets. Your mileage may vary a lot on which of these are most important to you, so take my opinions with a grain of salt. But my general advice would be to i) prioritise group scenes above LI scenes, ii) prioritise ‘friendly’ LI scenes above ‘steamy’ LI scenes, iii) avoid collectibles, and iv) go for outfits and pets only if you really like the look of them. This advice is based on the fact that, firstly, I think you get a better experience of immersion in a book if you know a bit about all the characters around MC, rather than just about one LI; secondly, ‘friendly’ LI scenes tend to tell you more about the LI than ‘steamy’ scenes, which are often 80-90% copied-and-pasted erotica despite being more expensive; thirdly, collectibles are a massive drain on diamond stores, and almost always unlock quite short, generic scenes that it’s easy to find on Tumblr or YouTube; and fourthly, both outfits and pets don’t do much except appear in the story at key moments, which can be a really nice touch but is still only needed in moderation. Of course, there are exceptions to these rules, and you might find that those exceptions are sometimes book-specific. Which leads me to Part B of this point:

b) Figure out which types of purchases you want to prioritise in certain books. It’s all well and good for me to say that group scenes are usually better than LI scenes, but when I’m playing a book with an amazing LI but a pretty meh supporting cast (*cough cough* Myra Dixon carries Baby Bump on her shoulders *cough cough*), I obviously may need to adjust my spending habits slightly. Moreover, by focusing all your diamond spending on just one main thing per book – like Myra’s romance in Baby Bump, or the party’s side-quests in Blades of Light and Shadow, or the posse in Queen B – I think you end up with a much better playing experience, because you feel like you’re seeing at least one facet of the story in-depth instead of getting a patchy surface view of lots of different facets. For the most part, the purchases you prioritise in a book can mostly depend on personal taste, but there are a few books where some background knowledge might be helpful in the decision. Four things that I think are worth flagging are that i) the ‘competition books’ (America’s Most Eligible, Queen B, Hot Couture) do require regular outfit purchases to win, although winning isn’t that much better an experience than being runner-up; ii) Veil of Secrets and Nightbound are two books where it’s worth saving 30-35 diamonds for the final chapter, because your MC is forced to leave the small-town setting if you don’t; iii) Across the Void is a book that frequently invites you to spend diamonds to save characters’ lives, but their death arcs are honestly much better-written and more sensible than their survival arcs; and iv) the It Lives series is the only one where characters can die due to an accumulation of choices you make throughout the story, so maybe it’s worth keeping some diamonds in reserve for that one. Which just leaves us with one more sub-point:

c) Plan ahead before you start playing a book chapter about where you might want to spend diamonds. I want to take this opportunity to thank whichever people in the fandom maintain the Choices wiki, because oh my gosh, they are lifesavers. For the last year or so, my response whenever a new Choices chapter is released has been to wait a few hours, Google ‘[book name] choices’, open the wiki result, and skim through to check how many diamond choices are available & how much they cost. Because all the wiki includes are the possible responses to every choice presented – it doesn’t even state the wording of the choice itself – this is a relatively spoiler-free technique that helps a lot with big picture planning. For example, you might decide not to buy an early group scene because there’s a nicer-sounding LI scene later on, and come to think of it, you should replay a few more chapters of another book first to save up the diamonds for that scene. If you don’t mind encountering just a few more spoilers before you play the chapter, you can also scout out its diamond scenes in more detail by searching the relevant book or character tags on Tumblr, or by looking for a chapter stream on YouTube. You may decide that you don’t need to buy a diamond scene if you’ve already seen it played through by someone else, or alternatively, you may decide whether or not to buy a diamond scene based on how good it looks in an existing playthrough – in either case, these techniques can help you thoughtfully ration out the diamonds you have, instead of being caught off-guard whenever a diamond choice comes up.

5. On the subject of the Choices wiki, it’s also a great way to maximise your success in books without using diamonds. Whenever there’s a ‘right’ option to a choice that gives you a better outcome later in the chapter, that’s indicated in the wiki. So with a bit of pre-reading of the wiki before you play the chapter, and/or with the wiki open on a separate screen as you play, you can get the best outcome without having to buy that outfit or bonus scene that promised you ‘an advantage.’ Obviously, your mileage may vary on whether this method is actually worth it, or whether it takes all the fun out of Choices by ‘cheating’ at the gaming aspect. I personally view Choices as more of an interactive story app than a game I’m trying to beat, so I have no issue with this method, but opinions may differ and that’s okay.

6. If you’re really feeling like a lack of diamonds is limiting your playing experience, it may be best to start out with ‘cheaper’ books until you have more diamonds stored up. In this case, I’m using ‘cheaper’ to mean books where there are fewer diamond scenes, where diamond scenes are less expensive, and/or where diamond scenes don’t play as big a role in the plot. It can be hard to identify which books fit this bill, but as a general rule, it’s more likely to be the earlier-released ones or less-popular ones. Some which I’d recommend are the first few books of the Freshman series, the #LoveHacks series, the High School Story series, the Perfect Match series, Most Wanted, The Heist: Monaco, Wishful Thinking, Bachelorette Party, and The Royal Masquerade.

7. Finally, a really quick tip for making the most out of free keys – keys are used up as soon as you start a book chapter, and refresh ~every 3 hours. This means that, even if you don’t have time to play chapters every 3 hours, you should try to open the app roughly that often and just click to unlock a chapter. When you finally have time to play, you’ll have a whole lot of chapters ready to go plus another two refreshed keys, and you can power through them at whatever speed you need to fit in them into your break time or to earn diamonds for an upcoming release. Once again, this is a tip that may need to be practised in moderation, because you don’t want to be constantly interrupting your life to load up an app on your phone. But even if you just log in and unlock chapters every 6 hours, or every 12 hours, that’s still 2-4 extra chapters ready for you at the end of the day plus your two free keys.

I think that’s about all for my tips! Thanks for reading, and I hope it helped at least a bit ❤️

[heli0s-writes]

IV. I’m in the mood for love

Summary: Beyond the sass and the crass lies a tender moment Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: Maybe I wrote myself into a pickle? Idk but I teared up a little at the end. Also this is the most politics I’ll ever put in my work-- let’s keep it civil and chill if we disagree.

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

 It’s a miracle that you had worked up the courage to trot downstairs to return the only covering that separated two bare-ass naked men from your eyes. And not to mention yourself, who was only covered in a towel, too.

You make Steve stand so far around the corner of the doorframe that all he can do is stick out his hand. Bucky rustles the shower curtain impatiently and makes a comment on how “non-hyperverbal” you’re being and you’re too nervous to even respond back. When Buckyeye starts looking at you and the swinging white hem at your shins, you shoo him up the stairs before he gets any other bright ideas.

“Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Bucky comments later as you fiddle around in the kitchen, “But I guess it makes sense-- you still have those stuffed animals on your bed.”

You bristle and glare at him, “Just because you didn’t have a childhood doesn’t mean I can’t.”

It’s a little too mean, and you hear the venom that shoots right into him as soon as it leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” You comment. Damn it. He grew up in the fuckin’ Great Depression where everything was dusty and shit.

“Not all of us can travel the world eating caviar at the ripe age of four.” Bucky snarls. Ugh. Why’d he have to do that?

“Oh, fuck you.” You retort the same time Steve sharply calls Bucky’s name to reel him back in. It doesn’t work, as Steve knows, because when you and Bucky get into it—you get into it.

“You wish, princess. Wait, you’re such a goddamn prude, anyway--”

All Steve can do is cross his fingers and bark, “Buck!”

It’s too late. You’re across the room before Steve can say much else and you’ve launched yourself over one empty couch and straight into Bucky sitting on the other. The force knocks it slightly and it teeters before flopping back with a muffled thud.

Buckeye begins to run around in circles, unsure of the kind of play this particular moment is.

You have no idea what you’re doing, and you doubt you even want to—or can-- hurt him in any way, but you are so finished with his bullshit. You death-grip his hair as you jab both knees into his abdomen. Bucky moves to rip you off, but you clamp your teeth over his wrist and he yelps.

“Fuck you!” You scream, “fuck you so much! I—ow! I fucking apologized, you—Ugh!”

Buckeye, ever the perfect audience member, begins to bark to the rhythm of your screeching and aggressively nudges Bucky’s foot with his snout.

Soldat’s metal hand pushes your face back until its tilted up to the ceiling and further beyond, precariously suspended. The only thing keeping you from cracking your skull on the coffee table is your clinging to his hair. Steve’s concerned expression is upside down and his arms are outstretched, trying to determine the right configuration to pry the two of you apart. “Get that fucking! Aluminum foil finger the fuck away fr---”

“Shut up!” Bucky’s palm smashes against your mouth as his legs wrap around your back until you’re a squished human pretzel inside of him. You’re too crushed even to make any sounds and behind you Steve is sputtering vowels and consonants but not stringing together any real words. Finally, he nearly shrieks,

“Bucky! Jesus! You’re gonna actually kill her!”

Yep. This is how you’re gonna go, you think. The Winter Fucking Soldier has officially had enough of your bullshit, too, and he is going to bear-hug you to death. Who would have thunk it? Your fingers disengage and fall uselessly over his arms.

When time begins to slow and your soul starts to yeet itself from your body, Bucky blessedly lets go. “You’re bluer than I was in cryo.” He sneers.

Steve gasps, scandalized by the comment. For whatever reason, he’s covered Buckeye’s ears, too. You would send him an incredulous look, but you can’t feel your face.

With a pathetic whistle of air, you flop backwards and hang upside down over the couch, thighs gripped tightly by Bucky, heaving deep breaths until your lungs feel like they might burst through your rib cage. No wonder you are not a superhero—fuck the hubris, you are physically not built for this shit.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You mutter when Steve’s face begins to spin alongside your dog who slobbers all over your nose. Bucky yanks you up by the front of your shirt and the cough that blasts from your mouth goes right into his face. His smug expression twists into one of disgust and you take the moment to waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

Your sour mood has fled and now that you’re absolutely sure you cannot kick his ass—you return to the one thing you do know you’re capable of:

“Hey, baby. Is that a glock in your pants or are you just really happy to see me?”

To drive your point home, you bounce on his lap with a wide grin, wiggling your butt in exaggerated motions.

“Okay! That’s enough!”

Steve scoops you up and plants you back on the other side of the coffee table. “That’s too smart! Too smart!” He scolds as you pat your bottom and then curtsy. Bucky only huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to meet your gaze. Ha-ha. Winter Soldier, meet your match—Ass Woman. No, that just sounds like a porno.

“Alright, fuckers.” You declare, stepping over to the built-in bookshelf around the flatscreen and retrieving a leather-bound copy of The Wizard of Oz. “Ready for chili?”

They watch you open the front and stick your hand inside the false pages and retrieve a roll of bills. “What?” You ask nonchalantly. “Oh—shut up, Barnes. Like you guys really need me to pay back the vet fees. Technically, my tax dollars pay you.”

Steve shakes his head no. So, you casually toss him the roll of cash and then pull out another one.

“Jesus! Will you put these back?”

“Look,” You say, “For every month I don’t come home my mother puts another wad in this box.” You show them the pile of rolled bills, each encased in varying sizes of rubber bands. “She thinks it’ll ensnare me, but joke’s on her, the more I’m away the more there is to spend. She’s not very smart—a consequence of never having to think for herself.”

“And you’re fine with spending it?” Bucky ponders. The relationship you have with your family grows more confusing the longer they spend in your parents’ house. The memorabilia littered in your childhood bedroom seems to suggest that you aren’t completely detached from your family or your childhood. The way you respond to being home is paradoxical, too—disgusted at the excess one minute, reveling in it the next.

“It’s just fucking money. They make so much of it. I couldn’t bankrupt them if I tried. My father has offshore accounts in the fucking Caymans. I literally could not.”

They both pause before Steve speaks up, “Are you an only child?”

You frown. “No.” Then you aggressively push him by the shoulder and toward the exit, motioning for Bucky to follow. “It’s fucking Skyline time.”

Suddenly, you pause at the door and turn around to put both your hands on your hips. Looking both of them up and down, you shake your head impatiently. Steve is wearing his civilian Captain America outfit again. And Bucky, honestly, Bucky looks like someone cosplaying Bucky.

“Who dressed you?” You demand, exasperated, “You guys like, do spy stuff? It’s baffling to me that you don’t get caught immediately. Steve—khakis?”

Upon being admonished, he scoffs and looks around, “What’s wrong with my khakis?”

“Will you please tell him something?” You ask Bucky, who only rolls his eyes as if to say, you’re fuckin’ telling me. When it’s obvious that Steve’s poor choices are solely the result of him being an old fuck with no fashion sense, you mumble. “At least switch shirts. I’m going to take Buckeye out… please… fix this.”

-

When you come back, the sight of Steve wearing black and Bucky wearing light blue is so discomforting you cover Buckeye’s eyes. “It’s okay, boy.” You whisper loudly. Bucky flips you off but fixes the hem of the shirt he’s sporting. Steve—for whatever inexplicable reason, has decided to tuck… You quickly yank his shirt from his waistband and shake your head. “Christ, why are you like this?”

--

Untucked and uncomfortable in black, Steve looks at the menu as if the letters on it were runes from an ancient past. He doesn’t understand at all what Skyline Chili is or why it is. They’re coneys—this he does understand. But the rest of it—nope. Why would anyone ever need that much cheese? Bucky mirrors his sentiment by shutting the menu and crossing his arms.

The small bowl of oyster crackers in the middle of the table is being torn apart as you shovel handful after handful into your mouth. There is an inordinate amount of hot sauce sprayed on the top of the crisps, and you wipe your hands haphazardly on a napkin when you’re finished.

“Okay. You feelin’ spag or nah?” You ask, not even looking up. “Spagbol.” You continue, “Spag-y. SPAGHETS!” Then, in a terrible and very offensive Italian rendition, you pinch your fingers together and enunciate, “Its-a-spha-ghetta!”

Bucky slumps down into the booth until you stop. Steve puts his hand over his eyes.

“Why would you put chili on spaghetti noodles?” Bucky hisses.

The waitress arrives right after his question and you reach over to take his hands into your own— still reeking of peppers and vinegar from the hot sauce. “Shh,” You say almost tenderly, “Adults are talking now.”

“I hope you rub your eyes with that hand later.” Bucky snarls.

“I’ll cup your balls with it, instead.” You respond.

The waitress whimpers at the conversation she’s just stumbled into.

--

Six coneys arrive and as well as two plates of spaghetti. You explain to the boys that the Skyline specialty is steamed buns, mustard, special secret spice chili, raw onions, and hella shredded cheese. The noodles come with the same, sans mustard, and if you’re feeling extra frisky— beans. One plate is extra frisky today. Then you unscrew the cap to the hot sauce and shake the shit out of it onto everything.

They are bewildered at the sheer excess of American consumption as you shove almost half a coney into your face. Cheese flops down onto your plate.

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Steve whimpers.

“Big baby, wimpy, Stevie can’t eat the cheesy?” Between mouthfuls, you’re still a dick. “Just try it! What are you, six?”

He glares at you and then sends a puppy-dog look to Bucky who already is lifting a coney to his face. You take another bite and watch them do the same.

Immediately, Steve coughs. Bucky starts laughing so hard he drops the pile of shredded cheese all over the table. You tuck into the overflowing plate of spaghetti, hot noodles melting the cheddar on top into an amalgam of gooey yellow. “I can’t do it.” Steve groans, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.”

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, “There is only Skyline Chili.”

--

“So what’s your deal?” Bucky asks from the couch.

The three of you have returned back to the house, winding down for the night. It’s eight now, and you’ve driven them around the city just to show them the sights. The gentrified downtown with its bustling crowd of young, white party-people interspersed with streets of dilapidated buildings and homelessness. There’s a bitterness to your voice when you talk about the changing scenery—but a kind of sadness, too. You admit you don’t really know the solution. The business brings in money to the city, but all the people left behind are really getting left behind.

You show them the more relaxed areas, like Over the Rhine and point out its massive brewery. You promise to take them there soon. There’s also the famous Cincinatti Zoo, and King’s Island, where you swear is better than where Steve wanted to go- Coney Island #2. There’s no point in taking him there, you declare when he starts to sputter, because he only wants to go to shit all over it, and because King’s Island is way cooler.

“What do you mean?” You ask back, flipping through the stations with your feet propped up on the coffee table. Steve and Bucky are sitting side-by-side under a blanket. There is a bowl of chips and hummus shared in their laps since Steve refused to eat during dinner and is now very cranky.

“All of this. Excess. Money. And then... you.” he waves to the house, then to you, sprawled out carelessly on a leather couch in mismatched pajamas. Buckeye’s head is faithfully in your lap, big eyes peering up at you, as if he’s waiting for an explanation too.

“You hating on my penguin top and pumpkin bottoms or what?”

“C’mon...” Steve beckons, knowing that your deflection is just another cop-out.

So, you groan, because they’re teaming up on you and after almost three months it’s bound to happen. They’ve told you so much about themselves already. You’ve learned all about the personal lives of the Commandos, the war stories, serums and experimentations, the cryo, the trial after the Triskelion... the blood, and sweat, and all of Steve Rogers’ tears.

“Well... it’s not as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, tugging on Buckeye’s ear, finding the texture comforting under their persistent gaze. “Just a dumb girl born into an obscene family.”

But you tell them, truthfully and genuinely. Your family has old money- oil, or steel, probably both. As a result, you grew up in the lap of luxury, private schools, language programs, singing classes, dance lessons, horseback riding, trips to Europe and Asia, enormous birthday parties and a line of suitors as soon as you started growing breasts. The worst part, you admit, is that you loved it.

The picture they picked up in your room was from junior prom, and the date was a boyfriend- family friend- you’d been with for about six months, and he already planned on proposing. That was just how it was. Rich people marrying other rich people continuing the line of one-percenters.

Really, you say, your family was maybe the 10 percenter-range. As rich as maybe low A-list movie stars, not quite Jeff Bezos. But you know him, too.

“What changed?” Steve wonders out loud for both him and Bucky.

“Living in New York.” You half-smile at the memory of Union. “After Ohio State, I went to Union for my graduate studies and it blew my shit wide open. But that’s what happens when you start opening yourself up to other realities.”

You tell them about the immense struggle the first year at Union, feeling ostracized and realizing that your life is nothing like most peoples’ lives, and then beginning to frame your understanding of the world in a different way. You tell them you got mugged once and you felt like you probably deserved it.

“Then the election happened.” You sigh, and they both groan at the reminder. “As you know... it’s just been downhill and fucked. We had a big falling out here over Thanksgiving holiday.”

You didn’t come home in almost two years. You took out loans, you worked two jobs, took a full course load and wrote a thesis, and then went on to your Doctoral program. Your parents reached out to you and you eventually came half-way back into the fold.

“And spending their money?”

Most of the money you get you give to the local shelters. “That’s just direct action, baby.” You laugh. “We go at it, all the time. But you know, I figure... If I have to live in this shit world, might as well be a bastard about it.”

That earns a hearty chuckle from both your guests. “Jesus, that explains a lot.” Bucky grins as you nuzzle Buckeye and plant a kiss on his wrinkly face.

It feels so much better now that you’ve aired all the dirty, 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Steve hops up from the couch and runs downstairs, “Be right back!” He yells. You and Bucky narrow your eyes at the trail he’s padded into the carpet. In the distance, you can hear his rummaging and then thumping footsteps back up into the living room. He’s perfectly in one piece, because he’s Captain Damn America and nearly flying up a flight of stairs ain’t shit.

“I figured this would happen.” He grins, holding up a metal flask. “It’s time to break out the Asgardian mead.”

--

The three of you are drunk on whiskey and space-juice, tumbling around the downstairs living room. You are banging on the piano keys, tapping out a stuttering and off-kilter rendition of The Magic School Bus theme song while they wrestle. Why is it that no matter how old boys get, they still love to wrestle? Around their legs is Buckeye, running around in circles and panting, like a racecar at the Indy—only making left turns, having the time of his life.

“Get a fuckin’ ROOM!” You scream, throwing another shot down.

“You mean your room?” Steve laughs back, head under Bucky’s arm, tapping uselessly on his ribs.

“Captain America, fuckin’ in my room. Carve that on my grave, baby.” You mutter, as the piano lid slams down and you take a bow, knocking the bench over with a crash. “Oops.”

“Thas direct action, baby.” Bucky parrots you, “You’re so fucking lame.”

Buckyeye leaps into the air and licks him on the face. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, defend my honor, Buck!” You whoop. “Not you!” You point to Bucky, who flicks you off with a cackling laugh. The sound of it flutters into your ears like a ghost- leaving cold trails down your back. Suddenly, you get an idea.

“Hey-- you guys on Twitter?”

--

They sit crosslegged on the floor flanking you as you scroll determinedly through what seems to be endless tweets. There are other tabs open, too, of compilations of these. Thirsttweets, you explain. The internet loves and wants to bone the hell out of Captain America. Some of them want the Soldier there too—just watching, apparently.

Steve is seventeen shades of red and a little bit of purple. Bucky keeps cursing under his breath and at one point, you think, is reciting Hail Mary. It’s a million times worse than your playlist.

Who’s Got the Biggest Dick in Baseball is nothing compared to captain america could spit into my mouth and id say thank you

“I would never!” Steve gasps. “Or that!”

The tweet in question says: ruin my life big dorito daddy

“What does that mean?” Bucky groans, a little ruffled by all the lewd attention Steve is getting.

“His back is shaped like a Dorito, duh. Don’t get jealous, big boy. You’re next.”

For whatever reason, Bucky’s tweets are way worse. Maybe it’s his persona—that redeemed baddie type of thing. People eat that shit up like chips and dip—and apparently want to eat him too.

As long as I have a face, Winter Soldier has a seat rearrange my guts, Sargeant Sexy When will James Buchanan Barnes put his fist in me? WHEN? I didn’t know I was into getting choked until I saw that metal arm.

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of reading one out loud and spend the next five minutes with your insides on fire. Steve has his head in Bucky’s lap and there are tears coming out of his eyes both from Bucky’s clenched jaw and you, crumpled into a heap spewing amber.

--

A jazz tune belts out from the surround sound system. Steve has picked a Music Choice station from the seemingly endless list of cable possibilities and of course, being a nostalgic thing, chose Swingers — wait, Singers and Swing. Your brain is loopy with joy.

“Didn’t you say you took dance lessons?” Steve asks nonchalantly.

“Uh-huh,” you sigh on the floor, legs crossed over Buckeye as you pull him down on your tummy. Rolling side to side with you, your dog begins to groan and flop, aggravated at your antics.

“You know, Buck used to dance.”

“Uh-huh, you sure did, didn’t you, big baby?” You kiss Buckeye on the nose.

“Bucky. Bucky, not Buckeye.”

He returns from the restroom with his hair pulled away from his face, changed into a long sleeved soft shirt and sweats. “What?”

“You used to dance!” Steve urges with a flick of his wrist, “Get on out there!” He waves his finger to the carpeted living space where you are spread-eagled, trying your best to keep your dog next to you. Damn it, you want cuddles!

