#also please god someone GET US OUT OF NORMANDY

[historyherstory]

.

[dovahbee]

NORMANDY SR2 INFO BOARD HOLIDAY EDITION

[NEW MESSAGES AS OF 12:09]

12:09- XO. LAWSON: Good afternoon. As all of you know, it’s the winter holiday season on earth. I would like to invite @all to the starboard deck for a cultural exchange at 14:00 for anyone interested in learning about human winter traditions.

-

REMINDERS:

- Candy canes are NOT weapons. ALSO they are a privilege, not a right.

- Mistletoe (the greenery hanging from the roof) is NOT edible.

- Mess Sergeant Gardner is dressing up as Santa Clause; if you see a man with a white beard and red clothing DO NOT OPEN FIRE.

- Menorahs are NOT edible.

- Hot chocolate is HOT. Human skin is sensitive. For the love of god, just be responsible.

-

Happy Holidays. See you there.

12:10- FLT. MOREAU: seriously

12:10- LT. TAYLOR: how stupid do you think we are?

12:10- CHF. ZORAH: yayyy happy holidays! merry christmas, happy hanukkah, joyous kwanzaa, feliz navidad, gung hay fat choy!!! am i saying those right??

12:10- GO. VAKARIAN: someone did research last night

12:10- LC. SHEPARD: goddamn it, did grunt eat another menorah?

12:11- SPEC. JACK: im pretty sure mistletoe is edible. i mean it’s a plant, right?

12:11– SPEC. MASSANI: good goddamn point

12:11- SPEC. GRUNT: will there be food other than the roof salad

12:11- LC. SHEPARD: i would like to point out— candy canes absolutely are weapons. i dropped a guy with one once.

12:11- XO. LAWSON: Not helping, Shepard.

12:11- SPEC. GRUNT: noodles please

12:11- SPEC. KRIOS: Impressive, Commander.

12:11– SPEC. GRUNT: please teach me battlemaster

12:12– LC. SHEPARD: gladly. just suck on the tip until it’s pointy then ram it in the jugular. should work for humans, turians, drell, quarians, batarians, hanar (probably?) and vorcha. it’s messy as hell but satisfying.

12:12- XO. LAWSON: That’s it. You’ve all lost your candy cane privileges.

12:12– DR. SOLUS: Wise decision. Shepard and Grunt safety hazards.

12:12- CHF. ZORAH: seriously??? You can’t punish all of us for shepard’s bloodlust

12:12- SPEC. GOTO: so let me get this straight, miri. you trust us with your life in a firefight, but not with candy canes during a Christmas party?

12:13- XO. LAWSON: a HOLIDAY party. and yes, that is correct.

12:13- LC. SHEPARD: i mean… it sorta seems fair. i trust vakarian on my six with an SR… but with a taser? absolutely not.

12:13- GO. VAKARIAN: i think LCs been shot in the head one too many times

12:13- LC. SHEPARD: not the point, numb nuts

12:13- SPEC. SAMARA: If Commander Shepard can safely operate a live firearm, she should be able to responsibly handle a sharp sucrose stick.

12:13- SPEC. GOTO: you’d think

12:13- LC. SHEPARD: i don’t know if i can. i just get this overwhelming urge to stab.

12:13- DR. CHAKWAS: Pushing your psych eval forward, LC.

12:13- GO. VAKARIAN: called it!

12:14- SPEC. MASSANI: so this party… do we get turkey dinner if we show?

12:14- SPEC. JACK: what the fuck is a turkey

12:14- XO. LAWSON: Dinner will be at 18:00, given Gardner has finished up. No turkey, just rations.

12:14- GO. VAKARIAN: Why the hell does Gardner look like that? [image.attachment_sergeant_santa_clause]

12:14- LC. SHEPARD: huh. looks like he was born for the role.

12:14- CHF. ZORAH: this seems… offensive. why did he stuff his pants and belly?