“You want me to lead her? Stevie, I couldn’t lead the girl to water if she were a horse.”

“I am not a whore!” You cry indignantly, shooting up from the carpet and knocking Buckeye over with a yelp.

“A horse! Jesus H. Christ, ya deaf!”

You probably are, you think, as the music slurs itself into one long whine. Bucky grabs you by the hand anyway, determined to prove some point to Steve. He turns you around until you face him and takes a second to start on the right beat.

It’s like a switch has flipped and he becomes all step and sway as he moves to the music, leading you, too. Some vestigial memory digs its way out of your muscles from all those damn dance lessons and your feet point and tap along with him, hips rocking when he spins you around and pulls you back. A grin slowly breaks across his face, big and lopsided, all teeth.

You feel like a little puppet in complete submission to him as he expertly uses the perfect amount of momentum to change your course.

Laughter bursts forth from your mouth as you whirl dizzily around Bucky, hands clamped tightly in both of his. The room is a blur of colors and the blue of Steve’s eyes, watching.

At one point, you stand hip-to-hip side-by-side and kick your feet together before he takes you by the waist and dips you low. You’re breathless as he laughs, mirroring your puffs of warm air from above, wild with motion— his hair slipping from behind his ear to hang over your forehead.

“Holy shit you got moves.” You proclaim as the song finishes and he tugs you up with a satisfied chuckle. A slower melody comes on and you move to return to the couch where Steve is sitting with Buckeye, but Bucky tugs you again, closer.

He places one hand behind your back, resting on the ridged thread-bare waistband of your pajama shorts, and the other one he holds up to his chest. You blink away the fuzzy spots from your eyes and peer at him, looking so far away even though he’s just inches apart. His expression has changed, dropping into something distant and removed and staring straight through you.

You see it now. He’s not Bucky anymore.

It hits you like a bag of bricks, that this is James Barnes, in all his glory as a beautiful Brooklyn boy. Out dancing with a girl. Laughing, just like this: bristled, square-jawed and cleft-chinned. Wide, pouty lips. Bright steel eyes. Before he was a soldier, he was just a boy.

Before he was The Soldier, he was just a boy.

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. The crooning in the background is tender, melodic, with the singer’s sweet voice pining for her loved one accompanied by delicate plucks of a piano.

Once, too, he pined.

The tears in your eyes spill over when you press your mouth to his. Bucky lets go of your hands and you catch his face with them, instead, holding onto his head, fingers grazing his ears and neck and brushing away his hair. You kiss him as if he might be shipped out to war tomorrow. It hurts even more to know that he probably had a night just like this, in the arms of a girl he loved, right before his entire life changed.

And then, you tear away and look at the couch where Steve sits, chewing on his lip, red-eyed too. You sob uncontrollably when you rush around the table and into his arms. He wraps them around you, pushes his face down into your shoulder.

“I love you guys.” You whisper, curled up in Steve’s lap, because the story of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter was never explicit in the history books, but you know it too. “Oh God. I’m so sorry it’s like this. I’m so sorry.”

Steve forgets sometimes, that they were ripped out of time. He forgets the torment and tearing of Bucky’s entire being. They busy themselves in tomorrow and moving forward so much that they bury how the things that made them also broke them.

You are clinging onto his shirt, crying for him now, for both of them. Two handsome soldiers, living, dying, resurrected again. Having only each other to know and hold.

Sergeant Barnes of the 107th closes his eyes and presses his lips together. When he opens them, he is Bucky Barnes of the terrible, modern age once more. He crosses the room quietly, as he always does, as he was made to do. He sits down next to Steve as you look up at him with love and sympathy and so much sadness he can’t stand it. He links his hand in yours and smiles in a way that cracks your heart right open.

“Don’t get weird, kid.” Bucky whispers with moist lashes. Your laugh is strangled when it escapes your throat, all wet and whine as you squeeze his fingers tighter.

“I love you. You don’t understand.”

Steve breathes a sigh into your shoulder and rubs his damp cheeks on the penguin print of your sleeping shirt. From next to him, Buckeye looks up quizzically and gives his arm a long, slow lick.

“Yeah, yeah,” He mutters, swatting at your dog’s snout lovingly, lips pressed into your collarbone. Then, he kisses you too, tipsy and torn open. In the background, Julie London sweetly croons:

If there’s a cloud above and it must rain, we’ll let it.

But for tonight, forget it.

I’m in the mood for love.

Next Chapter

[notthatiwilleverwriteit]

~ anyone disciplining him growing up due to his father being in jail and his mother probably working full time to both live and pay off debts. In asian culture, at least in chinese culture, parents would hit you if you do something wrong, hoping that you would learn your lesson and would not repeat the same mistake again. That brings back to the chapter where he tian gave a sandwich to mo nicely, but mo just threw it away, causing he tian to beat mo,hoping that mo would not ~

~ do this again. He tian probably beat mo out of anger, but I think what old xian is trying to portray here is the father role played by he tian, that is to punish mo when he does something wrong. Also, I think disciplining mo requires the use of force because he doesn’t really listen if someone talks to him nicely (for example, the chapter where a classmate told him he couldn’t play cards in the class, and he just stormed off cursing and chapter where buzzcut told him about his anger issue?? ~             

~ and he threatened to beat buzzcut if I remember correctly). Before meeting he tian, mo and his gang had been going around school picking up fights and destroying school properties (according to detention board). After he tian started sticking to him, it is very noticeable that none of these things occur again. It is very obvious that he tian’s presence is changing mo in a better way. Mo and he tian are just characters that compliment each other. He tian is teaching mo of how he cannot go ~

~ unpunished for every wrongful action that he does (which mo’s parents were never there to teach him) and Mo is teaching he tian of how being rich and popular does not mean he can have everything in his way and not everyone will bow down to him (in addition to all the mafia stuff and he tian needing mo to escape the dark world that many people have talked about). What do you think? (has anyone have written a similar analysis before?) Sorry for long post and spamming.                  

Good morning, dear anon-san! (^_^)/

First of all, sorry for taking my sweet time answering your question. I had a couple of school projects I needed to get out of the way first. Also, I wanted to take screenshots of the rest of your question, but Tumblr was being a pain and wouldn’t let me upload different kinds of images from the chapter pictures. So, I copy-pasted the rest instead. 

You posed some interesting interpretations! Some of them differ from how I see Mo Guan Shan’s character and his relationship with He Tian, but they also introduced some new perspectives I hadn’t thought of before.

I wondered how to tackle your analysis. Your question has some overall themes running through, and my usual way of highlighting quotes to structure my answers doesn’t feel the most effective this time. So, I picked some keywords/phrases and the chapters you mentioned and I will try to give this answer some structure that way.

Lack of discipline in MGS’s upbringing

Let’s begin with MGS’s childhood and parenting. According to your interpretation, due to his absent parents (father in prison and mother working a lot to provide for the family) there hasn’t really been anyone there to discipline and punish MGS as a child. This has caused him to grow up without learning to follow rules and later resulted in him getting in trouble at school multiple times. I get the feeling that you’re not blaming the parents for any of that. It’s just due to the unfortunate events the family has gone through.

This is probably where I disagree with you the most. So far, we haven’t gotten any content of Mrs. Mo disciplining her son, but I don’t think he has grown up without proper punishments and learning his actions have consequences. I think it’s quite the opposite, actually. As you mentioned, she’s probably had to work long hours even when MGS was younger but I doubt she’s been as absent as you proposed. She doesn’t strike me as someone who would neglect her child’s upbringing that way even if she had to work a lot.

MGS might not follow the school rules but it’s clear he’s very responsible for a boy his age (ch. 259):

MGS takes care of the house (cooks, cleans, pays bills...) and works multiple part-time jobs. And I think that is the key to how he was raised instead of how he acts at school (I will get to MGS and school a bit later). Doing all those things at MGS’s age requires a strong sense of responsibility and most of all, discipline. I’m sure there have been countless times when he hadn’t felt like going to work after school or when he’s been too tired to cook for his mother so dinner’s ready when she comes home late. But because the situation of his family is what it is, he didn’t have a choice.

Bringing up your child like that doesn’t only take discipline but also trust. She had to be able to trust MGS would take care of things while she was away. I’m also sure she had had to be strict and tough with him in raising him like that, and it hasn’t always been easy for her. I’m sure she has had to deny a lot of “normal” things from him because she had needed him to help her with everyday necessities.

Another thing that hints at according to what principles MGS was raised was when he went to see his father (ch. 240):

We learned how much MGS looks up to his father and wants to become like him. In his eyes, his father is “upstanding” and someone respectable. So, it’s not like MGS lacked good role models growing up even before his father went to prison.

All of that being said, it is true MGS gets often in trouble at school and I’m sure the school has contacted his mother multiple times because of that. We haven’t seen that happening in the comic itself (yet) but we might have gotten one clue how she could handle those situations (ch. 177):

She knows her son better than anyone else in the world. She knows he has a temper and can get in trouble easily because of that but she trusts him. That doesn’t mean she always automatically takes his side or doesn’t believe the teachers. By trust, I mean she always wants to hear MGS’s side as well because there must have been a reason if he’s done something wrong. After that, she decides whether or not he should be told off or punished. If MGS has skipped school and comes home too early, she doesn’t discipline him right away but wants to know if something happened.

I also have a feeling that whenever the school contacts his mother because of something he did, it’s not something MGS wants either. He doesn’t want to burden her any further with his inability to stay out of trouble. His job is to help and take care of her, and it shames and pains him if she has to take responsibility for his stupid mistakes. His character is a heart-breaking combination of wanting to be a good son that his parents could be proud of but not being dealt with good enough cards in life to feel like he can achieve that. That was also evident in how he lied to his father about having friends and doing well in school. He didn’t want to disappoint him.

MGS, school, and gangs

You didn’t talk about school directly, but I think the way MGS acts around his classmates and is treated by them and the teachers is an important part of his character. You proposed he’s acting out in school because of his lack of discipline but again, I have to disagree.

I think MGS is being aggressive towards his classmates for one reason: it’s a defense mechanism. It origins from his childhood and isn’t obvious on the outside which makes it difficult to detect. So let’s take a look at what we know about MGS as a child being around his classmates (ch. 242):

At a very young age, he’s being treated unfairly by his peers. Rumors of his father being in prison caused prejudice and made it easy to point fingers at him whenever something bad or suspicious happened. A child of an alleged criminal couldn’t have been raised to follow rules, and no one should associate themselves with him. In that flashback chapter, little MGS is trying to deny the accusations but no one listens to him, let alone believes him. The situation escalates quickly as MGS gets frustrated and physically attacks his classmates which, of course, only worsens the situation.

What I think applies to MGS’s attitude towards his classmates these days is the principle of people tending to mirror the way others treat them. If someone is being hostile towards me, it’s likely I’d start acting the same way. Especially, if I feel like I’m not treated fairly or that people are being prejudiced. It’s a way to protect and defend myself.

However, it can easily become my everyday behavior if I’m constantly being treated like that in which case, I start being hostile and aggressive before others can attack me. Which, in return, feeds the prejudice and unfair treatment until it’s a vicious cycle and I end up becoming a social outcast.

This is evident when we look at how MGS acts in middle school. You mentioned the incident when one of his classmates tells him off for playing cards in the classroom and MGS ends up storming off (ch. 154):

I think that’s an excellent example of how MGS has become an outcast and how others now fear and dislike him. The way the other student tells him to stop playing because it’s against the rules wasn’t nice as you implied but rather aggressive as if she had readied herself to face him and hid her uncertainty behind hostility. MGS told her to mind her own business but interestingly walked away from the situation. As if he doesn’t want to be the center of attention because he knows everyone in the room looks down on him and hates him.

Again, I don’t see this kind of behavior as a sign of indiscipline but something that has developed over the years as a result of discrimination. MGS has learned it’s better to distance himself by appearing angry and unapproachable so people will leave him alone out of fear. None of his classmates really know him, though, and easily believe every bad thing said about him. All they see is his exterior which is somewhat understandable, especially at their age.

You also mentioned gangs in your ask, and that’s connected to MGS’s aggression and being an outcast. I’ve talked about this a couple of times before (X and X). As MGS kept drifting further and further away from the kids who didn’t accept him, he was heading towards gangs and delinquent lifestyle. A gang gave him a place to belong and being a delinquent fed his ever-growing aggression and his already bad reputation. Unfortunately, being surrounded by gangs and people like She Li only worsened MGS’s poor self-image and made him believe that was his place in the world. And SL took advantage of that and created an illusion that he was looking out for MGS and this was his destiny (ch. 178):

However, it wasn’t only MGS’s classmates who discriminated him, I believe it was the teachers as well. There’s one detail especially that has always stuck with me (ch. 265):

When the teacher (grey hairs) was telling MGS and HT off after the Coke incident, it’s obvious he doesn’t see the two students as equals. To him, HT is an honor student with a bright future who shouldn’t associate himself with people like MGS. It’s one thing if immature kids don’t see past someone’s behavior but when it’s also adults (let alone educators) who fail to do so, it’s so much worse and often results in a kid losing faith both in themselves and in their futures. Teachers are the people kids trust and expect the most to do the right thing and treat kids without prejudice. As a teacher, that panel broke my heart a little.

What comes to MGS getting angry at Buzzcut after the card incident (ch. 154):

MGS gets angry because Buzzcut accidentally poked at something MGS is very sensitive about. The topic of his father being in prison and how he feels about it goes deep and is something MGS wants to hide from others. So, when outsiders who don’t know anything about his father even mention him, his knee-jerk reaction is to get defensive to protect that emotional sore spot. It wasn’t about MGS having anger issues or lacking discipline but rather about lashing out to hide something vulnerable.

Are you starting to see what I’m talking about when I say his behavior is not about the lack of discipline?

HT as a father figure

Because MGS often breaks the rules and gets in trouble, you proposed HT comes in as a father figure and teaches him his actions have consequences by punishing MGS when he acts up. And to bring his points and “lessons” across he often needs to use force because MGS won’t listen to him otherwise.

This interpretation perked me up, and I find the perspective of seeing HT’s role as someone fatherly very interesting. I have never thought of it quite like that. I both agree and disagree with your interpretation, but it turned out to be somewhat difficult to pinpoint where the line between them goes.

I agree that discipline and HT go very much hand in hand. From the very beginning, he’s made it very clear MGS is not to go against his will or refuse him (ch. 150 and 210):

But I still don’t think it’s quite in the way you described. Because I don’t think MGS lacks discipline I also don’t think that teaching him manners is HT’s reason to “punish” him for acting up. There’s no reason to teach MGS his actions have consequences; he’s known that his whole life and often suffered from it. Instead, there’s a deeper meaning behind HT’s actions and overall interest in MGS, and it’s brought up quite often in his lines (ch. 160 and 180):

HT wants to make MGS into an “outstanding person”. (As a side note, that same phrase is also mentioned by MGS when he’s visiting his father.) He knows what real bad guys look like and sees MGS isn’t one of them. In his heart, MGS is actually honest, caring, hardworking, responsible, and someone who isn’t hungry for power and sneaky about it. He has drifted into gangs and being a delinquent because his environment constantly rejected and badmouthed him, not because he’s a troublemaker by nature. However, if he keeps up his current behavior he’s heading into a dangerous future, and it’s from that doom HT wants to save him. 

But of course MGS isn’t about to just follow HT blindly. He’s learned the hard way not to trust people’s actions and words. Over the years, he’s built strong, nearly unbreachable walls around himself, and HT needs both time and effort to get through them. Ultimately, it’s about trust, not discipline. HT isn’t punishing MGS for acting out but trying to pull him away from the cliff MGS has been pushed towards and is about to fall off.

As I said, it’s difficult to say where my interpretation parts from yours because discipline is definitely a part of HT molding MGS into an upstanding person but still...it’s different. It’s as if despite his good goals HT needs to dominate MGS first for his own good to make him listen because MGS doesn’t trust him enough to just follow him. If MGS can’t fight and refuse him, there’s no other direction really. Also, it should not be forgotten that HT thinks MGS having spunk and spice in his character is a good thing even if that means he will fight and resists even HT himself. That means he’s less likely to become anyone’s puppet, has enough pride to not suck up to anyone, and wants to be independent.

What comes to the chapter in which MGS slaps the sandwich offered by HT and HT beats him up for it (ch. 222): 

First of all, 19 Days is known for having that kind slapstick humor, and I think HT kneeing MGS until he accepted the sandwich was an example of that. Secondly, I don’t think it was a “punishment” for acting out or MGS not knowing what discipline is but rather HT yet again asserting his dominance to make sure MGS keeps following him. Thirdly, it’s important not to forget the context of MGS’s behavior. Earlier in the chapter, he had gotten agitated by Buzzcut asking about girls and love and what was MGS’s type - unbeknown or perhaps not realizing that MGS is awkward and testy about those subjects, especially after HT had started pursuing him. Then he runs into HT and ends up taking out his feelings on him and refusing him in a way that was more serious in tone than his usual reluctant grumpiness.

MGS affecting HT’s behavior

In the end, you say that both HT and MGS have changed each other’s behavior for the better, and I wholeheartedly agree. However, I don’t think HT has ever thought that being rich and popular entitles him to have things done his way and others bowing down to him. Actually, I think it’s that very way of thinking HT wants to get away from and despises. It’s precisely the money and the influence that comes with it that has driven a fundamental wedge between him and his family, to begin with.

Now, that being said, I’m not trying to make it sound like HT can’t act selfishly or be ignorant about many things. He certainly can. Being around MGS has exposed him to another kind of way of living and taught him a lot. Also, MGS resisting him every which way has probably taught him the effort and patience that goes into winning someone’s trust. Saving someone isn’t as simple as just swooping them off their feet and feeling good about yourself afterward but actually requires cooperation from the other party as well.

You had many interesting things to say and challenged my thinking in many ways! I hope I managed to cover everything you said. The cores of our ways of looking at things differ from each other, so it was a challenge to structure my answer and make sure I don’t miss anything. If you think I overlooked something or you have something to add/comment, please go ahead.

In any case, thank you for your interesting question and patience!

[schrijverr]

Behind the Scenes

This is a story that developed from a small peek into my brain whenever I write the stories you read into a thinkpiece about writing and posting fanfiction. 

On AO3.

Ships: none (unless you wanna ship me with my keyboard lol)

Warnings: none, I suppose, but it does get a little down in the end, I was having a rough day when I wrote this, sorry.

~~~~~~~~~~

I sit on my chair before my laptop. I’m curled into myself as my fingers glide over the keyboard and my thoughts flow out of my fingertips onto the screen.

It isn’t all that late, just past midnight, but it’s already dark outside and in order to see the keys properly I have to turn on the lamp I have on my desk. With the light it’s kind of cozy here in my little nook of the world.

I look to the screen and try to make sense of my own words. I don’t have a fully fledged idea yet, but a vague idea that floated through my brain at some point during the day has inspired me enough to open a new document and start typing.

I now know how this story begins and I see where I am going and how it will end, but the question of how I get there sits heavily on my mind.

I stop typing for a moment and think. If I introduce this character now, it might set some other things in motion and that’ll be good for the plot, but I don’t know how to write that character at all and I’m afraid that if I do it wrong, people won’t like me or my story.

I sigh and realize I’ve started almost every new paragraph with the same word. I hate it when I do that. The story starts to feel repetitive and as a non native English speaker I want to prove that I have a bigger vocabulary than that.

How to proceed?

A synonym, maybe? But I’ll have to look that up and I don’t think there is a good synonym for I. Sighing again I scan the page and think. Maybe I could start with a verb to shake things up a bit or a question. No, not a question that would feel out of place here.

Now I’ve written a few paragraphs again, so I could use the word I used before, but since I used it so many times already I want a bit more space between now and the next time I use it. So a synonym it is, I guess, I think as I open my browser to look one up.

…

There is no synonym for I.

Goddammit, I think. Well, it’s no use now anyway. I’ve decided to write this story in the first person, despite knowing I’m horrible at it, and now I have to deal with the fact that I don’t have another word for I.

I start my next paragr- no that’s not right. Backspace, backspace. Moving on to the next- No, not that either. Backspace, backspace. I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t, hmm, what’s a good word there?

I know I have a good word in Dutch ‘voortborduren’, but when I translate it, it gives me elaborate, which doesn’t fit in the sentence at all. Mentally groaning I recline in my chair as I try to think.

Maybe it’s the sentence itself? Lets see what did I write again? Oh yeah: I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t- and then I need to find a word. Hm, funny, I don’t know how to go on by the sentence about not knowing how to go on.

‘I look at what I’ve written last and wonder why I’ve written something upon which I can’t’, I whisper it to myself in the hope the right word comes to mind.

First there is nothing, but then! Expand! Not perfect, but it fits, which is good enough for now, maybe when I proof read it a better word will come to me and I can use that.

So, expand. I wonder why I wrote something I can’t expand upon.

Fuck, I’ve spend so much time finding the right word that I have forgotten what I was talking, well writing, about in the first place. Softly swearing under my breath I scroll up and read what came before the sentence with the stupidly hard word to think off.

Ah yeah, it was about the other stupid thing, namely that I am writing this in the first person, which I still cannot do, no that skill has not come to me in the time it took to look up a word. What a pity.

But I have started the last few paragraphs with something other than I from time to time. That at least is something. Wait, should I add punctuation there? That, at least, is something. Looks better, but maybe that is just my love for commas talking. I mean, why write a boring sentence with a dot in the middle, which makes it short and doesn’t give you enough space to play with it, when you can also add unnecessary punctuation, so that you can play with the cadence of how something is read out loud or in someones mind?

Whoops, now that whole paragraph is long, if I want to make this story easy to read I’ll have to make this one shorter. Hmm, is this good? Yeah, probably. Enter.

Now, I’m suddenly wondering, if paragraph is even the right word. In Dutch the word is ‘alinea’ and the word ‘paragraaf’ also means chapter, but not really, only in a school book. It doesn’t really make sense, because you also have a chapter in a schoolbook and that’s divided in paragraphs and each paragraph has ‘alinea’s’

Aaand I’ve distracted myself by thinking about the differences between each language instead of looking up if paragraph is actually the right word and it means what I think it means.

I look it up on Google translate, not the most trustworthy source for sentences, but for lone words it’s alright.

It is the right word, along with indention, but I’m not really familiar with that word, although I can see where it comes from with the paragraphs creating indentions in the text. Still, I decide to stick with paragraphs, cause “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” and I live by that.

Looking back to the clock in the corner of my screen I realize that I’ve now been writing this for 40 minutes. It isn’t all that long, but I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I had a point when I began and now I’ve forgotten it.

I stretch my arms, by pushing away my chair, leaning forward until my shoulders are at the same height of my desk is. My right shoulder cracks, it has always done that, but the sound snaps me out of my musings and makes me pay more attention to my surroundings.

It is raining outside and I hear people screaming. They sound happy, probably celebrating something and drinking, but I still wondered what they’re doing up so late (ignoring the fact that I am still awake too.)

Right, my word document. I was trying to remember what my point was. No wait, not remember, recall sounds better. I double click remember and replace it with recall: I was trying to recall what my point was.

Although I have found a nice sentences with the best word to describe the action, I still don’t know what comes next. I suddenly begin to doubt myself. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe I’ve read this somewhere before and I am unconsciously copying someone. Maybe I should just delete this and move on to something else.

I mean, come on, who wants to read this? No one. I’m just going to post it, knowing that no one cares and no one will read it. People don’t go to AO3 for original works, you don’t, so why would anyone care about it? It’s going to get five hits tops, with maybe two kudos, three if you’re lucky.

And now I have accidentally switched to a second person perspective, can’t even stay consistent. Maybe if I play it off as an introspection or and internal dialogue no one will notice or think it’s an artistic choice.

Pff, artistic choice. You can hardly call what I’m doing artistic. It’s just fanfiction, a hobby. Yeah, I know that is still good and can be great, even amazing and artfully written, but this isn’t. I have a too direct writing style for that. I’ve only been getting English education for six years and it’ll take so much more practice until I ever reach that level.

I’ve gotten off track completely now. I faintly remember that this started out as a mock internal dialogue of what happens when I write a fanfic, but now it turned into a self deprecating shit parade.

I blink long and hard, trying to get my head back on track and write something better, or at least more consistent.

Realizing that in order to do that I should probably scroll up and read (lets be honest scan) how I started. I don’t have the energy for it, but I force myself to do it with a sigh.

Scroll, scroll, scroll.

Ah, yeah, I began with where I was and then that discussion about language and looking things up. Oh, but I’ve also reflected on what I’ve written before, well, before. Then it was about re-finding what I was doing after I had to look up a word and now it is desperately trying to remember what the actual fuck I was doing in an attempt to make something cohesive, but still. I decide to not do that again.

I still don’t know what my point was when I started this, but I’m making a new one up right now. I think I’m going to call the work ‘behind the scenes’ or ‘the thoughts of a writer’, since I have now decided that this is a way to get readers a peek behind the curtains.

As a reader, I can respect people so much for all the work they put into a story. And of course I’m not saying you can’t do that if you don’t write, no, that would be pretentious, but I do have more respect for them than before I started writing all those years ago.

It is really easy to forget that something you read in a few minutes has taken hours to write. This is not even 2k words long right now. I know I can read that in a few minutes, not even blinking and mostly forgetting, before moving on to the next story, but I have been writing almost nonstop for over an hour now.

I am lucky that I can usually keep the words flowing long enough to make some bullshit up that I can reason into a coherent story in the end, but that has taken practice. A lot of practice.

In order to become a good in writing a story you have to do it so many times and you won’t even notice you’ve gotten better until much later. I know this, because I recently went through all my works and made them better. Got all the typos out there, I fixed vague sentences and I made the lay out better. I also cringed a lot.

Well, I think I have to go with a ‘behind the scenes’ now, because I don’t think I can claim this is my internal monologue when I’m writing. Instead this has turned into a think piece about writing and appreciating it or something.

I don’t even know anymore.

I recall I had a point when I started this, probably thought it out and then my brain decided to throw it away and throw up this garbage instead. It is interesting, I suppose, but not at all what I was going for in the beginning.

Oh well, maybe I can fix it when I proof read it, because I am tired and I think I’m going to bed. I have half the mind to just fuck it and throw it on AO3 without glancing over my own words even once. It’s very tempting to leave others to deal with these honest words and pretend they aren’t mine, but I don’t.

However, I don’t think I will edit this that much, because it was nice to get some frustrations on, well not paper, but on screen. Just order my thoughts, you know?

It is hard to stay motivated when it seems that everyone around you is doing so much better than you. It is disheartening and it makes you want to stop.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Writing is what I do, it helps, it’s nice. I love writing and I don’t think I will stop loving it. But one of the reasons I love writing is because it can get the constant thoughts and ideas to stop swirling around in my head.

Today I needed it to stop, so that I could just go to sleep properly and I feel like this helped. It was honest and I feel better now. Tomorrow can come at me and I will face it like I did today. Maybe my last few fics weren’t to everyones taste and that’s okay, they were my taste and I love them and I am proud of them. For me that’s enough.

I would apologize for ranting, I usually do, but since you could stop at any time and leave, I don’t think I’m going to do that, what I am going to do, is thank you.

Thank you for reading this, despite the fact that it is not a fanfic. Thank you for allowing me to just dump all these thoughts on you. And thank you for being here and clicking it, your support, even if it is only an extra number by “hits”, means so incredibly much to me and I cannot put in to words how grateful I am that you are here.

Since it is now 01:18 and if I recall correctly it was 00:02 when I started, I think I am really going to stop now. Goodnight, or good-whatever time a day you’re reading this!

Goodbye :)

[a-damson-in-distress]

The Protégé 3

Pairing: MadaSaku

Plot: In search of a new cellist for his prestigious orchestra, an infamously feared maestro stumbles upon a young rising star.

Note: I pray to Baby Jesus that none of you were ever in an orchestra, because I have no idea if what Madara says towards the end sounds even remotely like conductor-talk. I do still know what a bunch of the terms mean form my time as a pianist, but again, I was never in an orchestra and I have no idea if a conductor would use them this way. Also, I kind of sort of perpetuated myself in this chapter, or at least my office number lol. 3.201 is the number of my own office at university and the way Madara describes it (”all the rooms are labelled” etc) is a literal word-for-word copy of how I describe the way to my office when I’ve got people coming in for an appointment. 

And last but not least, here are the links to the pieces mentioned in the chapter: Brian Tyler - Sleight of Hand and Ludovico Einaudi - The Taranta Project . Introductio ad Regnum Tarantulae, Choros, and Taranta are my personal favourites of Einaudi’s album, but I posted a link to the entire album, because it is A.MA.ZINGGGG. If you only want to check out the three songs mentioned, you should search for the songs separately though instead of listening to the album version I posted above, because some of the recordings on the album are live versions and the studio recordings simply sound better.

I’m suuuuuuuuuuuuuper excited to hear your opinion on this chapter as well as the music. None of my friends or family like the sort of music that I incorporate in this story, so I’m incredibly excited to share these pieces with you and anyway asoiwjefoijsdf so yeah, bye.

Sakura was standing in front of the mirror in her hotel room scrutinising her seventh outfit. She was supposed to be at Mr Uchiha’s office at the New National Theatre in two hours, and she had already spent the last 45 minutes deciding what to wear. She couldn’t for the life of her come up with a decent look, since the majority of her wardrobe was very girly, all bright colours, soft lace, and flower prints. Given her fashion sense – or lack thereof, Sakura never thought that she would ever regret not owning a lot of stylish and sleek pieces. In the past, she never felt the need to buy formal and impressionable clothing, since the orchestra provided that for her whenever they were required to dress a certain way for public appearances. But now, Sakura would kill for a nice pant suit, or at least a blouse that didn’t have this person is clearly colour blind written all over it.

Groaning in frustration, the young cellist slipped out of her pastel pink dress and turned to the myriad of clothes strewn across her bed. Her gaze landed on a white shirt her friends had gifted her when she was sixteen years old, right after winning the first Grand Prize at the Rostropovitch Cello Competition. The shirt showed a picture of her instrument in the middle with the words Cello: Everyone Else Is Accompaniment below it. Sakura smiled at the memory. She loved that shirt, and she loved all of her other clothes as well. She felt most comfortable in dresses and skirts and pretty little tops with unicorns and ice cream cones and flowers on them.

But she couldn’t turn up to a meeting with one of the world’s greatest conductors looking like she burped sunshine and farted rainbows.

As she went through her pieces of clothing looking for something more mature or at least subtler, Sakura thought back to the email Mr Uchiha had sent her two weeks ago. He always seemed so poised and mature and suave, even in his correspondence. In the maestro’s presence – physical or digital – Sakura always felt like a naïve little schoolgirl asking her strict and intimidating headmaster for directions to the cafeteria. Thinking back to what she had written, she felt incredibly stupid for asking him what to do next. But then his reply came through, and Sakura couldn’t have been happier.

 Dear Ms Haruno,

at the risk of sounding smug, I have to say you made the right decision. But then again, I expected nothing less from you. As for what happens next – there’s no need to worry, I will take of everything for you. Allow me to lead the way. I am your maestro now, after all.

 Sincerely,

Madara Uchiha

 Sakura got his reply at 1:20 in the morning and naturally, she was so over the moon she didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. Luckily, the following days went by in a blur. She had to sign lots of paperwork for Kyoto Concert Hall, find a new tenant for her flat, answer a bunch of emails from a bunch of strangers from the New National Theatre, go to a total of four farewell-parties organised by her former orchestra’s musicians, and finally say goodbye to her beloved Maestro Senju.

In the meantime, Mr Uchiha had booked her a flight to Tokyo and a hotel room in which she was free to stay for a few weeks while looking for a place to live in the capital city.

Now, two weeks later, Sakura was about to sign the contract that would change her life.

But first, she needed to change her outfit.

Madara saw her walk up the grand staircase, eyes wide with wonder, soaking up the modern and sleek architecture of the New National Theatre. The architect had worked with glass a lot and had installed windows and glass walls wherever he could, so the entire building was bathed in a natural light.  Everything was understated and subtle, yet tasteful and aesthetic at the same time – all pastel colours and typical Japanese minimalism.

Amidst the rather chiselled, sophisticated, and mature look of the theatre, the young cellist stood out like a sore thumb with her bubblegum-pink hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her white camisole top with lace applications, and the dark-green culotte pants, which she tied above her waist with a pretty little bow.

Madara decided to give her another moment to savour the view while he retreated to his office. He glanced at his watch and noted with satisfaction that she was over-punctual. She still had fifteen minutes to spare before their scheduled meeting, which gave him another fifteen minutes to force all the inappropriate teasing he thought of when he saw her to the back of his mind. Though Madara had thoroughly enjoyed rattling Ms Haruno during their previous encounter, he had to be absolutely professional now – this time he was in his territory, after all, and he had a reputation to uphold. Namely that of a tough and relentless hard-ass conductor, who didn’t feel a thing at the sight of some young musician’s awe-struck eyes staring up at him as if he were her personal god and saviour.

The maestro took a seat at his desk, turned on his speakers, and opened the playlist he created for the upcoming tour. Clicking on the desired music file, he let the sound of Ludovico Einaudi’s Taranta envelop his office as he started jotting down notes on the corresponding sheet music.

Einaudi’s Taranta Project was one of the more experimental parts of the repertoire he was planning for the tour. Frankly, he would not have even included it if Ms Haruno had not agreed to join his ensemble. The compositions Madara chose featured a strong focus on strings, and he simply couldn’t imagine his orchestra performing such avant-garde pieces without a cellist who showed the same level of passion and eagerness to experiment as the composer himself.

The conductor was torn from his thoughts when he heard a knock on his office door. He lowered the volume of the song to a barely audible minimum and summoned her in.

Madara watched his principal cellist open the door and hesitantly step into the room. Her gaze roamed around his spacious office for a second before resting on him.

“Ms Haruno, welcome to Tokyo,” he said as he walked around his desk to approach her.

The maestro noted another blush tainting her cheeks before she stretched out her hand to shake his. “Thank you, Mr Uchiha. You have no idea how excited I am to be here.”

As he gestured for her to take a seat on the grey leather sofa, Madara heard her ask, “That was from The Taranta Project, wasn’t it? Is Einaudi going to be part of our tour programme?” Madara leaned back in the armchair to Sakura’s right and crossed one leg over the other. “That depends. How do you feel about opening with Choros?” He watched her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“I love that idea. But if you decide to perform the entire album, we could open with Introductio and just stick to Einaudi’s original order. It’s softer than Choros and would also set a better mood for Taranta. Though Choros would be more appropriate if you want to go with a darker, more mature concert.”

Madara narrowed his eyes and stared at the pinkette with a pensive gaze. How could someone so seemingly shy and unobtrusive hide so much excitement, passion, and energy? The way her eyes lit up at the mention of Einaudi’s pieces and the way she enthusiastically talked about the things she loved made Madara decide to ask her about her opinion more often. When she realised he wasn’t answering, her eyes widened in shock and she quickly clasped a hand over her mouth, before lowering it just enough to allow herself to speak. “I’m so sorry, Mr Uchiha. I didn’t mean to criticise your choices or tell you what to do. I-I just… got carried away with the excitement and everything,” she stammered, fixing her gaze on her lap before letting out a shaky breath. “I’m really nervous, in case you didn’t realise.”

The maestro studied the cellist for another moment, before murmuring, “Why are you nervous, Ms Haruno?”

She slowly raised her head again to look at him, and Madara had to actively restrain himself from staring at her teeth nervously biting her bottom lip. Instead, he watched her pull a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

“Because… it’s you,” she breathed weakly.

Well, that piqued his interest.

“Care to elaborate, Ms Haruno?”

The young cellist turned her gaze away from him, now resting on her lap again where she was watching her fingers play with the ends of the ribbon she tied above her waist. “Well… it’s probably silly to you, but you’re… you’re sort of my favourite conductor and a huge role model and just – I don’t know, being in the same room with you freaks me out, let alone the thought of playing in your orchestra. Not – not freak out in a bad way,” she fixed him with a frantic gaze, hands waving in front of her in defence, “I’m not saying I’m so freaked out I can’t perform in your presence, just like – you know, a nervous and excited sort of freak out, the sort that makes you annoyingly self-conscious and turns you into a giant perfectionist, because you desperately want to please your idol, and so…,” Sakura let out a long sigh and turned her head away in embarrassment, before laughing anxiously, “and now I need to stop rambling. Anyway, I’m sorry if I stepped on your toes with my suggestions about Einaudi’s album.”

As soon as she stopped talking and started biting her lip again instead, Madara had to remind himself to keep calm. He found her adorable in a harmless sort of way when she was nervous and flustered, but when she was biting her lip, she instantly became a danger to his sanity and his firm conviction that hooking up with one of his orchestra’s musicians was a terrible idea.

The raven-haired conductor cleared his throat to force himself out of his inappropriate line of thought and asserted, “You have nothing to worry about, Ms Haruno. I wasn’t offended by your remarks in the slightest. To be honest, I was simply astonished at first, since none of my musicians usually dare to speak their mind or give me suggestions on anything. It was a pleasant surprise, though. I think I should ask for your opinion more often.”

The pinkette’s shoulders visibly relaxed as her lips spread into a grateful smile, and Madara noted with satisfaction that he was the put who put it there.

“Now, before you meet with our lawyer to sign the contract, I wanted to give you the chance to talk things through, answer any questions you might have. I believe you had enough time to read through it all. Was there anything you’d like to discuss with me?”

“Um, yes, actually. Though not so much about the contract per se, that was probably the most precise contract ever drafted. But um,” he watched Ms Haruno lick her lips with such a fascination as if he were witnessing the birth of Jesus Christ himself, “I did have a few questions about the repertoire and the pieces you’re considering for the tour. I noticed there were a few compositions for a string quartet with a heavy focus on the cello, even some cello solos. I was just wondering if it’s maybe a bit early for me to be featured so heavily. I am the youngest member of your ensemble, after all, with the least amount of experience. I’m basically a rookie compared to your other musicians.”

“Let me assure you, Ms Haruno, that you are by no means a rookie in my orchestra. None of my musicians think that, especially not me. And I would never assign you anything if I wasn’t absolutely certain you could rise up to it.”

The doubtful look in her eyes didn’t waver. “I believe you, and I really appreciate your confidence in me. It’s just – I’m worried that I might get off on the wrong foot with the others if I get so much attention right from the beginning. Maestro Senju didn’t give me a solo piece until I was with the orchestra for a year, and even then, some people got really jealous and upset. I just want a smooth start without any bad blood.”

Of course, Madara mused, he sensed there was a deeper reason behind her uncertainty. He knew that she knew how good she was and that she could perform those solo pieces in her sleep. Her hesitance had nothing to do with her doubting her musical prowess, but everything to do with her kind disposition, almost too kind for something so competitive and cut-throat as Japan’s classical music scene.

Madara decided then that it was good he had taken such a liking to her. The cellist was right – if she wasn’t careful, his musicians would eat her for breakfast. Lucky for her, the big bad wolf of a conductor harboured a teeny-tiny musical crush on her.

“Ms Haruno, you are the only person in my ensemble that I have personally pursued. Everybody else had to audition, but not you, because that’s just how good you are. I’m not going to leave you unnoticed in the background, that would be a waste of and insult to your talent. That being said, the tour programme isn’t finalised yet, so we can talk about changing bits and pieces, depending on how well our rehearsals go. But if I’m satisfied with your performance, you will take centre stage. And if anybody has a problem with that,” Madara was just about to finish his sentence with they can come to me but refrained from doing so when he realised how inappropriately possessive it sounded. “Then you should just be happy about the fact that older and more experienced musicians feel so threatened by someone so young. If anything, their jealousy is a compliment. Trust me, knowing you’re better than others is a great confidence boost,” the conductor added with a smug grin.

Her melodious laughter echoed through his office which only made his smirk widen. When she calmed down, the pink-haired musician started biting her lip again, this time probably to stop herself from grinning. After another moment where Madara allowed himself to simply enjoy her carefree happiness, he added with gentle encouragement, “Seriously, Ms Haruno, don’t worry about what others think of you. Our profession was and always will be highly competitive, and you will always make enemies no matter how kind you are or how many cookies you bake for your colleagues. Don’t ever allow other people’s inferiority complex to rain on your parade.” Madara looked at her intently, his eyes softening as he murmured, “You’re too good for that.”

A deep blush spread across her face, and her doe-like eyes stared up at him with that look of wonder and admiration that made him want to shower her with compliments, if only she would keep looking at him that way. If he hadn’t known any better, Madara could have sworn her gaze rested on his lips for a split second before meeting his eyes again.

The maestro had to physically force himself to look away. It got increasingly difficult to remain professional with all the adorable blushing and fidgeting. Here he was, a 39-year-old man who loved old Scotch, vintage cars, self-assured women, and everything else that was ripe and mature in this world. And yet this young naïve little thing who was so nervous she was basically shaking in his presence, staring up at him like a lost lamb looking for shelter, stirred up a protective instinct in him he never knew he had.

Change of subject, Madara reminded himself. Right fucking now.

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about, Ms Haruno?”

Please say no, please say no, please say no, please say –

“Yes.”

Fuck.

The conductor raised an expectant eyebrow while forcing his expression to relax in an effort to mask his internal struggle. He wanted her to stay for all the wrong reasons, so he needed her to leave for all the right ones.

“About your list of rules,” Sakura started off hesitantly.

Dear God, please don’t mention rule number five.

The fingers of Madara’s right hand dug into the armrest as he prepared himself for the worst.

“There was this one part where it said that you as the conductor choose our concert outfits. I was just wondering what fabric the clothes were made of. Because Maestro Senju tried it with velvet pant suits once and we all got a horrible rash, supposedly because of some chemicals they used to dye the fabric. I know it’s silly and fabrics should be the least of your worries, but honestly, the rash was so annoying we had serious trouble concentrating on our performance. So I just wanted to make sure the clothes are… you know, normal.”

Madara released a breath he didn’t know he was holding in, and his fingers relaxed their grip on the leather of the armrest.

“I don’t know what fabric they’re made of, but I know it’s not velvet, and I know nobody has ever gotten a rash or experienced any other bad reactions. But don’t worry, everybody wears their concert outfits for the dress rehearsal, so should you feel uncomfortable in any way, we can still make adjustments before the actual concert.”

A small smile spread across her lips, and she nodded in finality. “Great, thank you. Then that would be all for my part.”

He replied with a nod of his own and stood up from his armchair. As Madara lead the cellist to his office door, he reminded her of her next appointment, “You’ll see our lawyer Mr Hatake next. He’ll go through the contract with you and answer any legal questions you might have. His office is on the third floor, in the Legal Department, room number 3.201. All the rooms are labelled and have door signs, so you really can’t miss him.”

The pinkette shot him another grateful smile. Madara offered his hand and when she took it, he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Welcome to the jungle, Ms Haruno.”

The conductor opened the door of his office and sent her away with a devilish grin.

“So you’re my boyfriend’s replacement, huh?”

Sakura looked up from her sheet music and was met with the face of a gorgeous blonde staring her down with a haughty look.

“Excuse me?”

Sakura took in the person in front of her and realised then she was also holding a cello case. The blonde stepped closer and took a seat right next to her.

“Shikamaru Nara. He was our principal cellist,” the musician explained while opening her case.

“Oh,” it dawned on Sakura. Of course. Some of her former orchestra’s musicians had hinted that the only reason Maestro Uchiha was able to take on a new cellist was because he kicked out the last one.

“You must hate me now, too, huh?” Sakura shot her fellow cellist a half-hearted apologetic smile.

The blonde to her left scoffed. “Why would I hate you?”

“Because I took away your boyfriend’s seat in the orchestra. You could have still played together.”

“Please,” the woman made a dismissive gesture with her hand, “that idiot was never coming back.”

Sakura looked at her incredulously and prodded, “So you don’t hate me?”

The blonde cellist shot her an amused grin, which immediately released some of the tension Sakura was feeling. “I don’t hate you, silly. It’s not like you were actively involved in getting him kicked out. And the Maestro was bound to replace him at some point. So relax, no hard feelings.”

The pinkette laughed awkwardly before offering her hand. “I’m Sakura Haruno. It’s nice to finally meet another cellist of the ensemble.”

A smile tugged on the blonde’s lips as she shook her hand. “I’m Temari Sabakuno. Welcome to Tokyo.”

“Thanks. By the way, what did you mean with your boyfriend wasn’t coming back? I assume every musician would fight tooth and nail for a place in Maestro Uchiha’s orchestra.”

“Not this idiot of a musician,” Temari scoffed while adjusting her endpin. “To be honest, we were kind of hoping to get caught. We were both tired of sneaking around, and Shikamaru was already looking for an excuse to quit. He’s not the most ambitious person, you know, so he wasn’t planning on staying much longer.”

“Why didn’t you leave with him?”

“Because unlike him, I don’t want to stare at clouds all day. I want to conquer the world,” the cellist proclaimed with a proud grin. “No but seriously, I really did want to stay. Maestro Uchiha gave us a choice – either break up and stay in the orchestra or one of us leaves. It was a no-brainer, really. I still get to do what I love with one of the world’s greatest orchestras, and Shikamaru can just chill.”

Sakura felt a smile tugging on her lips. Even though Temari was a virtual stranger, for some weird reason, she was still happy that everything worked out well for the both of them and that – most importantly – the blonde didn’t hold a grudge against Sakura.

That was at least one person in the orchestra who was nice to her so far. The pinkette’s gaze roamed around and took in the many musicians scurrying around the stage and readying themselves for the rehearsal. Some of them had introduced themselves, others only smiled and nodded in her general direction. And then there were those who didn’t even deem her worthy enough of a single glance. A part of Sakura felt shunned, and yet another – albeit smaller part – proud. As Maestro Uchiha had said, everybody else in his ensemble was so much older and so much more experienced than her. What did it say about them if they felt threatened about someone so young?

Not that she needed a lot of encouraging from her conductor – she knew she deserved her place in his orchestra – but for some reason, being praised and complimented by Maestro Uchiha felt so much better than being praised by anybody else, even her previous conductor. Sakura couldn’t wait to show his entire orchestra what she’s got and to prove to her Maestro that he made the right decision in choosing her.

The chatter suddenly quieted down as their conductor entered the stage.

Sakura noticed that her Maestro had a penchant for wearing three-piece suits in dark colours. He never failed to uphold the suave and refined appearance he was known for, though sometimes he would discard his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves for a more relaxed look, like he did for rehearsal today.

The pink-haired cellist had to remind herself not to stare too much. Her Maestro was illegally handsome, but he was still her Maestro.

He tapped his baton against his music stand twice to signal the whispering flautists to quiet down. Once he had everyone’s attention, he let his cold and calculating gaze roam through the rows of musicians who were all expectantly looking up at him. It was clear to Sakura that Maestro Uchiha demanded everyone’s undivided attention and that he had no problem commanding each and every one of this 73 musicians with nothing but silence and a good old-fashioned intimidating stare.

“Before we start with our first rehearsal for the upcoming tour, allow me to address the elephant in the room. As you all know by now, the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra has got a new member as of this April. Ms Sakura Haruno joined us from Kyoto Concert Hall and will fill in our vacant spot of principal cellist.”

Maestro Uchiha’s eyes rested on her for a fleeting second as he spoke her name. Gone was the teasing and relaxed conductor she talked to in his office four days ago.

This was not Mr Uchiha.

This was Maestro Uchiha.

Calculating, in control, and completely in his element.

“Now, let’s show Ms Haruno how well we can all work together. We’re starting with Brian Tyler. Everybody take out your sheet music for Sleight of Hand. Strings, I want you to remember the sudden crescendo at the beginning. Flautists, I want to hear a seamless transition from staccato to legato between the fourth and fifth bar. Once Ms Haruno begins her pizzicato in the seventeenth bar, I want the violinists pianissimo as well as Mr Uzumaki with the xylophones in the eighteenth bar.”

This was it, Sakura thought excitedly. She usually never felt such a thrill during rehearsals, only at concerts. But this was a rehearsal under Maestro Uchiha. She felt goosebumps spread across the entirety of her skin as she readied herself and her instrument. Glancing up at her new Maestro, she caught his intense gaze. He gave her the slightest hint of a smile.

And then, he raised his baton.

“From the top.”

[beatyoutothepunchline]

On Getting Dressed

Getting dressed in the morning has always been difficult for me. If I can, I will wear the same outfit four times in one week to avoid having to think about it any longer than necessary. My go-to outfit at the moment is my green and black J-Crew plaid button-down, my high-waisted Madewell skinny jeans with the button fly and my Doc Martens. At this point in my life, I do not ask myself, “Do you think somebody will realize you’ve been wearing the same pair of jeans for the last four days?” but, “Do these jeans look and smell clean enough that if someone were to realize you’ve been wearing them for the last four days, they wouldn’t call you out on it?” If the answer is yes, I will throw on the outfit again. I don’t dress to look nice most days. “Nice” meaning my makeup is done, my hair is straight and parts in a way that frames my face in a flattering way, my outfit is coordinated, cleaned and ironed and my shoes match the vibe I’m going for. When I look "nice" there is generally a vibe I am going for and that can vary day to day. A coat of concealer and a flat iron are nice, but it isn’t really necessary. Some days I run around Chicago in an oversized sweatshirt, with bags under my eyes and my naturally wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sometimes I’m more dressed up, others I’m more dressed down. I’m most comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt and because I tend to get more done when I don’t feel like I’m sticking out for looking good or bad. There are certain days where I have to critically think about my wardrobe as I might an essay or an article for class--interviews, dates, holidays--and those days are agonizing. I would argue there is just as much nuance and subtext in the right outfit as there is in a Hemingway short story. Which is why most fashion related things go over my head. But every now and then, I force myself to stand in front of my closet and edit my wardrobe to what I wear. I’m not a person with many clothes, but there are always a few things I find I can get rid of. As I pick up each piece and I asked myself, “Is this still me?” I stopped to wonder, “How did this become my thing? Is it even my thing, or is it someone else’s?” Like most people, from birth till about I was old enough to make my own decision (and for those decisions to be preferably color coordinated, realistic, and weather/event appropriate), my clothing wasn’t my choice. So none of my clothes were my thing, rather what my mom thought would look cute on me. This is why there is a picture of me in an Angelina Ballerina tee shirts and pink capris with a fairy wand and crown on my fourth birthday, and a picture of me in fifth grade wearing a striped, pink white shirt and short sets from Old Navy while on our family trip to Hawaii, and why my first day of school photo from seventh grade I’m wearing a short sleeved and khaki jacket with a lacy pink tank top and black shorts. I can separate my current wardrobe, almost perfectly into black, white, denim, olive green, and varying shades of blue. I have one pink sweater (which my mother bought me) and while I will occasionally throw it on and wear it around my apartment, I end up tearing it off within twenty minutes because of the I cannot stand the color or cut of it. The reason I wear the monochrome is because I am pale and my skin has a naturally pink undertone. If you flip my wrist over, you can see every vein in my arm up to my elbow. You can see the veins in my feet, in my thighs and my stomach. Wearing, black, white, denim, olive and shades of blue makes the pinkish undertone is less noticable and helps the bright blue veins blend in better. Wearing pink, or bright yellow washes me out and makes weird details intense. As for the cut of it, it’s a cropped sweater with side splits up to my ribcage, on top of being wildly ineffective at keeping me warm, it makes my long torso appear even longer than it is, and it just isn’t me. Nothing in my wardrobe is really “me” though. I came to this realization after glancing at the mess of clothes scattered across my bedroom floor while taking a “break” from spring cleaning this last weekend. Everything in my closet I own because of someone else. I own a pair of Gold Cup Sperry Topsiders because my freshman year of high school there was a senior boy with a British accent who browsed the bookshelves of the library before school in a pair of Sperry’s. In the era of Victoria Secret yoga pants tucked into beat to hell Ugg boots and calf-length Nike socks slipped thoughtlessly into pairs of ADIDAS shower slides on the way out the door, his shoes, as well as the pressed khaki pants and button-down shirts, his perfectly gelled hair, and his accent, captured a kind of class that seemed lost on the rest of the students at my high school. Though my own Sperry’s seem to more closely resemble some douchebag college frat guys than the classy look of Boat Shoe Guy’s, when I look of them I think back to being fourteen, working up the guts to sit at his table in the library, not quite brave enough to say anything, and listening to him talk in what I later found out was a fake British accent about things I can’t remember with other, older people and feeling cool. Not in a conventional way. Cool in a nerdy way I didn’t realize I could be until I met him. When I look at the gold hoop earrings I keep in my great grandmother’s teacup with the rest of my small jewelry collection, I realize that my love for them comes from mother, who wore perfect silver hoops earrings frequently throughout my childhood. When I think of them I think of box blonde hair, and regrettable bangs and her capped tooth smile. I’m the opposite. My hair is dirty blonde, I don’t have bangs (never again after my mom cut thick ones so far back on my head that for several months I had Joe Dirt’s mullet). My hoops aren’t perfect circles and they are gold color, not silver.I don’t look or act much like my mother, but occasionally when I put them on I feel like I can fake that same kind of magnetic charm and try to smile with my teeth like she does. I decide I can pull off the hoops, but not the toothy grin and leave it at that. I own a black pea coat because of the movie Giant. Which doesn’t seem like it would make sense give it’s a movie set in Marfa, Texas, but let me explain. My freshman year of high school my grandma bought a copy of Giant for my dad’s birthday and one day a few weeks after she’d given it to him, I found it lying on the buffet in our living room. Being the movie buff I am, and being intregued by the front cover I decided to watch it. The entire time I just kept thinking the blond guy from the front cover was cute (which, in retrospect, is the dumbest take away a person could have after watching that film). After the movie I decided to Google him and came upon a picture of him walking down the rainy street in New York City. Wet cigarette hanging out of his mouth, collar of his iconic black black pea coat poped. And Where I can’t say I’ve ever fallen in love at first sight, I imagine it’s similar to seeing James Dean in that jacket. In an excerpt from ‘Women in Clothes,’ an anthology about how clothes define and shape us, Leanne Shapton, author and artist, writes of a similar love-at-first-sight feeling she with an Isabel Marant dress she saw a woman wearing at a party, “I admired her hair: worn loose, flecked with grey. And her manner: warm, thoughtful, sincere. She wore no makeup, and the dress, which was sack-like, lent her a modesty I liked. We spoke about our children. Then, in a lull in the conversation, I came back to the dress, complimenting it again. She nodded, knowing. Then I did something that surprised me: I leaned down and picked up the edge of her skirt and touched it, marveling aloud at the light, smooth fabric. I have never touched another woman’s dress like that before. A fur sleeve once, but I’ve never had that grasping, clutching impulse.” In her essay, Sharpton wonders if her feelings she had about the dress “also had something to do with admitting I want something. I’ve struggled with admitting what I want most of my life, not admitting until the last possible moment that I wanted a child. Admitting I flat-out wanted this dress was new to me. I was nervous.” Where I can’t say I relate to the wanting a kid portion of that statement, I can relate to the feeling of wanting something. Wanting to be unique and confident, two feelings I don’t feel like I’ve ever fully had but have just been chasing after my whole life. The reason my go-to outfit is what it is is because of directors like Sofia Coppola and Point Break era, Kathryn Bigelow. There is this picture of Kathryn Bigelow standing in front of a monitor next to Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze: white tee shirt, baggy blue jeans, cool boxy shades, and a Reebok baseball hat. When I don’t know what to wear, or when I need to do something I’m not sure I can, I dress up and pretend to be somebody I think can figure it out. Be the woman who can direct a surfer bank heist movie, the woman who can speak French, beautifully while eating a croissant, scarlet lips pouted, Rick Blaine tripping over his shit, the Dude who’s got no idea how the hell things are going to work out, but isn’t too worried about it. Cause maybe things just will in the end. It isn’t an exact copy, it looks similar enough to them that I’m able to capture their attitude, power. . . their magic, but different enough that it’s still me. So I put on my version of that outfit when I don’t know what else to wear because it is comfortable and easy and because I’ve tricked myself into thinking it will inspire some sort of brilliant direction and confidence I don’t feel like I have on my own. Even if it doesn’t do what I think it will and my voice gets caught in my throat and I let someone talk over me, or I get rejected, or I fail and fall flat on my face. When I wear my navy Calvin Klein wrap dress, everyone I know groans and says, “You wear that all the time. Don’t you own another dress?” I do. There is the ombre floor length prom dress that lives back of my closet at my parent's house which I bought because it made me look like Jennifer Aniston, and the crochet white and orange dress that I bought from Urban Outfitter’s because it reminded me of Shasta Fay Hepworth’s orange dress in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice. I don’t usually have the occasion to wear either of these dresses, but the navy wrap dress works for almost any occasion so that’s why I wear it. It creates some shape on my fairly shapeless form, and I like it because it makes me feel like Lauren Bacall. Equal parts sexy, mysterious and classy in a way that I am otherwise not. I’ve never worn it on a date, but I’d be lying if I said if I’d never worn it to a half hour meeting to look “nice” only to walk around downtown Chicago just to see people turn their heads and wonder, “Who is she?” Then, for a fraction of a second, I am the woman I’m not to somebone. When I am at home on Saturday mornings, and my hair is all frizzed out and drooled on and I can’t be bothered to put on actual pants, I walk around in my boxers, oversized and stained Sid’s Liquor tee shirt and a cardigan. I throw on some sunglasses, debate making myself a White Russian and go full-on “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski. Cause it’s hard to relax when you live and work in the same place and I can only seem to do it when I’m someone else. But it is me? Dressing up as someone else might get me through the day, but what if I never take risks as myself? Years from now, will there be some girl who sees a pair of Madewell skinny jeans at the bottom of a pile at a thrift store or finds an old pair of boots that will say, “Oh my god, I love it. It’s so Sidney Thompson.” if I can’t even dress up like her? Am I just a shot for shot remake with nothing new to offer, to contribute, to inspire? Will people see me or will they tease my style apart and say, “Oh, she’s ripping off So-and-So.” I’d like to think I’m more of a Quentin Tarantino homage to all my favorite fashion icons. You can see where I stole, but I’d like to think every now and then there’s someone out there is able to see that part of me poking through one of my costumes and thinks it’s pretty cool.

[nbrownx5]

An Interview with Tim Smith

Tell us your latest news?

In addition to publicizing “The Other Woman,” I’m putting the polish on my next Nick Seven spy thriller, “The Neon Jungle.” I’m also working on a summer short story for Extasy Books, and recently began work on my annual holiday story for them. I freelance as a writer, blogger and editor, and I’m getting ready to launch my own blog site.

 When and why did you begin writing?

I began writing short stories in high school because I was an avid reader and thought “I’d like to write stories like this!” I’ve always been a creative person, whether it’s writing, music or photography. I’m a fan of old-style pulp fiction stories, but what really sparked my interest in that genre was watching classic movies on TV. I would see an old film noir crime caper and if it was based on a book, I’d get it from the library and make comparisons. If I liked that particular author’s style, my mother (who influenced a lot of my reading choices) could usually suggest another author who wrote something similar.

 What inspired you to write “The Other Woman”?

I had released three books in the Vic Fallon private eye series and amazingly, not one murder was ever committed. I had covered every other plot, from blackmail to theft, but no one ever got killed in the process. That seemed like sacrilege for this genre, so I knew it was time to write a Fallon story that focused on someone getting bumped off in the first few pages. Being me, I couldn’t let it go at just that, and had to work in more topical themes and subplots. In this one, the killing du jour is tied in with a government conspiracy, cover-ups, and political payoffs. Can anyone say “Ripped from the headlines”?

Can you share a little of your current work with us?

Vic Fallon is a former police detective who was wounded in the line of duty and took a disability separation. He became a private investigator and lives in Sandusky, Ohio on the Lake Erie shore. Each story has him getting involved with a different woman as part of his current case. When I conceived the character, I wanted to bring the classic gumshoe into a contemporary setting. I was also thinking of the TV shows I’ve always enjoyed, like “Peter Gunn,” “77 Sunset Strip,” and “The Rockford Files.” The main difference here is that when things get hot and heavy between the hero and the leading lady, I don’t cut to a commercial. I’ve included the classic elements, like a buddy on the police force who provides help, quirky supporting characters, and vivid locations. If I could have added a cool jazz score by Henry Mancini, I would have.    

Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?  

Some of my personal experiences may find their way into my stories, whether they’re about spies, private eyes, or contemporary romance. In the case of “The Other Woman,” the kick-off to the story was one of my “What if…” moments. I was returning to Dayton, Ohio from a trip to the Florida Keys, and had a long layover in the Atlanta airport. I was passing one of the departure gates when I recognized the Ohio Attorney General, and we spoke for a few minutes. When I was devising this story, I remembered that encounter and thought “What if Vic Fallon runs into a U.S. Senator from his hometown, and he turns up dead in the men’s room shortly after they speak?” That got my brain working on various subplots and motives.

What was the hardest part of writing your book?

Since there are more legal aspects to this story than I usually include, I had to do a lot of research into the criminal justice process. I knew the basics but there were some finer points of the law I needed help with. I’ve found that one of the toughest parts about writing a mystery is creating something believable, with enough “Gotcha!” moments to keep the reader interested. Accuracy is always a challenge, too. In this age of in-your-face TV shows and digital literacy, you need to have your facts straight or someone will call you on it.

Do you have a specific writing style?

My style can best be described as a cross between Raymond Chandler and Carl Hiaasen, with a dash of Mickey Spillane thrown in. I like to incorporate as much realistic atmosphere and detail as I can. The last thing I want is to describe a location and have someone wonder “Has this guy ever been here??” My heroes tend to fall into the wisecracking tough guy mold, with a cynical outlook on life, but enough morality to make them likeable. I try to go for laughs to alleviate the tension. Many of these chuckles come in the form of dialogue and skeptical observations from the hero. When a character tells Fallon that he doesn’t care for his attitude, Fallon’s comeback is “I don’t much care for it myself. I sit up and worry about it on nights when I can’t sleep.”  

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?

If there is, it was probably unintentional, because I don’t like to mess up a good story with a lot of preaching. The basic message in “The Other Woman” is about someone standing up to do the right thing, even when they’re told to stay the hell out of it. Personally, I think this is something we should all do. My books may contain a subtle commentary on the human condition, but I try not to beat people over the head with it.      

Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Creating a realistic romantic relationship is always challenging, because it’s very subjective. What strikes me as cute and flirty may make someone else roll their eyes and groan. It’s fun to write a scene where the couple is teasing each other while watching a sunset on a beach, but it’s also challenging to have them saying something believable that advances the relationship. I also find writing erotic scenes to be a challenge at times. After so many books that you could label “hot,” there are times when I come to one of those encounters and I have to do a mental checklist. “Let’s see…in the last one they did it this way, and in the one before that, I used this position, and then there was the scene with the trapeze…” You see the problem.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?  

I started calling myself a writer when my first novel was published in 2002, but what really drove it home was after my third book was released. I did a book signing tour in the Florida Keys, where many of my stories take place. I walked into a book store in Key Largo for my appearance, and I saw my books on the shelf alongside some Florida authors whose work I had long admired, like James W. Hall and Tim Dorsey. I thought “Smith, you have arrived!”

Do you have any advice for other writers?

If you really believe in the story you want to tell, stick with it and don’t get discouraged. If you decide to self-publish, the biggest favor you can do for yourself is using a professional editor. I consider myself to be a good copy editor, but I would never release a book without having someone else take a crack at it first. Most importantly, if you choose to write erotic romance, ask yourself if you’re comfortable having it out there under your own name.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

I hope that they check out not only “The Other Woman,” but the rest of my books. I’ve written 21 of them, from romantic mystery/thrillers to contemporary erotic romance. I think you’ll find them entertaining, because that’s why I write—to entertain. I’m one of those rare creatures who doesn’t write for the literary critics, but for the person in Parma, Ohio or Rugby, North Dakota who just wants some escapism.     www.timsmithauthor.com

[laikagohome]

Introduction: This is an interview with the manga author Yoshida Takashi. The original article is here: http://mangaonweb.com/news/2018/01/27/448. There are some interesting opinions in it, so I decided to translate it.

If you asked which ebook people are talking about the most right now, there would probably be many people who would mention the name “Yaretakamo Iinkai.” It’s always up there on the sales rankings of each of the digital bookstores, its live drama adaptation begins on January 27th on Abema TV, people are always talking about it on the net whenever there’s a new chapter, and its paper publication is slated for a second printing -- just to name a few things it’s got going for it. It really is a major-level grand slam.

The reason for its success is, of course, how interesting it is. But that’s not all, there’s another unexpected hidden aspect to this work that deserves some attention. The creator of this work, Yoshida Takashi-san, actually manages the copyright of this work on his own and takes care of everything from the writing to the sales. The publication of “Yaretakamo Iinkai” isn’t exclusive to any magazine put out by a publisher. The creator publishes his works on each web platform independently and makes a living using the royalties he earns from them as a source of income. The only contract he’s signed with a publisher is for the paper edition of the work to distribute it to bookstores, but he manages the digital version, drama adaptation, and such all himself. He doesn’t have to deal with any restrictions and can create his works freely. In other words, the work is one that is produced in an almost completely indie style.

It’s quite rare for a creator to be able to make this a reality. If you consider all the ins and outs of the publicity and distribution for a work, the contract negotiations, production costs, etc., taking care of it all on your own would require an extraordinary amount of labor. A single creator standing against the world without that ever-critical factor -- the backing of a major company -- would face extreme difficulties.

Why did Yoshida-san choose a path filled with such hardships? What’s really going on behind the scenes? How was he able to parlay that into the success that he has now? Let’s hear what the man himself has to say.

“Yaretakamo Iinkai” Yoshida Takashi Special Interview

The Royalties from Digital Publications Exceeded 1 Million Yen per Month

The drama adaptation has begun airing, and now people are talking about “Yaretakamo Iinkai” even more, but it’s not being serialized in any particular magazine. It’s a comic that gets tweeted about pretty regularly, but there are also probably a lot of people who are wondering how the creator makes money. Could you tell us a bit about what’s actually going on and how that works?

Yoshida Takashi:

To begin with, there are four platforms that my work is published on. “cakes,” “note,” “PixivFANBOX,” and “Manga on Web.” The way things are structured on “cakes,” “note,” and “PixivFANBOX” is that you only get the royalties for your works that people buy on each of the sites. From those three sites combined, I make around 100,000 to 110,000 yen a month. “Manga on Web” is an online magazine. You can buy it in all of the domestic digital bookstores. The agreement there is that I make a fixed amount of money from it, the minimum publication fee, as well as royalties that correspond to the amount of sales that the magazine makes. If anything could be called a "manuscript fee," then that would probably be it.

And then there’s income that I make from the royalties on the paper tankoubon as well as the digital versions. The other day, I got the royalties from the digital books for the first time. It was over 1 million yen for a single month. I’m a bit anxious about what will happen to the taxes I’ll have to pay for next year, but it’d be great if it kept selling at this pace.

Making over 1 million yen in a month on one book is pretty amazing. If you were talking about royalties from a paper publication, that would be about the amount you’d make if you sold 15,000 copies. It’d be a dream to get that much every month. Why did you decide to make your money writing in this way anyway? Please tell us a bit about the circumstances of how you came to draw “Yareta Iinkai.”

Yoshida:

Well, it’s not like I intended to do things the way I’m doing them now from the very beginning. At the start, I was just going to try to do things like any regular mangaka. I did the normal assistant thing, sent in an entry for a newcomer’s award that a publisher was running, and my gag manga “Finland Saga (Sei)” got serialized in Morning Two, but that ended in 2011. The tankoubon didn’t seem to sell very well. After the series ended, I brought in the name for my next work to the Morning editorial department, but I couldn’t get it past them at all. Like, really… it was almost like they had tacitly decided they weren’t going to allow me to have another series (laugh.)

I had no other choice, so I took the rejected names and turned them into manuscripts and sent them all over the place for newcomer awards at other publishers and magazines. One of the shorts I included in those was “Yaretakamo Iinkai.” It got noticed in the newcomer's award for Shougakukan's Superior magazine, and received an honorable mention. That was in 2013, but I had actually written “Yaretakamo Iinkai” a long time ago before that. I was assigned an editor, and I wanted to write the second chapter of it, but the editor said that the material was only good for a oneshot and wouldn’t let me draw a follow-up. I drew another name on some other subject and brought it in, but that didn’t get greenlit either.

While I was doing all of that, another 2 years passed, and in the meantime, I continued to send out my manuscripts to other editorial departments and win awards for them. It was like I somehow ended up with an editor in each of the editorial departments. I started thinking, “I really can’t let this go on,” and that’s when I came up with the idea for my work named “Share Body.” I felt like I was onto something that was sort of new, so I drew three chapters worth of names and sent them around to all the editors that I’d met so far. That ended up catching the eyes of the editor at Spirits.

I Still Haven’t Read the Last Volume of “Share Body”

You didn’t get to writing “Yaretakamo Iinkai” right away, did you?

Yoshida:

That’s right. At the time, I still wanted to have a series in a commercial magazine. But that ended the worst way possible and was quite traumatic for me… The editor in charge of me at Spirits who read the name for “Share Body” said it was interesting and wanted to make it a series. I should’ve been happy about that, right? But they wanted to use it as the original story and have another mangaka draw it. Of course I wanted to draw it, since it was my own work, but none of the names I had drawn were going anywhere, and I really wanted to do a series. So, after agonizing over it, I ended up accepting that condition. Someone else did the art, the series began in September of 2015, the first tankoubon came out in January of 2016, and 5 days after it went on sale, they told us to end it. So I was out of a job by spring. My dream was over in an instant.

So after bringing in all those works to be evaluated all those times, you didn't even get to draw the series that you finally got. And it even got cancelled too. I can see how that might be traumatic.

Yoshida:

Around the time the 6th chapter got printed, the editor in charge said “It’s not doing well in the surveys, so redraw the name.” I’m the type of person who can’t draw when they’re pressured, so before the series started, I had drawn about 30 chapters worth of names ahead of time. Of course, I showed all of those to the editor, and they said it was good back then. Fixing the names was really difficult. For example, if I revised the 7th chapter, then I’d have to adjust the 23rd chapter as well, otherwise it’d be inconsistent. There were important scenes, and that’s why I’d drawn them, but when I explained that things wouldn’t make sense later if I changed them, the editor wouldn’t budge and kept going on about how the survey results were poor. Even when I brought up the fact that they’d said it was good before, they just said, “Well, it’s not.” You’d hope that if an editor said something was good, then they’d stick by it till the end.

Anyway, I couldn’t change something that I thought was already interesting into something that I found boring, so the editor and the artist came together and changed the story. The artist probably didn’t want to do something like that either -- and I don’t really want to badmouth anyone -- but I felt like if I were drawing the pictures myself in a situation with a deadline, then I could’ve at least forced my way and drawn what I’d wanted. The survey results just kept getting worse, and the series got cancelled.

In the later half of things, it was being produced in this inexplicable way where I was drawing the names for the original work, and the artist and editor would base things on that, change it, and draw the manga. Now that I think back on it, it’s a complete mockery of how to go about producing anything. We were making fools of the readers. After the name were getting changed, I couldn’t read the magazine it was being published anymore. I kept having nightmares about running people over in a car with a broken steering wheel.

From the second half of the second volume onward, it pretty much wasn’t based on what I wrote. I told them myself, “The 3rd volume isn’t really based on what I wrote, so please downgrade what I’m being credited for.” I thought that might convey to them how I felt about having the original work changed, but they replied, “Then it’s okay if we lower your percentage of the royalties, right?” So I got in a fight with them, saying, “That’s not what’s in the contract!” It was a total quagmire. In the end, I still haven’t read the last volume of “Share Body.”

I couldn’t forgive myself for releasing something that didn’t live up to my original intentions into the world, and more than anything, I had done something inexcusable to the readers. The experience was traumatic for me, and I decided not to trust the judgement of others.

I Decided on Four Things that I Would Not Give Up

You were now pretty far off from the “regular mangaka” that most people would imagine. So is that when you started to draw “Yaretakamo Iinkai” for real?

Yoshida:

No, I had already tried bringing everything I thought up, and my series failed, so there was no way left for me to do things. I started uploading my manga onto twitter. I’d upload a 20-page manga that got rejected at Morning, 1 or 2-page manga, 4-panel comics, and I had a tons of rejected names. At the time, I was doing this livestream once a month on Nico. I’d announce that I was going to go viral on the program and keep uploading my manga. Deep down, I did wonder if there was any point to it, but there wasn’t anything else I could do.

And then, around a half year later, because I was uploading stuff every day, eventually there were some things that’d get retweeted 5,000 or 10,000 times. People began taking a look at my older works from that, and it caught the attention of sites like Omokoro and net celebs like Yoppii-san. In September of 2016, “Yaretakamo Iinkai” saw the light of day.

Oh, finally! It’s easy enough to say, “I’m going to go viral in half a year,” but it’s another thing to be able to accomplish that when you have nothing to guarantee it. That’s amazing.

Yoshida:

It’s going to sound like I’m tooting my own horn a bit, but back then I really felt like I was working hard (laugh.) The first chapter hit around 200,000 views at the time. I got a flood of requests to turn it into a book right away. I think it was about 4 or 5 publishers that asked to publish it, but because “Share Body” was such a big failure, I decided to be quite careful with everything, right down to dealing with the editors. That’s when I decided there were four things that I would not give up. They were basically, “I would decide the title myself,” “I wouldn’t have any meetings about it,” “I would do the art myself,” and “I would manage the digital publication myself.” The first one may sound quite obvious, but when you get a publisher involved, the title reflects on their brand, so they make you change it often times. (Though I was able to decide the title for “Share Body.”)

The second item had to do with the same thing. There are a lot of editors that will meddle with the work, and there are a lot more people than you think who will be very heavy-handed when dealing with you because they feel like they’re the ones paying you. When I would go to meet them after they invited me to turn it into a book, they’d say, “Let’s have some meetings about this and make it together.” I turned them all down. They’d say things like, “I can come up with all sorts of ideas that could fit the story,” and go on about all these different plans they’d have, and I’d just listen to what they had to say with a smile, and then leave. I was asked if it was possible to participate in the selection process for the different episodes, but I even said no to that. It was pretty brazen of me, but my stance was, “You’re the ones that said you wanted to turn it into a book, so please just do that.”

I also wanted them to accept that I was going to do the art as something that was a given. The publisher was coming on board after the planning, so handing over the digital rights would be strange too.

That all makes sense, but it must’ve been a perilous path. I can’t imagine talks proceeded all that smoothly once you made your stance clear to the publishing companies. They probably felt like they were setting the stage to make the chances of profitability higher, and you were refusing to go along with it. Did they feel a bit like, “Why is this guy even meeting with us then?”

Yoshida:

I did get told with a sigh that they didn’t want to talk to me anymore about that sort (negotiations about the rights) of stuff (laugh.) They’d laugh and ask me, “What happened to you to make you feel this way?” “Yaretakamo Iinkai” was the first piece of work out of all the manga that I had drawn that I actually felt like was going well, so I didn’t want to change the system that I was using to produce it until it was over. The things I was asking for came from a place more of fear rather than desires. I didn’t want to have the work get messed up anymore.

You felt like you were cornered. Thinking about it normally, a company offering to publish your work would have you take down the stuff you had put up publicly on “note,” serialize it exclusively on their own media platforms or magazines, and want to sell tankoubon. Did the conversations ever turn into something like that? That’s usually the pattern of what happened to other manga that got popular on the net at least, which is why I think it’s truly impressive that you were able to present a different method of success.

Yoshida:

Naturally, I insisted on not taking down anything on the sites that I had already put up. I had all these people on the net reading my work, so what would be the point of taking it down? Even if you go viral, what you really need to value the most aren’t the publishers that will give you work but your readers.

When I see people tweeting, “My series is starting,” or, “My book is coming out,” and fans respond, “Congratulations,” I end up thinking, “It’s not worth getting that happy about,” because I got cancelled after a half a year. Delivering your work to the reader is the goal, and having a series or putting a book out is just one way to do that. I know I’m being mean about it, but it’s almost like people just want to do a series so they can tweet about how it’s about to start. Having the publisher validate you and starting your series… it feels real nice for a moment, but then they suddenly stop tweeting for a month, and you see they’re getting cancelled. The story ends in the middle of things, and they end up letting down all the readers they worked so hard to build up.

After that, the mangaka that had their series cancelled are regarded differently. They won’t let you do things by yourself next time. They’ll have you adapt someone else’s original work or pair you up with a different person to do the art. The mangaka could just part ways with the publisher at that point, but they think to themselves, “If I just listen to what I’m told, something good might happen,” so they follow the rules that get set for them. Whenever I see someone talented just doing whatever they’re told by the publisher and the original work they’re adapting is no good, I wonder why they’re doing that. Like, “They’re so talented, and it’s such a waste!”

Starting your series or putting out a book, it’s not really something to celebrate. You may not be able to see it with your eyes, but delivering a work to the readers is what you should be most happy about. Having a series or putting out a book isn’t even a completely effective way to deliver something to the readers nowadays.

Tweets Are like Dust or Pollen

If delivering something to the reader were established as the goal of the process, then the landscape of this scene should look different. It’s certainly true that just drawing whatever the publisher tells you to do won’t always lead to good results. Did you have some plan you’d concocted to succeed without joining up with a publisher though?

Yoshida:

Not at all (laugh.) It feels like it just ended up this way because I decided what I didn’t want to do, like it was a process of elimination. I went viral once, so I thought if I just quietly drew a volume's worth of material and sold a digital version, I’d probably make some money. Even if I didn’t make that much money, as long as it was enough for me to draw my next piece, that would be enough.

A big reason why other mangaka-san get fixated on the idea of a series probably has to do with getting paid a manuscript fee. I understand where they’re coming from too, but if I were aiming to become a mangaka with everything I know now, I’d draw the manga that I want in the way that I want while working a part-time job or something, and put out an ebook once a year. I probably wouldn’t sell anything at first, but I’d polish my skills while seeing what works through trial and error, and then when someone comes across my work and it goes viral, I’d sign a contract that would be advantageous for me with the publisher. That’s the method I might choose to pursue. You can still dream like that.

Futabasha, the publisher that put out the tankoubon, didn’t pay a manuscript fee, but they were okay with me keeping the works I had up on “note,” “cakes,” and “Manga on Web,” gave me the freedom to put out a digital edition, and allowed me to have creator control over any application of it for derivative works, such as movie adaptations and the like. If I had made it my goal to put out a paper book, I don’t think it would’ve turned out this way.

After hearing everything that you’ve said, I can see that you have a deeply rooted distrust of the publishing companies at your core. But at the same time, although you make use of the internet and social networks in a very proactive way, there’s also this sort of vibe that you don’t believe they’re completely awesome either. It feels like the existence of the net was indispensable for the success of the work. You could even say that the success of “Yaretakamo Iinkai” was only possible because someone famous on the net picked up on it. How do you feel about that?

Yoshida:

I was honestly thankful that they were spreading it around the net. But it didn’t really change anything about my fundamental distrust in others. I might need some counseling or something (laugh.) It’s obvious, but it’s not like I think that everyone at the publishing companies are evil and everyone on the net is good. People who work in marketing or other internet-related fields are always looking for the next big thing that people will be talking about, and are incredibly fickle, so I’m trying to remember to not get consumed by that.

Also, people in IT can create places and spaces for manga (manga sites and applications,) but they can’t actually create the content itself. They can only make the restaurants and plates; they aren’t cooks. There are tons of sites out there with someone famous supervising but no views or ones with views but no monetization system in place. There are more apps and sites now, and the places you can draw manga have exploded in number, but the creator has to be careful and needs the power to carefully examine the place where they’re going to serialize their work.

If all you do is believe in the word “serialization,” you’re going to get turned into a dancing bear to attract attention. And you might even be made to do your jig in front of an empty audience. You want to at least have an audience if you’re going to be a dancing bear.

It’s true that there’s this idea of people who work in internet-related fields swarming around something in a flash, eating all they can, and then leaving. It’s common for new services to pop up one after another, and then disappear. They all seem very transitory.

Yoshida:

I was contacted by someone working for a certain application, asking me if I wanted to put my work on it. When I went to meet that person, they kept on saying things like, “You should do it now,” “It’s now or never,” “If you do it now, it’ll definitely do well.” They just kept saying the word “now” over and over. I said to them, “It’s true that “Yaretakamo Iinkai” might just be a flash in the pan, but you don’t really have to be so blunt about it, do you?” They responded, “Sorry, that’s not what I was trying to say. Please consider putting it on our service…” The conversation didn’t go anywhere. They were trying to make things go viral in the now, and I was wanted to continue drawing manga for the long haul. It got me feeling like our sensibilities were pretty different.

Recently, I’ve gotten quite skeptical of people who approach others just because they get a lot of retweets or have a lot of followers and ask them if they want to put out a book. Numbers make things easy to distinguish, so people tend to see retweet counts and follower numbers as having some value, but is it really okay for professional editors to be trusting them?

Are you talking about how editors are starting to resemble people who work in internet-related fields?

Yoshida:

They have, haven’t they. An editor I met the other day said to me, “I found this promising creator recently with around 6,000 followers. It’s my job to turn that number into 30,000,” and I was like, “Seriously?” Apparently there’s some data that came out that said if you have 30,000 followers, 1 in 10 or 1 in 20 will buy the book. I don’t think you can really believe in any of that, but they were telling me all this sort of proudly, so I started thinking, “What’s with this guy? I really shouldn’t trust him! I can’t trust him!!” (laugh.) I think everyone’s reacting too much to numbers. I mean, we’re not dogs here.

It would be simple if all you were trying to do was get people to clap their hands together and tell you it’s good, but you need some sort of action to get people to open up their wallets and give you their money. I think the act of pushing a “like” button is about as minor as patting the head of a Jizou statue. No matter how much something gets posted on the web, when it comes to which ebooks are selling, it’s always “One Piece” or “Shingeki no Kyojin” or “Dungeon Meshi.” Twitter has nothing to do with it. I think tweets are like dust or pollen. The lighter the dust is, the further it can fly, but nobody is going to remember what was flitting around last year.

I think that something a person will pay for might need to have a certain kind of weight to it. I believe that it’s not about likes or retweets, but rather that it’s important the person who put down the money for it feels like they bought something worthwhile and will want to buy it again.

The reason why books aren’t selling has nothing to do with people reading less manga, pirate manga sites, the internet, the end of paper publishers, or ebooks.

The people who determine that lightness or weight are supposed to be the professional editors, but are you saying that’s not really the case anymore?

Yoshida:

I think so. There’s this negative current of completely trusting in fabricated numbers the worse that books sell. There’s been some recent news about how “comico” has been driving down the price they’re paying for manuscripts (though “comico” denies that to be true) and that manga tankoubon sales are half of what they used to be in the heyday of manga.  

I think the two are connected. Around 2013, IT enterprises like “comico,” “LINE manga,” “GAMMA,” “Mangabox,” etc., came into the manga marketplace with ample amounts of funding. But fast forward 4 years, and I don’t think they’ve made much money. As for why, it’s because they’re using a business model where they depend on selling paper tankoubon to make money. If they could come up with a single “Shingeki no Kyojin,” then they could make it all back, but it’s not going well. Why isn’t it going well? Because tankoubon aren’t selling. And why is that? I think it’s because the number of publications have increased too much.

IT companies enter the market, comics increase, as if in opposition to this, the publishing companies make their own manga sites and applications and create even more content, they cut down on the page count to increase the numbers of volumes, and the result of that now is that the comic corner at bookstores are in complete disorder. I think it’s too much of a pain for readers to choose, so they just don’t buy manga anymore.

It’s like when a non-native creature is introduced to a pond and it ruins the ecosystem. The water gets muddy and people don’t want to approach it. They don’t know what’s interesting anymore. There are even too many books that recommend manga like “Kono Manga ga Sugoi,” “Manga Taishou,” or “Kono Manga wo Yome.”

In my opinion, the reason why books aren’t selling has nothing to do with people reading less manga, pirate manga sites, the internet, the end of paper publishers, or ebooks.

Mangaka are drawing manga that suit their editors, editors are trying to proceed with projects that suit the editor-in-chief, and IT companies are trying to hit it big on a single jackpot manga. This is the natural result of nobody paying attention to the reader.

If the market goes back to being healthy, I think that manga will start to sell again. It’s not like you can drain all the water out of the pond though, so it’s pretty tough. I don’t think you can expect much from paper tankoubon until the water is clean again. The ones that have it the worse here are the people running the bookstores. But I believe that the ones that do a good job of selecting what they carry will be able to survive.

Right now, I have the good luck of being able to just focus on the reader and draw my manga. There’s no greater joy than that.

(My Own) Commentary:

At https://note.mu/shuho_sato/n/n657d9e19f18f, there are some additional notes on this article written in a blog post by Shuuhou Satou. If you’re familiar with some of the details of Shuuhou Satou and Yoshida Takashi, then the interview would’ve come off as maybe slightly disingenuous. The mangaka that Yoshida Takashi was an assistant to was Shuuhou Satou, and Shuuhou Satou runs “Manga on Web.” Shuuhou Satou is a very vocal person about these issues (publisher vs creator rights, digital publications, etc.) and even manages a consulting service for mangaka contracts as well as a ebook distribution consulting service (Densho Bato.) In the blog post Shuuhou Satou confirms that the interview was meant to help a bit with the sales promotion and that Yoshida Takashi did go through his service with his ebook. He talks a bit about the perceived success of the article in boosting its position on Kindle’s comic ranking, but there are some more interesting points that he makes. One of them is that he made sure to not include his own name in the interview (though he was the one who authored and conducted it.) For anyone not familiar with the history, it probably doesn’t make a difference, but if you do know who he is, then it comes off as a bit underhanded. I think a lot of the things Shuuhou says are interesting, even if I don’t particularly think his comics are. Not putting that out there upfront for the reader when the interview is going to touch on the issues he’s known for getting into just makes Yoshida seem more like a parrot than his own person. It should be noted that Shuuhou and the people that he represents are really among the most successful in terms of making money off digital distribution, but Shuuhou is also pouring tons of money back into marketing and promotion.

Also, some of the numbers that they mention people talking about always strike me as a little humorous. At the moment I’m writing this, Yoshida has about 7,000 followers on twitter, and Shuuhou has about 10,000. Most of the retweets for the interview come from someone else’s account. Many of the authors that I enjoy reading and follow have lower numbers or no twitter account at all. That makes the editor’s comment about getting an author’s follower count to 30,000 pretty funny. In context, with the “data” that was getting mentioned, you’d move 3,000 units at best, which is close to the minimum of what you’d want to make profitability feasible on a tank’s print run.

Regarding the comments Yoshida makes about the marketplace currently, I do think there’s a lot of shit in the water, but I also think it’s worth mentioning that this shakeup also allowed for the existence and development of manga sites like Torch (Leed) and Mavo. I never would’ve expected the publisher that puts out Comic Ran, a magazine that is basically all samurai comics, to be behind something as forward-thinking as Torch. Shuuhou’s own Manga on Web is also one that was built in the muddied environment, though Manga on Web has been running in the red just like all of those other IT based sites. It’s not as though editors at paper publishers were making amazing decisions all the time prior to this marketplace flooding either. They may not have been looking at follower counts, but they definitely were stressing sales numbers, and a lot of them went with veterans that drew crap that sold rather than developing and fostering younger authors. At least in this environment, younger authors have some places online to put work up when niche magazines are getting shuttered, even if they’re all working side jobs at the same time. For the general consumer, it may be too confusing to choose, but for someone who will invest their time into finding works they want to read themselves, it’s not the chaotic environment he makes it out to be.

As for “Yaretakamo Iinkai,” you can actually read some of it in English “officially” on pixiv at https://www.pixiv.net/user/3130738/series/22797. My personal opinion of it is that… I’d rather read this than Shuuhou’s comics :T

[purplesurveys]

1050

survey by chihuahua

1~ What quality do you value most highly in others? Loyalty. Those who can stick with me through the highs, lows, and all the boring stuff. I appreciate low-maintenance friendships.

2~ Are you more aggressive or mellow? Um idk, it depends on the situation I guess. I have a non-confrontational side, but at the same time I’m also quite vocal over issues I’m passionate about. Just last weekend I made the lunch table at a family reunion awkward because Jake Zyrus suddenly became the topic of conversation; I could feel the wave of transphobic comments about to come from the oldies, so I made sure I was one step ahead of the Gen X-ers and Boomers and saying that transphobia isn’t going to fly by at the table, so they shouldn’t even try. That’s the most recent instance I remember having to get aggressive.

3~ Who has made the biggest sacrifice for you? My parents. Dad has mostly worked abroad and I never got to see him for longer than a month all my life until Covid hit and he was forced to stay here. Mom has worked thousands of overtime shifts and was always on changing shifts throughout my childhood.

4~ Do you take any vitamins or medication? No. We have a constant supply of Vitamin C tablets for the family, but I stopped taking it regularly since like May because pure laziness. I don’t take any medication.

5~ Do you want to grow old with someone? I wish this was my reality, yes.

6~ Do you treat others better or worse than yourself and why? Better. I’m still working on liking/loving myself.

7~ What sound is annoying you right now? Nothing comes to mind right now, but an hour ago we were having our virtual company Christmas party and since there were nearly 60 people in the Google Meet and I also still had some deliverables I needed to finish, my laptop couldn’t take it and started whirring its fan. That was a little annoying.

8~ Where was your last vacation to? Hasn’t changed. It was still Tagaytay and Cavite. As much as I’d like to take a vacation somewhere, I think all places require you to take a swab test and that’s a big pass for me. Nothing’s going in my nostrils and down my throat or however far down it goes.

9~ Where was your last car ride to? Aside from back home, I was headed to Feliz. After that I also stopped by the local Starbucks to try and redeem a planner for my mom, but they don’t have the variation that she wants :(

10~ Where did you last walk to? To the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee.

11~ What gives you a peaceful feeling? Evening drives. I don’t care how bad the traffic is; there’s just something about driving at night that makes me feel very much at peace. It was better when I had the person I love with me; but driving alone isn’t bad too.

12~ Are you a light sleeper? No. I’m very likely to sleep through earthquakes.

13~ When you sleep next to someone who usually falls asleep first? They do. I’m always the last one to fall asleep, no matter who it is I’m next to.

14~ How many people have a piece of your heart? Kinda corny question, but one, I guess. It’s ridiculous that they still do, but I can’t help it.

15~ What do your salt and pepper shakers look like? Nothing too fancy in this home lol. We have a plain tub containing our salt. I don’t actually know what our pepper container/shaker looks like; we may just have the McCormick variant of pepper.

16~ When was the last time you hurt yourself? On purpose or accidentally? Hahahaha uhm I cut my finger trying to open a bottle of soju last week, and it bled pretty bad.

17~ Would you rather live in the city, suburbs or the country? Right now, I’d love a city environment. I’ve lived far too long in quiet suburban neighborhoods and a change in scenery would be nice. I hope I don’t end up feeling too lonely in the city, though.

18~ Have you ever built something? Other than Lego towers I made as a kid, I was never the building type. I’d rather have all my items in complete form when I get them.

19~ Are you more of a maker and giver, or a taker and user? I’m more a giver than any of these other labels. I feel happy from making people happy and comfortable.

20~ Do you take naps? I love naps but I avoid them now. I have very little free time these days as I’m always swamped with work even during holidays and weekends, so when I do have little bits of spare time I want to spend them awake and doing something productive and catching up on my hobbies. I think this’ll be my new normal now :(

21~ Do you buy holiday gifts early or at the last minute? Early for the people I love most. For everyone else I do it kinda late-ish, heh.

22~ Do you laugh when there is no joke and dance when there is no music? I do the laughing thing occasionally, but I only dance if there’s music.

23~ If someone else were to describe you what would you hope they would say? That they recognize the things I do for other people. I know it’s best to do things because you want to and not to be recognized and I stand by that myself, but I just want the reassurance that I’m seen. At least just once. 

24~ What is the dirtiest habit you can think of? Biting one’s toenails, trying your own earwax, or not changing your underwear for several days.

25~ Do you ever need 'quiet time'? For sure; I think all of us do.

26~ Do you think it is harder for a parent to outlive their child or for th Survey-maker didn’t get to finish this question, but the first scenario sounds painful enough. I can’t even begin to imagine the hurt a parent would feel if they had to go to the wake of their own kid.

27~ What was your best find from a flea market, garage sale, ebay or thrift? A copy of WWE Encyclopedia that was like 1/3 or 1/4 its original price. I remember not having a lot of savings left from that week but I still went ahead and bought the book because it was such a crazy good deal.

28~ What is one selfish thing you tend to do? I am not at all the poster child of selfishness... I’ve never felt comfortable doing things for myself. Everything’s always been for other people, and I rarely leave room for me, if at all. The most selfish thing I do is that I hate sharing my food, but even then I still share my favorites with the people I love.

29~ What kinds of people do you find intimidating? I try not to get intimidated by anyone because we all just go through the same shit at the end of the day, so idk. People in higher positions can sometimes be scary, but I’m not as intimidated by them as I used to be.

30~ Out of everyone you know who has the most unique personality? Maybe Andrew/Andi? They can fit in any crowd and can make a conversation last with absolutely anyone, which I find unique as not everyone’s able to do so.

31~ When do you do your best thinking? I always have to be able to think on my feet for work. Public relations is a pretty hectic landscape and communications is super crucial in it.

32~ What was a choice that you didn't want to make but you had to? The breakup. All that wasted time and effort make me nauseous.

33~ Have you ever written a letter to a soldier? No.

34~ What does your favorite coffee mug look like? This question is e v e r y w h e r e. It’s a copper Starbucks mug.

35~ What age do you think it is most difficult to be? I don’t think it’s fair to compare. Everyone goes through their own set of struggles no matter what age they are.

36~ Do you think you could handle a day in jail? Not the ones here.

37~ Who is the most overbearing person you know? My mom can definitely be one.

38~ Have you ever been on a trampoline? Yes :) Rita has one in her house and it was a lot of fun jumping on it. It was a huge one too; 7 or 8 of us were playing on the trampoline at one point.

39~ What do you use batteries for the most often? I haven’t had to use those in a while. I guess remote controls? Even though I barely touch those anymore.

40~ Would you prefer to wrap your own presents or have them all gift wrapped? I don’t how to wrap presents, so I asked my sister to do it for me in exchange for money hahahahaha. That might be my new Christmas practice from here on out.

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teaser: THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND LILY!

We’re so excited about this one, people! This is the love story of Abelard, who has autism, and Lily, who has ADHD. They’ve known one another since they were kids, but one fateful day in detention, Lily kisses Abelard. Their relationship deepens and changes in ways difficult to describe in words. Especially because Abelard’s autism makes it difficult for him to communicate verbally...so they write one another text messages, often quoting an old book they both love, and just when they think they’re finally connecting, a decision Lily makes about her own mental health changes everything. 

You can read the first four chapters of this romantic YA below! 

CHAPTER ONE

The day Abelard and I broke the wall, we had a four- hour English test. Seriously.  Every tenth grade  student  in the State of Texas had to take a four-hour English  test, which is too long to sit still even if you are a normal person. And I’m not a normal person.

After the test, I told my feet to take me to geography. If I didn’t tell myself where to go, if I let my mind drift, I’d find myself in the quiet calm of the art wing, where the fluorescent lights flickered an appealingly low cycle of semipermanent gloom. Or I’d stand in the empty girls’ room just to be alone. Sometimes I think I’m not attention deficient but attention abundant. Too much everything.

When I got to geography, Coach Neuwirth handed out a boring article about the importance of corn as a primary crop in the early Americas. Then he left the room. He did this a lot. Ever since basketball season had ended, Coach Neuwirth seemed like someone who was counting the min- utes until the school year was over. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one running out the clock. 

Thirty seconds after Coach Neuwirth left, the low murmur of voices turned into a conversational deluge. I sat in the back of the room because that’s where the two left- handed desks were — in the row reserved for stoner boys who do not like to make eye contact with teachers. Two seats in front sat Rogelio, turned sideways in his chair, talk- ing fast and casting glances in my direction.

“Cosababa, pelicular camisa,” Rogelio said, and the boys around him all laughed.

Okay, this is probably not what Rogelio said. I’m not a great listener. Also, my Spanish is terrible.

“Camisa,” he repeated.

At the word camisa, Emma K. turned to look at me, and whispered something to the blond girl next to her. I instantly wondered if I’d been talking to myself, which is a thing I do. It attracts attention.

Then it sank in. Camisa. Spanish for “shirt.”

Maybe there was something wrong with my shirt. Maybe the snap-button cowboy shirt I got at a thrift store was not charming and ironic as I’d imagined, but seri- ously ugly. Emma K. had whispered about my shirt. Even Rogelio and his friends, who often wore snap-button cow- boy shirts, had laughed at my shirt. Or maybe not, because my Spanish isn’t good, and anyway, Rogelio could have been talking about someone else. Not Emma K., though. She looked straight at me.

What if I’d popped open a button at bra level and I’d been walking around all day with my bra exposed, and was I even wearing a nice bra, a sexy black bra? Or was it just one of those tragic old bras with a ribbon or a rose that might have been cute once but, over repeated washings, had turned slightly gray and balled up like a dirty piece of dryer lint stuck to the center of my chest?

I clutched the front of my shirt, and Emma K. and the blond girl giggled. My shirt was properly buttoned, but I couldn’t sit in my chair for another minute. School was a molasses eternity, a nightmare ravel of bubble sheets and unkind whispers unfurled in slow motion. I had to leave, even though I’d promised my mother that I would under no circumstances skip school again.

I stood. My feet made a decision in favor of the door, but a squeaking metallic noise stopped me.

I turned.

Directly behind me was an accordion-folded, putty- colored vinyl wall, along with a gunmetal gray box with a handle sticking out of one end. The squeaking noise came from the metal box. The handle moved.

When our school  was built in  the sixties, someone decided that walls impede the free flow of educational ideas, because some of the third-floor rooms are all double-long, cut in half by retractable vinyl walls. Apparently, the archi- tect of this plan had never been to a high school cafeteria to experience the noise associated with the unimpeded flow of ideas. The wall doesn’t get opened much. 

 Last time anyone opened the wall was during Geography Fair. One of the custodians came with a strange circular key he inserted into a lock on the side of the box. He’d pushed the handle down and the wall had wheezed open, stuttering and complaining.

Now the handle jiggled up and down as if a bored ghost was trying to menace our class, but no one else was paying attention. I wondered if the custodian was trying to open the wall from the other side. It didn’t make sense.

I left my desk and walked to the box. I leaned over and grabbed it, surprised by the cool feel of solid metal. And suddenly, I felt much better. The world of noise and chaos faded away from me. The touch of real things can do this.

The movement stopped. I shook the bar up and down. It didn’t range very far before hitting the edge of what felt like teeth in a gear.

I pushed down hard on the handle. After a momen- tary lull, it sprang up in my hands, knocking with sur- prising force against my palms. I put both hands on the bar, planted the soles of my Converse sneakers, and pulled against it with all my might.

There was a loud pop, followed by the whipping sound of a wire cable unraveling. The bar went slack in my hands. The opposite end of the vinyl wall slid back three feet.

Everyone stopped talking. Students near the door craned their heads to see into the other classroom. Dakota Marquardt (male) said, “Shiiit!” and half the class giggled.

A rush of talking ensued, some of it in English, some in Spanish.

I dropped the handle and slid back into my chair, too late. Everyone had seen me.

Coach Neuwirth ran back into the room and tried to pull the accordion curtain closed. When he let go of the edge, it slid away, leaving a two-foot gap.

He turned and faced the room. “What the hell hap- pened here?”

It’s never good when a teacher like Coach Neuwirth swears.

I waited for someone to tell on me. Pretty much inevi- table.

Dakota Smith (female) stood and straightened her skirt. She pulled her long brown hair over her shoulder and leaned forward as though reaching across a podium for an invisible microphone.

“After you left, the handle on the wall began to move,” she began. “Lily put her hands on the handle and pushed down and the cable broke and — ”

“Thank you, Dakota.” Coach Neuwirth strode to his desk. “Lily Michaels-Ryan, please accompany me to my desk.”

I followed him to the front of the class, keenly aware that every set of eyes in the room was fixed on me. Coach Neuwirth filled out a form for me to take to the office, not the usual pink half-page referral form, but an ominous shade of yellow with pages of carbons. As I stared at the razor stubble on top of his pale head, I realized I’d messed up pretty badly. So badly, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to see my father in the summer.

“It wasn’t just me,” I said. “There was someone on the other side pushing down. I didn’t mean to break the door, it’s just . . .”

Coach Neuwirth ignored me.

“You’ll note, Miss Michaels-Ryan, that I have filled out a Skrellnetch form for you. Your mother will have to sign the kerblig and return it to the main office before you can be burn to clabs . . .”

This would be a good time to mention that I’d stopped taking my ADHD meds about a month earlier because they made me puke randomly and caused my head to ring like an empty bell at night. Side effects.

“. . . Your parents will have to sign the kerblig before you can be burn to clabs. Do you understand me?”

He waited, holding the Skrellnetch form that I needed to take to the office. Clearly, he had no plans to hand me the all-important Skrellnetch form until I answered him. I contemplated my choices. If I said yes, he would hold me responsible for remembering every clause in his statement, and I would be made to suffer later because I had no idea what he had just said. My heart pounded with a weird mix- ture of fear and exhilaration.

However, if I said no, Coach Neuwirth would consider it a sign of insubordination and general smart-assery. It didn’t look good for me.

“So . . . what copy does my mom sign again?”

Peals of laughter erupted from behind me. Someone muttered, “Ass-hat,” and the laughter increased.

“Get the hell out of my classroom,” Coach Neuwirth said. He threw the Skrellnetch paper across his desk at me.

I began my trek to the office, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone while I held the stupid Skrellnetch form. After the noise and glare of the classroom, the quiet calm of the hall, with every other row of fluorescent lights off to save on electricity, was a relief. Six steps of cool dark, six steps of bright white burn. Down the stairs. The first floor had a band of colored tiles at shoulder height: white, mustard yel- low, white, blue. I held my right hand out and touched only the blue tiles as I passed through the hall, feeling my jittery state of anxiety mute into a dull, sad place in the center of my chest.

Down at the office, kindly Mrs. Treviño eyed my yel- low Skrellnetch form with visible regret.

“Lily, what happened?” she said, as though I’d twisted an ankle in gym, or had some other not-my-fault kind of accident.

“I broke the sliding wall between Coach Neuwirth’s and Ms. Cardeña’s rooms.”

Mrs. Treviño sighed deeply. I looked away as my lips started to quiver. A gray cloud of shame descended on me with remorseless speed. I’d like to be the good, thoughtful person Mrs. Treviño had mis- taken me for. A person who doesn’t break stuff.

“Well, you’re not the only one,” she said. “Come on back.”

She escorted me to the inner chamber. There, by the vice principal’s office, were two ugly orange chairs. On one chair sat Abelard Mitchell. I took one look at him and knew he’d been on the other side of the wall pulling up on the handle while I pushed down.

Mrs. Treviño gestured to the empty chair and left us alone in the waiting area.

I’d known Abelard since kindergarten. Since my last name was Michaels-Ryan and his was Mitchell, we stood next to each other at every elementary school function. Abelard was tall and slim but broad-shouldered, with a mop of sable brown hair and dark blue eyes. He was gorgeous, but he had some sort of processing delay, mild autism or Asperger’s syndrome or something. He didn’t interact like everyone else.

But sure. Neither did I. When I was seven, I acciden- tally smacked Abelard with my metal lunchbox because I couldn’t stop swinging my arms. I cut his cheek, but he didn’t cry, and no one noticed until later, so now he had this little scar, which was weirdly sexy. Abelard never said anything. He had to have noticed that I was standing there in front of him swinging my Hello Kitty lunchbox with happy, maniacal abandon.

I liked to believe that he could have cashed me in to the teacher and he didn’t.

I dropped into the chair next to him, feeling suddenly nervous to be sitting on a chair that was actually bolted to his chair — as though even the furniture was there to be punished.

“Hey,” I said, a little too loudly. “So you were on the other side of the wall? Who knew it would break like that? You’d think a handle roughly the same age as the Titanic would be sturdier. Although I guess that’s a bad compari- son.”

He said nothing. He was probably thinking about com- puter games, or quantum physics, or the novels of Hermann Hesse. From all available information, which I’ll admit was limited, Abelard was pretty brilliant.

“You were on the other side of the wall.” Abelard glanced at me and looked away.

“Yes.” I felt a strange thrill of complicity. “Usually, I’m here by myself. Why did you . . .”

I stopped before I asked him the stupidest of questions: Why did you break that? My least favorite question in the history of questions.

“The mechanism was squeaking. One of the gears is rusted. They need to oil it.”

I nodded. I didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything to say. I thought of Abelard, under the same anx- ious impulse to touch everything in the world of the here and now that we could feel with our hands. But unlike me, he was thinking about the hidden gears in the box, years of neglect and humidity, gears rusting away unused. He wanted to fix things, not destroy them. A more evolved monster, Abelard.

He leaned over and peered at me from under his shaggy fringe of hair. I caught a hint of his warm scent. Nice.

“Lily Michaels-Ryan,” he said. “You were in my English class last year. You hit me with a lunchbox in first grade.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “I hope it didn’t hurt too much. On the plus side, I really do like the scar. It makes you look like a pirate, a little disreputable, you know?”

Abelard brought his hand to his cheek and traced the edges of the scar as though checking to see if it was still there. Suddenly, I wanted to run my hand along his cheek- bone to feel for that slightly raised skin, proof of my earlier bad act.

The sight of his hand on his cheek made me conscious of where my hand was on the arm of the chair, touching the sleeve of his shirt. A phone rang in the office around the corner. Mrs. Treviño’s voice came from the outer office, but it felt like she was on the other side of the world. We were alone.

“Abelard, why didn’t you tell anyone that I hit you with my lunchbox?” I said. “I never got in trouble for that.”

Abelard frowned in slow motion. He seemed slightly offended, like I’d accused his seven-year-old self of being a tattletale and a snitch. I’d been right. He had protected me, one freak to another. I felt a swell of something more than gratitude, more than surprise.

Abelard’s lips parted slightly, like he had something to say that he didn’t want anyone else to hear. I wanted to know what he was thinking. Suddenly, what Abelard had to say seemed like the most important thing in the world.

I turned my head and put my arm down on the chair to lean in so he could whisper in my ear. My arm slipped on the ancient vinyl, and I accidentally moved too close to Abelard, which is a thing that I do. I’m not good with per- sonal space.

Abelard didn’t say anything. I felt his warm breath on the side of my face, a thousand little hairs on my cheek moving in the soft breeze, and I thought of his cheek and how I’d wanted to run my finger along the edge of his scar. And still it seemed like Abelard had something to say, but it wasn’t coming, and maybe he was too anxious to speak. I didn’t know what to say either. My brain was not forming thoughts in English.

I lifted my face and he looked away. But his lips were there, centimeters from mine.

I kissed him. The kiss was over before I really knew what I was doing, just a momentary soft press of my lips against his. A stray impulse that didn’t make sense, my wires crossed by the randomness of the day.

What was I thinking?

“Well, it was nice of you not to tell on me, even though you were only seven.” I went on talking as though I hadn’t just kissed him. I do this a lot. When you live at the mercy of your impulses like I do, you pretty much have to.

“Maybe you should have told someone? You probably needed stitches. Not that I don’t like the scar — it’s a great scar.”

Abelard brought his index finger to his lips and frowned. He had one of those serious, symmetrical faces that a slight frown only improves.

“Lily,” he said slowly, “I — ”

I braced myself for a quick, awkward rejection, but before Abelard could finish his sentence, Vice Principal Krenwelge rounded the corner. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

CHAPTER TWO

My mother came to get me at school. She arrived look- ing frazzled, a small coffee stain over the left breast pocket of her shirt, lipstick reapplied but the rest of  her  makeup faded, leaving her skin blotchy, nose reddened by the sun. I expected her to be mad, but this was far worse. She looked defeated. Friday, the end of a long week, and now this.

Mom had a brief conference with Vice Principal Krenwelge, and then we drove home in silence. I was tired, beyond tired, needing the comfort of a darkened room.

“Are you mad at me?” I finally said.

We were stopped on Lamar at the light in front of Waterloo Records, where Dad’s band had a CD release when I was five. I remembered Mom in a tight camisole and brightly colored skirt, holding a sleepy baby Iris on her shoulder. Her hair dyed magenta red. Happy clothes. Sexy, even. Afterward, we walked to Amy’s for ice cream. Life in the before time.

“No, Lily, I’m not mad. You’re just lucky Abelard’s mom volunteered to pay the damages.” 

This made me sit up.

“Why? Abelard and I broke the wall together. It was as much my fault as his.”

“Not according to your vice principal. Mrs. Mitchell seemed to think that it was Abelard’s idea to break the wall, and you were just following along.”

Mom rolled her eyes to let me know what she thought of this explanation. Me in close proximity to a broken thing: cause and effect. Mom knew who was at fault.

Why would Mrs. Mitchell think that Abelard was at fault? There could be only one reason. Abelard must have taken the blame for me. It didn’t feel right. Abelard wasn’t the breaky type. If I hadn’t pushed down on the stupid handle, Abelard might have found a janitor to oil the gears. “Abelard said the wall was already broken. Abelard said the gears hadn’t been oiled in an eternity.”

“Well, the next time Abelard decides to ‘fix’ something, don’t volunteer to help, okay?”

“Volunteer to help,” I mumbled.

I liked the idea that I’d jumped up because I’d intuited that the situation needed my special breaking expertise. But what if breaking and fixing were really the same activ- ity, reversed?

Did Abelard really “fix” things, or did he just break things, like me? I wanted to ask him about his experience fixing things and breaking things. I thought about the time I’d pulled up too hard on the back seat handle of the car door while pushing against the door with my hip, and the handle broke. And then for some reason, I flipped the child lock switch thinking it might fix the door, only it didn’t. It locked the door, permanently. I’d tried to fix it, I really had. “. . . and Mrs. Screngle says tuber work.” Mom glanced over at me. “Lily, are you listening?” “No,” I admitted. No point in lying. “Did you eat today?”

I had to think about it. The day seemed like an eternity, as though the time before I broke the wall and the time after served as a clear demarcation of events, like the birth of Jesus or the arrival of the dinosaur-ending meteor off the coast of the Yucatan. And now my mind was filled with thoughts of Abelard. Why had he covered for me?

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“Is your lunch still in your backpack?” Mom asked.

I dug through the backpack at my feet. Sure enough, my lunch was untouched in the outer pocket.

“I would have eaten, but they told us to eat during the test, and I was still working, and I just sort of forgot about it, and then we had to go straight to sixth period, so I didn’t have time.”

“Are you hungry now?” I nodded.

We drove through P. Terry’s for veggie burgers, and we split a chocolate shake on the way home, like I was being rewarded for screwing up. I was happy enough, but I couldn’t let things go. I kept thinking about my dad in Portland.

At the start of the school year, Mom had promised that I could visit Dad if I kept my grades up and didn’t skip class. I’d been trying, but things hadn’t been going too well. My grades are all over the place, and I try not to skip, but sometimes I can’t help it.

“So, Mom, about the summer . . . I mean, could I still see Dad?”

Secretly, I planned to go visit Dad and just stay on. Dad taught English at a homeschool cooperative connected to the farm where he worked, kids getting life credit for milk- ing goats and picking organic beets. Heaven. I’d miss Mom and Iris, but clearly I belonged in a “less-structured learn- ing environment.”

“I know you want to see your dad.” Mom paused. It wasn’t quite a pregnant pause, just an awkward millisecond or two. “But it’s not that simple. We’d have to talk to him, and he may not be in a position to have houseguests . . . and of course, your grades . . . and no more skipping . . .”

I stopped listening. A qualified yes is almost a full yes. I’d have to improve my grades and attend all my classes, blah, blah, blah. I could do that.

“You know, Lily, seeing your dad again isn’t going to solve all your problems.”

I nodded to let her know I’d heard her and stared out the window. She was wrong. My father had solved my big- gest problem. There was no reason to think he couldn’t solve my smaller ones.

***

My father taught me how to read.

When I was in second grade, the school reading spe- cialist decided I was dyslexic. She told my mom to read to me every single night, but Mom worked nights. So Dad read to me.

In the beginning, he read me books about cat warriors while he drank craft beer. When Dad got tired of reading books about cats, he picked up Nancy Drew and the Three Investigators from a used book store. These books amused him with their gee-whiz ’thirties and ’forties references: chaste country club dances, German housekeepers devot- edly making strudel, and clubhouses with secret tunnels made out of packing crates and junk. Nancy Drew ushered in cheaper beer: Tecate in cans. I laughed at Dad’s earnest voice for Ned Nickerson, Nancy’s straight-arrow boyfriend, and I fell asleep worrying how Nancy was going to get out of that cave by the ocean before high tide.

“Choral reading,” my mother said, echoing the reading specialist’s advice. “Dad reads a passage, Lily reads a passage.”

My father sat by my bed with the book held between us as I painfully sounded out each little word. I learned to read the same way Hercules learned to hold a full-grown bull in his arms, by having to brute-force sound my way through every syllable until the words got longer and heavier. At first, I read individual words, then sentences, and eventually paragraphs.

Together we read all of Harry Potter; The Lightning Thief ; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; Inkheart; and Diane Duane. When the words began to swim on the page, Dad read to me from his own personal library of medieval classics. By this time, I was sharing a bedroom with my sister, Iris, and she listened with rapt attention.

Dad read Le Morte d ’Arthur and Physica by Hildegard von Bingen, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.

At about the time we started on Tolkien, with a nightly supplement of The Prose Edda and the Nibelungenlied, my father had discovered vodka. Cheap, easy to hide, and packed more of a punch than beer.

I never questioned the hours I spent sequestered away in my bedroom with Dad, reading while he drank. It was fun, and it was too good to last.

The end came when I was in fifth grade. My mom caught me alone in my room with her copy of Jane Eyre.

“Are you reading?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her dark green eyes glittered with some internal fire I recog- nized as hopefulness. She had a sort of feral alertness that alarmed me.

“What? . . . No,” I replied, thrown off my guard. I quickly regained my composure. “This book is weird. I can’t understand this language. What’s it about?”

“It’s a love story about a girl with a strong moral compass. It’s an older book, so the language can seem a little stilted, but it’s really good.” She smoothed the hair away from my forehead and attempted a wan smile. She looked sad. “You should have your father read it to you.”

“I will.”

I felt bad about lying to her, but mostly I felt relieved. Crisis averted! My father read me Jane Eyre, or he reread me Jane Eyre, because I’d already finished it by then. I didn’t care. Mom was happy; Dad was pleasantly drunk. Life was golden.

At the end of fifth grade, the school tested me again. I’d never seen my mother so thrilled. She came home wav- ing her copy of my test results over her head.

“Your phonemic scores are still relatively low,” she said. “But your comprehension is off the charts. You’ve made amazing progress, Lily.”

I didn’t immediately get the magnitude of what I’d done, but I think my father did. He greeted the news that I was in the 98th+ percentile in reading comprehension with a queasy smile. I’ll never forget the look he gave me. It was as though his usefulness on the planet had suddenly ended. Maybe he knew divorce was not far off.

“I’ve heard about this book Wuthering Heights,” I said, hoping I wasn’t overplaying the wide-eyed thing. “I don’t think I can read it by myself, though. It’s for older people, right? But we could read it together.”

“Sure thing, Lil,” Dad said, his eyes distant.

We all smiled at one another. The happiest part of my life ended there in the fifth grade.

 CHAPTER THREE 

Monday morning my mother woke me while it was still dark. She stood by my bed with a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

“Eat the toast,” Mom said. She hovered over me, already dressed for work in a white linen shirt and a fifties beaded cardigan that may have once been an ironic statement for her but that she now considers an heirloom.

“It’s the middle of the night.” I rolled over to face Iris’s twin bed next to mine. “Look. Iris is still asleep.”

My sister was an inanimate lump of covers. Iris usually springs out of bed like Snow White, ready to polish silver and sing with birds, but it was so early she wasn’t even stir- ring.

“I have to go to work early today,” Mom said. “You need to take your medication.”

“I can’t take it on empty stomach.”

“Hence the toast.” Mom thrust the plate at me. Reluctantly, I bit into the toast. At this hour of the morning, food  seemed like a human rights  violation. I chewed twice and swallowed with difficulty before slump- ing back on the bed.

“Now your medication.”

I took the pill and swallowed without hesitation. She handed me the lukewarm and very weak tea with milk to wash it down.

“You don’t trust me anymore,” I said.

“It just doesn’t seem like you’ve been taking your medi- cation lately, Lily. Maybe you’ve forgotten. I thought I would help you remember.”

Every morning for the past month, Mom had left a cup of tea, a piece of toast, and a pill on a plate for me by my bedside. And every morning I’d taken that pill and stashed it in an old pickle jar under my bed. I didn’t like the drug. It sucked the creamy goodness out of life.

Antidepressants tend to do that. I should know. This wasn’t the first one I’d been on.

Bells and whistles went off in my head. On Saturday, the day after Abelard and I broke the wall, Mom offered to take me and Iris to a movie. She didn’t go with us, and at the time, it seemed kind of weird. She must have gone home and searched the room for missing pills.

I probably should have flushed the medicine in the toilet so downstream fish and migratory waterfowl could expe- rience an unexpected rush of jittery calm and the sudden ability to meet deadlines and organize paperwork. Yes, I could have shared my drug bounty with the ecosystem, but a strange frugality had stopped me. The stuff was expensive.

Once Mom left, I looked under the bed. Sure enough, the pickle jar was gone.

I’m sure Mom was relieved to find my hidden stash, because I’d saved her a couple hundred bucks. One thing was for certain: She would never mention the pickle jar, and neither would I.

*** 

School. I met Rosalind at our usual spot under the live oaks in the courtyard for lunch.

Rosalind is my oldest friend all the way back to kinder- garten. She’s tiny and plays small children in local theatri- cal productions. With her long dark hair in braids and her giant brown eyes, she can pass for twelve. Maybe ten on a really big stage.

Rosalind was eating out of a bento box filled with brown rice, raw carrots, and seaweed salad. Rosalind’s parents are restricted-calorie-intake people who have formulated a plan to live for all of eternity. Like the children of vegan, mac- robiotic, gluten-shunning parents everywhere, Rosalind’s favorite food is pizza — though she likes classy pizza: feta cheese, black olives. Her dream is to move to New York and eat nothing but pizza. Also — acting.

“Lily, how was your trip to the vice principal’s office?” Rosalind  asked.

“Gripping and poignant. I laughed, I cried — ”

 “Was your mom mad?”

“Weirdly, no. I have a week in detention, but that’s it. She even said I can still see my dad this summer.”

“Really?” Rosalind raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your mom said you could go to Portland?”

“If I keep my grades up and don’t skip class.”

Truth be told, Rosalind didn’t entirely approve of my plan to visit my dad and then refuse to return. She didn’t think I was cut out to be an organic beet farmer. Also, she would miss me.

I glanced across the courtyard. Abelard sat at his usual spot on the low wall under the crepe myrtle. Alone. The sight of him through the milling crowd sent a jolt of electricity up my spine. I realized I’d been scanning the halls all day, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

I settled on the bench next to Rosalind, carefully avoid- ing a patch of grackle poo, and opened the lunch that Iris had packed for me. A tomato sandwich, apple, Oreos. I nibbled on an Oreo and set the rest aside.

“You’re not eating?” Rosalind said. “Why, if I had a sandwich on actual bread — bread made from real demon wheat, mind you —”

“Here, have it. It’s yours. Taste the evil.”

I handed Rosalind my sandwich, but she just shrugged. I suspect she actually likes brown rice.

“So you aren’t eating. What’s up?”

“I’m back on my drug-based diet. My stomach will

refuse all food until five thirty, at which point I will eat my entire day’s calories in two hours, mostly in potato chips. Straight out of the bag. If we even have potato chips. Might be stale crackers.”

“Healthy,” Rosalind said. “I thought you weren’t going to take the drugs anymore.”

“After my little  trip to the  vice principal’s  office, my mother decided she would watch me take my meds,  like some hospital matron in one of those old movies your parents love.”

“The Snake Pit, Olivia de Havilland,” Rosalind said. “Whatever.”

Rosalind frowned.

“The drugs aren’t good for you, Lily. They change you.” “It’s not like I have a choice.”

“Um, you know how my mother is always talking about . . . balance between . . . gluten and sugar can . . . talk to your mother . . . only if you . . . off the medication . . . take you to a dark place.”

I shrugged, uninterested in the topic of my medication and diet. Abelard was eating cookies or crackers, reading something on his phone, dark hair falling over his eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was an attractive nui- sance, a shiny object.

“What do you think of Abelard?” I asked.

Rosalind followed my gaze. “I don’t know. He’s kind of in his own little bubble. Why do you ask?”

“He was on the other side of the wall when I — when we broke it.” Breaking the wall was beginning to feel like a shared secret, a source of pride. Abelard and I destroyed something — together.

“Okay,” Rosalind said slowly. Dubious. I know that look.

“He took the blame. For both of us. He didn’t have to do that.”

“And you think that was about you?” “Maybe it was about me,” I said.

I continued to stare. It was easy to stare at Abelard. He never lifted his head, never glanced in my direction. Plus — kind of beautiful. Rosalind had a point, though. Abelard was self-contained. Maybe he hadn’t thought about me once since I’d kissed him in the office. And here I was thinking obsessively about him, imagining we had some sort of secret kinship just because ten years ago I hit him in the face with my lunchbox.

“I’m just saying, don’t construct an elaborate fantasy about him before you find out what’s really going on in his head,” Rosalind said. “Abelard is not like everyone else.”

“Neither am I.” Rosalind sighed.

“You know what I mean, Lily. Unlike Abelard, you can carry on a conversation —”

“Almost like a normal person,” I interrupted. “You are a normal person,” she said.

I kind of loved that Rosalind thought there was nothing wrong with me that couldn’t be cured by regular helpings of wheatgrass shots and a little extra understanding. This was why she was my best friend — but it bothered me to hear her say Abelard was not like everyone else. Broken.

Whether she admitted it or not, I was also not like everyone else. Why be polite — why not just say “broken”?

I am a proud Broken American. There. I’ve said it. 

CHAPTER FOUR

Normally I leave school each afternoon like I’m running the bulls at Pamplona. Not that afternoon. I went to the bathroom and fought for space at the mirror with the girls who did their makeup.  I  brushed  my hair  in the corner, but then one of the mirror regulars, a raccoon-eyed blonde named Montana Jordan or Jordan Montana, took pity  on me.

“Here.” She waved me to a free spot in the mirror. I touched up my base and put on some lip gloss.

“You should really sclur your blash,” Montana Jordan/ Jordan Montana said. Her voice echoed noisily against the bathroom tile. “Screeb pretty.”

“Sure,” I replied. Screeb pretty. That was me.

“Sclur your blashes,” she said, holding out an eyelash curler.

“Oh.” Curl my eyelashes. My brain took the visual cue and made sense of the words. “No thanks. I’m on my way to detention. Coach Neuwirth.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror — a slight bump on the bridge of my nose, skeptical green eyes. My wavy brown hair already starting to look like my time with the brush had been an exercise in futility. I couldn’t see how curly eyelashes would be much of an improvement.

“Really?” she said. “Me too.”

And then she went back to curling her eyelashes.

*** 

Abelard was already in detention when I arrived. The only other people in the room were Richard Hernandez from my algebra class and Rogelio. An emo boy I didn’t know wandered in after me.

I dropped my backpack on the floor and sat at the desk in front of Abelard, my heart pounding. Coach Neuwirth could show up at any moment. I turned around and faced Abelard before my heart rate settled.

“Okay,” I said. Extraneous hand movement. I do this when I’m nervous. “Why did you take the blame for break- ing the wall when it wasn’t just your fault? Because my mom said that your mom told the vice principal that you said you were to blame.”

I stopped because I’d run out of breath. Also — tortured sentence.

Abelard looked up. His eyes were a clearer, deeper shade of blue than I had remembered. He looked away.

“And when I hit you with the lunchbox in first grade, you never told anyone, but you probably should have. It wasn’t like we were really friends or anything —”

“You came to my house,” Abelard said in a surprisingly loud voice.

Tectonic shift of the earth’s crust, a realignment of everything. Abelard and I had a prior history, a reason I’d felt a natural connection between us. I wished I remembered.

“You came to my house,” Abelard repeated. “I was five. We watched Pokémon together. You insisted Charizard was a dragon, not a lizard.”

I’ve had an obsession with dragons ever since Dad read me The Poetic Edda. There’s a dragon in Norse mythology who chews on the roots of the tree of life. A bad thing, right? But my father contended that without the dragon, the tree of life would become overgrown and eventually choke itself out of existence. My personal spirit animal — the destructive dragon.

“Because — fire-breathing,” I said. “I mean, hello, dragon?”

Abelard blinked.

“Char — lizard, Charizard,” he said slowly. “Etymology.” Beside us Richard and Rogelio switched their conversa- tion seamlessly from English to Spanish. Should have been a hint, but I was too excited to pay attention. A rustling

noise at the front of the room and throat clearing. “Turn around.”

“Oh, you did not just play the Pokémon etymology card,” I said, experiencing a rush of word-borne feels. More fun words than I’d had in a long time. “Dragons are everything! It’s a dragon who nibbles on the roots of the tree of life, because otherwise —”

“Miss Michaels-Ryan! Turn around!” a voice boomed. “Stop pestering Mr. Mitchell.”

Pestering. I was pestering. A word invented by teach- ers to mean “bothering” but sounding infinitely worse, like something you’d get arrested for doing in a movie theater.

I swiveled, and Coach Neuwirth locked eyes on me. I felt my stomach flop, but at that moment Rogelio muttered something hilarious in Spanish. Rogelio is a natural-born confrontation clown, one of those guys who always have to get the last word in. It didn’t help Coach Neuwirth’s mood that the last word was in Spanish.

“We’re going to break up your little party,” Coach Neuwirth said. “Mr. Mondragon, please move next to Mr. Kreuz, Miss Michaels-Ryan, next to Mr. Hernandez.”

I moved back a row next to Richard Hernandez. Abelard turned sideways in his chair and stared out the window. The room went quiet, unearthly quiet. Montana Jordan/Jordan Montana slid soundlessly into the  room and took a seat across from the emo boy. Coach Neuwirth glared at her from his desk.

“Nidhogg,” Abelard said in a voice that cut through the thick stillness. “Yggdrasil.”

Nidhogg — the dragon.  Yggdrasil — the tree of  life. I didn’t remember the names from Norse mythology, but Abelard did. Abelard, my secret cartoon-watching friend from a childhood I didn’t quite remember. Abelard, who knew Norse mythology and the finer points of gear mainte- nance. Was there anything he didn’t know?

***

Detention was pretty boring. Half an hour later, I’d fin- ished my homework. I hadn’t eaten my lunch, and I was hungry and tired, too burnt to read. There was nothing to do.

Richard Hernandez sat at the desk next to me, draw- ing. I leaned over, expecting to see badly drawn girls with gravity-defying breasts, motorcycles, guns — the standard Grand Theft Auto love letter to chaos and faceless sex. The stuff boys draw.

Instead, Richard was drawing Abelard. Abelard with a three-quarter profile, his right cheekbone illuminated by sunlight streaming in from the window. Richard had drawn the barest line of a mouth and was filling in the details of Abelard’s chin, muscles in his jaw shaded diagonally from top left to bottom right.

The only part of the picture Richard had finished was Abelard’s eyes. He’d perfectly captured the way Abelard’s dark blue eyes held the light, the open, almost mystical quality of his gaze.

I glanced at Abelard and felt a strange thrill in the pit of my stomach. There was something otherworldly about him. It wasn’t my imagination — Richard saw it too.

Richard finished Abelard’s chin and moved to his hair. “Wow,” I murmured.

Richard wrapped his right arm around his picture to shield it from my view and looked up. He had close-set, intelligent eyes and dark hair in a Caesar cut.

“That’s really good,” I whispered. Good was an insuf- ficient word for his drawing, like telling a rock star his music was nice. I felt a little stupid about that, but what could I do? Drugs kill thought — even the happy, helpful drugs.

“Shhh . . .” Coach Neuwirth hissed. “Thanks,” Richard mouthed silently.

Richard returned to drawing, and I continued to watch. Minutes passed while he sketched in rapid, assured move- ments. It was calming, watching Richard, as soothing as a lullaby. I almost forgot that I was hungry and that the skin over my skull was beginning to crawl and itch.

One of the basketball players came by to talk to Coach Neuwirth. They stepped out into the hall, and I leaned over toward Richard.

“You’re left-handed — like me. Also Leonardo da Vinci,” I whispered. “You shade in the same direction — top left to bottom right. Do you know they think da Vinci was dyslexic?”

I held my hands out to visualize this, making the clas- sic L for loser with my left hand. Kindergarten tricks. They never get old. 

“You’re making that up,” Richard said. “How could anybody know?”

“I’m not making it up. I saw it on Nova. Da Vinci wrote letters backwards and misspelled words. Classic dyslexic tendencies. I should know. I’m dyslexic, too.”

“No you’re not.” Richard looked up, his close-set eyes in a savage frown. “You can read.”

Richard said the word read with the naked bitterness I usually reserve for the terms late slip or instruction sheet. Dyslexia. You can pass for normal for a while, but even- tually the anger gives you away. The monster will out. I decided I liked Richard.

“Yes, I’m totally normal,” I replied. “That’s why I’ve been in the same algebra class with you for two years running.”

“But I see you reading all the time. You always have a book —”

“I hear talking,” Coach Neuwirth boomed.

Richard startled at the sound of Coach Neuwirth’s voice. His pencil slipped, and the picture of Abelard floated off the desk, slid across the floor, and landed face-up in front of Rogelio Mondragon.

Richard froze, a stricken look on his face.

Coach Neuwirth was in the hall talking, his back half turned but still in the line of sight. I eased out of my seat in a crouch and moved slowly toward the picture, hoping to snatch it before Rogelio noticed.

I was too slow. Rogelio spotted the picture and grabbed it. He glanced at Abelard and back to the picture as his expression changed from perplexed to positively gleeful. It was as though he’d found a secret love letter, ready-made for a million stupid jokes. Someone was going to be made to suffer in both English and Spanish. Rogelio scanned the room, searching for his victim.

At the exact moment Rogelio’s eyes settled on me, Coach Neuwirth strode down the aisle and ripped the pic- ture out of Rogelio’s hands.

“Whose picture is this?” Coach Neuwirth demanded. Richard looked a little sick.

“It’s mine.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Lies are like that sometimes.

Coach Neuwirth held the picture and examined it care- fully.

“So, this is your boyfriend?” Coach Neuwirth chuckled. “Pretty good likeness of our friend Abelard here.”

Hard to determine who he was trying to humiliate at this juncture, Abelard for being unlikely boyfriend mate- rial, or me for being, well, me. Sometimes I think Coach Neuwirth lets the cruelty fly randomly just to see who might get hit.

Abelard turned to look at me briefly. I couldn’t tell whether he was horrified, embarrassed, or intrigued that Coach Neuwirth just told the whole world he was my boy- friend. I looked away.

Coach Neuwirth handed the picture to me.

“Put it away, Ms. Michaels-Ryan,” Coach Neuwirth said.

I folded the drawing of Abelard and slipped it into my book.

 ***

In the afternoon when I returned home, the picture fell out of my book. Abelard, beautiful and distant. Richard Hernandez’s own version of the Mona Lisa, a mystery for the ages. Abelard, no doubt named for Peter Abelard from the twelfth-century text The Letters of Abelard and Heloise. Strange.

I drew a thought bubble over his head and wrote the words I am Abelard, medieval French philosopher and time traveler. I have come to the future on a quest for love and beauty, but find only the barren wasteland that is high school. My tra- vails are for not!

I stuck the picture on the bulletin board and collapsed on my bed, empty. I opened my book, a novel about a girl on the run with her brilliant, eccentric father. After three pages, I quit reading, because I didn’t care what happened with the father’s new girlfriend or the daughter’s desire to go to a normal school for more than three months at a time. My head had begun that drug-fueled end-of-the- day descent, circling the empty runway of a town called Apathy.

I put my book away.

My sister came into our bedroom.

Iris is in seventh grade. Tall like me, brown eyes to my green. Same wavy brown hair, same bump on the bridge of her nose. Iris doesn’t seem to have inherited my moth- er’s large breasts like I have. She wishes that she had my breasts, but she is wrong about this.

Iris attends the Liberal Arts, Math, and Engineering Academy — LAMEA, or LAME as everyone calls it. She is the perfect student, equally adept at the long-form essay and robotics, and building musical instruments out of found objects. Found objects are a big part of the curricu- lum at LAME.

For someone with such a full curricular life, Iris has an overdeveloped interest in my activities. Like being me has a 1950s-motorcycle-and-leather-bomber-jacket sort of glam- our for her, because she has never tasted the fruits of failure. I could tell her that living outside the lines is not all that, but she probably wouldn’t listen anyway.

“What are you doing?” Iris said. “Nothing.”

“Who is that?” She leaned over the picture of Abelard, studying it with the dreamy intensity she usually reserves for K-pop stars with ice-blond dyed hair and too much mascara.

“No one,” I replied. “A kid at my school. His name is Abelard.”

“He’s adorable,” she said.

“No.” I stared at the picture. “Well, yes, he is.”

I thought about my impulsive kiss, and my heart flopped in protest. Continued exposure to the sight of Abelard’s faraway eyes was unfair.

“It’s dinnertime,” Iris said. “Mom told me to tell you.” “Not hungry,” I replied.

“Mom made a really good salad. We’ve got Supernatural cued up.”

Supernatural. Salad. These are the things we do together, eat salads and watch Supernatural because all three of us, Mom, me, and Iris, think those guys are hot. Iris likes the taller baby-faced one, but Mom and I prefer the deep- voiced snarky brother. It’s like a miracle, Mom says, to find such transgenerational hotness on TV.

This was our familial idea of a good time. It meant nothing to me at that moment — good TV, hot guys in a seventies ride, salad.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll just lie here and listen to the inside of my skull buzz.”

Iris wandered off. I played Candy Crush on my phone until I saw little orange and blue striped candies exploding on the insides of my eyelids when I closed them, and still it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough pleasure, not enough light or color to fill the emptiness of my brain. It didn’t feel good or fun, but it was motion of a kind. If I stopped playing, I would realize that there were no thoughts left in my head and I was truly alone. This was what happened when my ADHD medicine wore off. This was why I hated drugs.

*** 

I left the picture of Abelard in my room, thinking I would show it to Rosalind over lunch. But when I packed my stuff up for school in the morning, the picture was gone. This didn’t surprise me in the least. Most pieces of paper I come into contact with disappear suddenly and without reason. It’s just the way it is.

******

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[abeliangrouper-blog]

current novel workings (to be built on during the  17 day challenge)

I once again begin my ritual. I start with my linen collared shirts I received for my 16th birthday. I carefully lay all three of them on the bed, folding the sleeves over the middle of each shirt. I then grab the bottom of the shirt and aligned the bottom of the shirt with the shoulders of the shirt. I press each fold to make sure each shirt won't wrinkle. After stacking those three shirts and placing them to the side, I organize the rest of my belongings. I didn't bring many things to boarding school with me, so I have developed a consistent methodology for packing my things. After the collared shirts, I bundle all my socks and underwear in a pouch, fold my terry brown wool suit, and organize each shoe with its counterpart next to my trunk. My t-shirts, sweaters, and shorts go in the trunk first, followed by my trainers, penny loafers, and hiking boots. Then goes the collared shirts, pouch of under garments, and lastly my suit. I then proceed to whirlwind around the room, grabbing miscellaneous belongings and shoving them in the trunk. A small bundle of old letters from my father, a pocket watch, and two battered copies of Plato's Symposium. Here is also where I act against entropy, and remove whatever junk I have accumulated over the past few months. I also throw in my uniforms for school and other less-than-noteworthy articles. I've been a student here -- or rather, I've been traveling from bunk to bunk -- for the past 10 years. My father sent me to Rhython Sut's Prepatory Academy as a way to get me out of his hair. Why he would want to get rid of his 7 year old child escapes me, to be honest. I haven't seen him since I left. He sent letters a few times, but those stopped after the first few years. It doesn't affect me much anymore; at this point I accept that I'm on my own. With the exception of Tom, no one has ever seemed to show true empathy with regards to well-being. After packing my trunk, I head down to the main dining hall for supper before most of everyone else leaves for Christmas break. A standard schedule consists of spending a semester at the Academy, and then going home either for summer, winter, or exam study breaks. If you choose -- or have no choice but -- to stay, then you are permitted to live on campus, but must switch to your assigned room for the following term at the start of the break. So, I've been packing my trunk and switching rooms at the start of every break for the better part of a decade. One Christmas break I did go to my Grandmother's house in Devon, but she died the following Spring, and so that was the first and last time I left campus during break. For dinner they serve steamed potatoes with chives and sour cream, beef brisket, and black bean soup. They also serve a weird smelling stew, but I decide against trying it. It's better not to get adventurous during meal time. The dining hall has 3 thin, long tables with benches on either side that run the whole length of the hall. On one end is the counter facing the tables where the food is served. Behind that is the kitchen, where the food is 'cooked.' If you asked me what I thought of the food, I would say either edible or challenging, depending on if they served mystery mash-up that day. Nonetheless, a hot meal is a hot meal. Not something worth complaining about. --- December 14, 1973 This castle is full of hijackers of actors and backpackers of job-dodging slackers who find the need to self-medicate. This castle is lonely empty and hollow that gives me a bed and food, but not a home. This castle scares me has cobwebs and darkness has bullies and cliques has punches and tears. This castle it suffocates with headmasters and principals with discipline and rules with curfews and homework. But to be fair -- it's something: unlike my father. --- Sterile. Campus over break is like a movie set of a house for a sitcom, equipped with all the items that a typical house would have: a kitchen chalk full of useless but standard household gadgets, children's crayon drawings hanging on an off-white refrigerator, a bowl of fruit untouched and unbruised. And three walls and a film crew making sure the set-up's projection of a home is perfect and untainted. Sterile. However, an empty grounds affords me flexibility. I don't wait in line for food. I don't need to worry about crowded locker rooms and showers. I don't like public locker rooms much. They've been a bother to me since I've been here at the Academy. Anyways, during breaks, I spend time mostly reading and exercising. I am halfway through _____ by ______, where a [explain the plot in a way that a teenage boy would understand and find value from it]. Last term in Mathematics we learned parts of a book that summarizes Euclid's "Elements," and in American Literature we read Stephen Crane's "The Open Boat." Albeit lonely, I prefer schoolwork over team sports. I run from time to time, but watching the other boys play rugby and field hockey gives me more anxiety than excitement, so a while ago I decided to stick to my studies, and to running. --- The teacher begins the lesson with her back to the students. She has straight auburn hair that neatly falls between her shoulders blades down to the middle of her back. "Today we will be learning about two things. Finding the root of a number, and showing which roots of numbers are rational." the professor says. A student raises his hand impatiently and with a skeptical tapping of his pencil on the desk. He says "Whether a number is rational doesn't seem important -- shouldn't we care solely about the application of numbers? Otherwise it seems useless."

The professor rests the chalk on the lip of the bottom of the board and slowly turns around. 

"When I was in University, my older brother would work at a mechanic's shop working on engines. He'd got to class until the early evening, and then spend 3 to 4 hours a day working at this shop. He had always loved engines, and wanted to build them. As soon as he got there, he wanted to work the engines of the coolest sports cars: Mustangs, Jaguars, Corvettes -- this was an American car mechanic shop mind you -- but he didn't even look at a whole engine for almost a year." She lightly walks to the right, resting her hand on the corner of her desk. "His mentor at the shop made him spend every day first learning the layout of the shop, and then about the tools they had available. He'd every day learning about tools, practicing assembly and disassembly of small parts, and reading manuals. He felt more like he was in a classroom than working. He'd show up to work, read a manual for a power tool for an hour, and then perform simple tasks repeatedly until he felt comfortable." The student interjects "If he wanted to work on engines his mentor should've just let him do that." Delicately, "My point is that before you can touch an engine, you must first become acquainted with and develop skills with the tools you have at your disposal. Now let's begin with proving if a root of a number is irrational." I never really speak in class. In this instance I agreed with the professor; I care about learning the why before moving forward with doing things. That's part of what bothers me with my father. He never gave me anything that could even be mistaken for an explanation. I was sent away, and that's about all there is to it. --- There is a large iron fence that surrounds the whole premises; it's about twelve feet tall, with spikes that prevent people from climbing over. At the gate entrance, there is a large gravel pathway leading up to the main building. There are also two smaller paths at either side that shoot off to the left or right (and wrap around the premises just inside the fence). There are a few groundskeepers that live in the far left corner of the compound. They each have a small one-room cabin, equipped with a small furnace and stovetop, a sink, small bathroom, and a single bed all in the same room. Each unit also has a tiny attic with an oval window that faces the backside of the house -- away from the courtyard that lies in the middle of the units -- where the small gardens are. I sometimes walk over and sit on the bench. I like checking in on the growing fruit. As you walk up the main path, there are petunia beds on either side surrounded by oval-shaped hedges, which are neatly manicured. The grass is a sharp green and also cut very short -- it mildly resembles a golf course. The smells of freshly cut grass and insect pesticide abound without fail. There is also a small fountain on your left as you get close to the main door, which boasts a staple figure of the Academy: Rhython Sut. Sergeant Sut -- he served in the Royal Air Force in his youth -- created the Academy in the thirties after the prohibition in America. He procured a pile of cash smuggling rum through Cuba, a country south of the States, and got away scot-free -- although I doubt the same is true for those he worked with during that time. That's about all I know about Rhython and how the Academy came to be. The main building of the Academy itself is quite impressive. Tall, strong oak doors boast as the main entrance; wide concrete pillars guard both to the left and right. Three tall spires crouch perched atop the main building. They make me a bit dizzy look at them so I try not to. The building is a terracotta style brick and the walls are blanketed on the lower halves with ivory. Apart from the fact that I have had no say on where I get to grow up, I like the scenery that surrounds me. In the main building are the dining hall, the classrooms, the faculty offices, and other rooms that are 'forbidden' or 'out of bounds.' I don't bother myself with breaking into those rooms anymore, as most of the time it ends up with someone talking my ear off and a sequence of dutifully timed nods. To the left of the main building is the dormitory building, where both boys and girls sleep and study. This building is a long, thin and tall, with many windows. It's a bit newer than the main structure, as its predecessor was burned down about 20 years ago. No one was harmed, though. On the right side of the compound almost immediately after entering through the gates are the sports grounds. There are many fields organized neatly for rugby, field hockey, football, and cricket. Since the age groups for students at the Academy span from 6 to 18, there are different divisions of sports: ages 6-8, ages 9-11, ages 12-15, ages 16-18. Today is the first day of Christmas break. After moving my trunk to my new room 4L16 -- the fourth floor of the dormitory on the left side room number 15 -- I spent the morning walking around the Academy. ------------------ I'm absolutely terrified of stagnating. I spend a considerable portion of my mental energy considering whether I have been filling out the framework of expectations I have slowed constructed for myself, or if I have just been improving my ability to convince myself I'm doing as such -- all of this to maintain some kind of fragile self-perception. Am I legitimately growing as a person in my ability to think critically, cope with defeat, and communicate ideas, or I have I just found a detour to the same flavour of ignorance? I wish there were an easy way to evaluate myself. ---------------- “I just finished this book ______ the other day. Have you read it? _____ is quite intriguing. The language he uses seems to leave so much implicit. It's as though he has created a path of stepping stones across a big, dark lake, but has placed them as far apart as he could manage -- knowing precisely how far we can stretch to move forward. Oddly, one of the main characters reminds me in some ways of myself, and in other ways, of you. Isn't that interesting?” I nod and smile at him when he talks at me. It's too much trouble to do anything else, and I find this sentiment a bit frustrating. A novel’s upshot evokes a shared experience -- that's the whole point. He's not special -- _____ is just talented. Why do people always fucking make it about themselves? Evidently, I don't ask him this question. -------------------

NOTE: Some of these sections are just ideas I’ve partially jotted down; the ordering of these is definitely not polished by any means. 

[wordsturnintostories]

9/ Remnants of Time

Chapter 8 | ... | Chapter 10

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.394 Song Choice: Graven Image by Zack Hemsey Special a/n: My Mom is in the hospital at the moment and I can’t promise to update this fic regularly since the household stuff is pretty demanding. I would love to hear from you guys instead, just go to my Ask Box and tell me what you like best about this fic or reblog and comment if a scene touched you emotionally or just idk, just tell me anything you want about this fic. :)

Janet had waited for this opportunity. Ever since the examination team had sent her all the files and photos from that damned apartment in Cologne, the task force leader had been working on her own to find any clues. Well, together with her assistant Neesa. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing here. Four of her men had died in there, trying to understand what Romanoff and Rogers were up to, why the Russian was targeting CIA agents. Janet wasn’t just curious anymore, this investigation felt like a duty that had crossed the line to becoming a personal matter. In the past, a relocation would’ve hindered her from digging, but now the unit’s leader was clinging to these files she’d grabbed hastily before hailing a cab to the airport. Nothing would stop her from researching this case, even if her suspicions and results had to remain in her own head, to be treated with an exceptional level of confidentiality. And bingo, she’d been rewarded for her endurance. But, against her expectations, it hadn’t been the lab results that had supplied her with the answer to the mystery. The autopsy results were much more surprising and revealed very clearly that none of the four agents had died in the wake of an accident. That sounded really ridiculous now, actually. Janet jumped when she heard a sound from the door. Quickly, but not suspiciously fast, she shuffled her papers into a pile and hid them inside her jacket. She angled her arms close to her torso so everything would stay in place. If this was Colin or even Lomawu, she couldn’t risk anything.

But it was Neesa who stepped into the silent room, carrying two cappuccinos and a brown manila folder. Janet released a breath. She knew the importance of keeping this little investigation secret from her task force co-leader, but Neesa had been a major help and Janet wasn’t sure how to thank her for her support. Even if that was her job as an assistant. “Thanks“, she mumbled when Neesa put the cappuccino down and the assistant nodded, sending a quick look over the table. She smiled, “It took me an hour and three lies, but I copied our last mission files. Find anything new yet?“ “I’m working on it. But I noticed something strange. I’ve never seen this before. Look, every corpse has an almost identical wound in the upper ribcage, right between two ribs. Very small hole, but if you stick something into the wound and follow the canal, you end up straight in the victim’s heart.” “That is strange”, Neesa agreed. “Have they checked tissue samples?” “They didn’t find anything Here comes the strangest thing: There is no bullet. Also, this isn’t your typical bullet wound.” She held up the photos, pointing out the little wounds in the pale flesh of the dead CIA agents. Neesa nodded. “Yeah, it’s smaller and there is no exit wound. But are there holes in the clothing?“ “Yes.“ “And in the windows?” “No. So we’re dealing with an attack from inside the room. Plus, I’m pretty sure these wounds weren’t caused by an ordinary firearm.“ “Have they examined tissue samples?” “Tearing, but nothing else. No traces of toxins or any known substances. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for the hole.” Both women stood quietly for a moment, thinking about all the facts they had gathered so far. Neesa’s face lit up. “What about that attacker from the bridge in Cologne?“ She shuffled through her folder, searching for the photo on her mind that she knew had to be in here. “What do you mean?” “Look. On the back of the military agent who attacked Steve Rogers. That Hydra operative.” “You think he’s Hydra.” “Of course he’s Hydra. Who else wants Captain America’s head?” “We do? As far as I can remember, his head is pretty far up Ross’ list.” “Fine. Hydra or not, check the photo. On the back.” “Looks like a… dark stick.” “It’s a blowpipe. I built one myself when I visited a summer camp as a teenager. There are versions issued by foreign military units, but they’re not a common weapon for a reason. Shooters have to be very skilled to actually achieve precise hits. And even then, you can’t create as much force as a gun can.“ “Precision. How precise can a skilled user be?“ Neesa pointed at the photos of the autopsy report. “With a military blowpipe? As precise as a shot between the ribs and into the heart.“ “Okay. So, if we assume, and it’s only a far-fetched assumption so far, that the unknown attacker, who we think belongs to Hydra, killed our four agents, the Black Widow would be off the hook. Great. We need more than just proof to actually have anyone listen to us.“ “And we need to figure out the motives of the Hydra asset. Why would he kill our agents? If he wants Rogers, we’re after the same thing.“ Henderson nodded, walking back and forth as if that could her brain to work faster. Thankfully, no one would enter this level of the multistoried building that was only used by the owners on the first three levels. The CIA had occupied the fifth, so Neesa and her should remain unnoticed on the fourth. Suddenly a thought struck the woman who was sure that solving the riddle could include a promotion that would mean she could finally leave Colin Whittaker behind. He was no help. And, as always, he stood opposed to listening to her, seeing how she was so much younger and quieter than him. “What if Steve Rogers is just running for his own life? What if that fight on the bridge wasn’t the first time that Hydra soldier has attacked him? What if that is the reason that he resurfaced at all?“ “That sounds legitimate. He was running in Paris.“ “Exactly. Can you check if the asset was there? At the station, Gare du Nord?“ Neesa checked the filed reports. “There is not a single mention in the report or the communication transcripts, so I’m guessing no.“ Henderson walked over to her assistant, examining the communications transcript. This was from before, when Colin had seized his opportunity and taken this mission from her. “Why is there a pause in communications?“ “Where?“ “Right here, the field agent asks for Instructions for the local asset? and four minutes later, someone in the operations says We located the Falcon’s phone. Four minutes is a long pause. The instructions are missing.“ “That means that either there was a disturbance in communications someone is trying to cover something up. It’s always one of the two, Janet, you know that.“ “Okay, that means this really has to stay between us. Whoever is involved with this can’t find out. The transcript states that we had intel that Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson were gonna be there. Do we know anything more specific?“ “Not really. The report says that there had been an anonymous informant who… well, informed us the night before.“ “Anonymous means he wasn’t trying to blackmail us with that. Wow. I call that a wasted opportunity. That means the informant either wasn’t interested in money or just really couldn’t risk being exposed.“ “But who would know that Rogers was going to be there? Even we didn’t have a clue about his whereabouts.“ Neesa scrunched her nose. The CIA knew a lot, but every underground search for Steve Rogers in the past six months had been without results.  Janet tensed up. Steps were audible from the hallway and she stuffed all the photos, reports and transcripts into a folder as fast as she could. The door opened.

Mr. Lomawu stepped in, clad in a neat blue suit. His eyes fell onto the two agents, then on the empty hall. His smile turned into confusion. “Where did our office go all of the sudden?“ He came closer, just close enough the notice the two folders on the table. Janet prayed he didn’t see anything suspicious. She grabbed her cappuccino that was still half-full. Neesa smiled back and pointed at the ceiling. “You’re on the wrong level. The office is on the five. We should all go there, actually. Hopefully, Whittaker has some good news for us.“ “What were you two doing down here?“ Janet and Neesa exchanged looks, both wrecking their minds for a plausible excuse. “That must’ve been intense if finding an answer is that hard. Forgot I asked“, he chuckled, “I’m not sure if I’m ready for that much commitment this early in the morning.“ The women almost simultaneously sent him a nervous smile and as soon as the lift stopped, seized their opportunity to escape and bring their prized files to safety. Work called and they soon found their way to avoid Mr. Lomawu for the most part, at least until the team briefing.

One shot. One bullet. Was all it took to drown the world in a deafening silence. Waves of inaudible roars brushed over everyone in the room. Everyone on the floor. The thud of a single body crushing, hitting the ground. The loudest sound of them all, realization. Not the shot. The shot came without any noise, drowned the world in thick, damp sullenness. But realization hit the team like thunder. The realization that, while they had done their best to follow orders, to protect the world, they themselves were exposed. And now, they paid, they sacrificed. Another agent.

Neesa opened the door to the hallway leading to the office, still talking to Colin, reminding him to share their new findings about the Remnant with Janet. As her assistant, Neesa was glad these two had finally found peace. This morning, Colin had smiled at her, even done her a favor. Maybe it lasted only for this operation, but hopefully longer. Maybe they could even figure this hijacked operation out. But who knew how deeply he was involved. And Janet hadn’t been the same after the fight she’d had with Colin. As siblings, they should’ve worked something out, but well, that wasn’t really Neesa’s job. She wouldn’t meddle, only encourage. After all, Janet and Colin had gone through so much, lost their father tragically, and they could be a great team if they would want to find a way. Their new ally, Mr. Lomawu, trailed behind them. He’d attended the briefing with them and had been assigned with a task. Neesa was on edge every time the Wakandan was around, but she took all her professionalism together and didn’t let him see behind her façade. Janet and she had worked too hard on uncovering whatever game was being played here. As authority holder of a foreign government, it was none of his business anyway.

Colin nodded at what Neesa said, agreeing with her on the proposed line of action. The dark-skinned girl smiled kindly and opened the door to the office for him. He stepped in and she followed. His senses were on alarm right away. It was way too quiet here and someone was sobbing. What was going on? Neesa, at his side, screamed behind her hand. Then, she began to run towards something - Oh God, that was a corpse - but Colin grabbed her hand. “Sniper“, he whispered. “Maybe he’s still out there.“ “How are you so calm?“ Neesa had tears in her eyes, despite her training, despite her field experience. She’d seen corpses, blood and headshots, but never of people she cared about. “We need to find Janet. Make sure she gets the team on this.“ “Colin. This is Janet.“ He froze. What? What!? His eyes widened, his blood froze. He’d agreed with Lawrence that they’d have to get her out of action for their deal to work. But he never meant- No. That couldn’t have been his friend’s doing. “No“, he whispered, to himself, while fighting the emotions to take over his body. His heart beat fast right now and he felt dizzy. Janet. It was her, clearly. Her red hair splayed over the floor. Her beautiful cream blazer ruined, stained. She was gone. Carefully staying in the cover of the office desks, he crouched closer to his dead sister. No. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind, bumping into each other until all he heard and knew was a terrible scream, raw and painful. I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I still loved you. I just - I’m so sorry. Janet, my sweet little sister. Forgive me. For everything.

Blood had soaked through the fabric on his knees, but Whittaker didn’t care. There would be dark stains, reminding him forever of the last moment with her. Where he finally kneeled. And pleaded for forgiveness. Where it tore his heart apart to see her this way, dead and quiet. Where only the idea of her person was left. And no, not one of his words, the words he still had left for her, the words still stuck inside of him, unspoken, would matter now. She was dead. And it was his fault. They’d provoked the Black Widow. If all this was her - then God help him, he’d not relent until she stood before him, where he could look her in the eyes and show her what it meant to take a life. To put a burden so heavy onto someone that she’d know forever that freedom wasn’t gonna be a part of her life anymore. She’d pay for his sister’s death. But if this was Lawrence’s business, if he’d waited for a moment where Whittaker wouldn’t witness the cruelty that spies were known for, the man could prepare for a storm that would rip him apart. Because, treason, that was fine for the amount of money included in the deal, but his sister, no matter how much hate had been exchanged between them, was untouchable.

Colin stood up, only the trace of tears clouding his eyes. A fiery determination filled his body. “Lawrence, would you please come with me?“ Whittaker didn’t even wait for the answer, he just pulled the Wakandan with him. As soon as the door closed behind him, he started firing. “Explain this to me, Lawrence“, he growled, “what does it mean? My sister is dead.“ The dark skinned man raised his hands in defense. His eyes were calm. He knew Colin, had been his friend for a long time. But he didn’t let his feelings and personal attachments get in the way with this mission, just like he had promised to Zola. This was more important, but still, lying to an old friend didn’t feel good. Lomawu pushed it away, played the game Colin was starting to suspect. He’d need to appear serious and credible. “I’m really sorry about what happened.“ “I gotta know“, Colin said angrily, stepping closer and into his companion’s private space. “Was it you? Was it your asset, the Remnant? No one saw it coming. Just like you promised when we made the deal.“ Yes, the Remnant had killed Janet, but Lawrence knew that she hadn’t left any traces. She never did. And Colin hadn’t seen the little wound between the ribs. No one saw it at the first glance, not even at the second or third. Lawrence was safe with his lie. The past week’s events were enough to conjure up a suspicion in Colin’s mind that would lead him away from Hydra’s path and onto Romanoff’s tail. Janet had come so close to figuring it all out, together with her assistant, the little incident this morning had shown him that. Of course, Lawrence knew where their office was, but he’d needed to play the innocent while figuring out how much they knew. But Colin, well, Colin wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure what to believe. Had placed a foot on both sides, the CIA and Hydra. He just didn’t know. Lawrence could work with that. It wouldn’t take much to lead his friend to the right trail.

“Colin, look at me. How long have we been together? I went through all the valleys with you, carried your burdens and conflicts. My loss is your loss. Has always been, will always be.“ Well, not if Colin found out. But he wouldn’t. If the Black Widow, Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson were finally dead, not a single secret would come to the surface. And Bucky Barnes? The Winter Soldier never spilled secrets. As soon as they had him back, Zola would get back to perfecting him. “Do you really believe I would send an asset, an assassin, to kill your sister while I am in your office, able to talk to her directly, or even your director? I could use two hundred other ways to get her out of here, off the mission, off the unit. T'Challa would have my head for this.“ But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even know, was gonna think Lawrence died. Wouldn’t care, just like with his father. He hadn’t before. “Your king? You were furious when his father rejected your anointing as leader of your intelligence commando. You hate him.“ “But still I am loyal. He is not his father.“ It didn’t matter who the king was, really, Zola had taught him how they were all the same. Yes, T’Chaka hadn’t granted him the official and traditional ceremony as the introduction to one of the highest positions in the government. Yes, that had been deeper than just a kick in the gut. And Lomawu had sworn to have revenge for that dishonor. Colin mustered his face. “You’re not the same either. You hated him for it with a burning rage, I remember that. We met for coffee, before a conference, when you told me. How no one appreciated your choice to find out how the world worked before serving your country. Although you had studied abroad to serve Wakanda. They just didn’t see that; they hated you for being different.“ Lomawu swallowed, just like he’d swallowed all the hate and the shame back then. It had brewed deep inside of him, back then, and the boiling soup had bubbled up when he met Alexander Pierce. He smiled. He had been lucky to meet Pierce. To have met Zola, who was a genius thought dead. Who had a vision greater than T’Challa had a nation. “I forgave him, Colin. Even these enhanced people are just humans.“ It surprised Lawrence how easy these words flowed from his mouth. The more lies he told, the calmer he became. He was better at this than he’d thought, Colin believed him. It was all for the greater good. “Does your offer still stand? Your special task force, is it still ready?“, Colin asked. He’d make this a kill mission, he’d send them after the Black Widow. “Yes. As soon as we have a location, I can send them in.“ “This better be worth the 40k you promised me. Let’s do this.“ Lomawu nodded. 

Everything happened according to the plan. With Colin’s wish for his special team, he finally had the go on sending them out. They’d go after the Black Widow, yes, but Colin had no idea who this team consisted of. Barton, Maximoff, and Lang would never kill Romanoff, but they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the Remnant on his order, on T’Challa’s order. Not if they were sure she was not at all like their Bucky. And she wasn’t. Sure, she was a killer like him, merciless and obedient, but right now, she was his bait. This had all been much easier than he’d hoped for. Basically, he was only acting on commands, always had hidden safeties. He was telling a few lies. But his reward would be great.

Masterlist

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