12:15- FLT. MOREAU: compensation, zorah

12:15- CHF. ZORAH: ohhhh

12:15– FLT. MOREAU: it’s not a real holiday party without booze @XO

12:15- XO. LAWSON: the LAST thing this crew needs is alcohol

12:15- LC. SHEPARD: [image.attachment_secret_candy_canes] jokes on you @XO i bought myself some on the citadel. knew you’d pull this crap.

12:15- XO. LAWSON: fine

12:15- LC. SHEPARD: this too [image.attachment_4.5L_bottle_vodka]

12:15- XO. LAWSON: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

[dukeoftheblackstar]

@continuous-spec I did not expect a good cry today but here I am, bawlin' freestyle.

In conclusion, if I ever want to feel true love that I so crave and have been starved with, this is sustenance. Please don't thank me for reading and reacting to this because all the thanks should only be one-sided, from those who have been fortunate enough to live in this world to have read this and bask in the beauty that is Garrus coming to terms with saying I love you for the first time.

Now I just need his dad to do it with me so I can die happy. Ktnxbye.

Allow me to just:

It had become a cycle for her: grind, stop breathing, snore. Even in sleep, Shepard couldn’t catch her breath.

I'm probably just being an emotional train wreck right now, but kicking off the fic to something relatable is just such a vibe. I love "little things" that don't scream angst, but you know it has that right pinch of hurt that you know is gonna linger and accentuate the rest of the points into here into something even more heartfelt and I was not wrong.

He read and took notes, analyzing the data for her- one less thing for her to grind her teeth about.

GARR-BEAR PLEASE.

Still, she found the time to pour paragraphs and paragraphs of herself into the messages she sent Garrus each day. As if she was trying to make up for the six months apart.

SHEPHARD PLEASE.

Each message was an excuse for her to give more of herself to him. And always signed just for him with -Love S.

BRI PLEASE (I'm sorry, I used your name.)

Garrus fell in love with Shepard as she hung from the Normandy airlock. On their final push on the Collector base, she barely made the jump. But he caught her. He held her suspended in the air, and she beamed a bright smile at him- all while gunfire surrounded them. Not that, in that moment, he allowed himself to recognize it as love.

I cannot stress how much I'm in love with how I felt this. Not because of how bad-ass scene in, but because of the ambiguity I see in it. It's that what the fuck am I feeling and why the fuck am I feeling it right now, but also why the fuck am I asking when I already know the answer? I wish I an articulate more about this because I'm not even following you. I just saw this on my recommends and I breeze past so much things, this caught my eye so much and I was cheesing for a good second before I start crying. Pussy, right? <- I did not expect to be drawn so much to it and I ended up reading something at the expense of burning my eyes (my eyes are healing) because I needed to know how it panned out, what this was.

This was the eye catcher, the soul stealer of this fic and I am just so in love right now over this.

He always expected the worst, that she’d leave. One quick fling, and she figured out she’d want something closer to home.

SEE? This. It's this shit right here, affectionately. I have this thing about 'home'. About someone being someone else's home. About being that place that is no one else's but there. It's where all things are laid bare, where you can sleep without worrying someone out to gun you down, or its that place where you can just sit in front of someone and not do anything, but never be made felt unloved or unneeded or unwanted. It's home.

But she kept coming back, kept assuring, kept peppering her love into each of her actions and words towards him. With each word she sent. She gave every piece of herself to him. Now, knowing that she would remain at his side through hell and back, a worse realization came to him: that if he said the words, he would lose her. This time, they wouldn’t have Cerebrus's funding to bring her back.

THE FEAR OF LOVE. AND I AM HYPERVENTILATING BECAUSE THIS IS MFKN ROOT OF IT ALL. THE HESITATION. THE RESTRAINT. THE SECRECY. THE ROOT OF THAT LIL GARR-BEAR CHUCKLE THAT WE ALL KNOW IS JUST FOR SHEP. THAT HEAD TURN. THAT LOOK. THAT EVERYTHING. THE I CAN'T LOVE YOU ENOUGH TO SHOW YOU MUCH I LOVE YOU BUT BY THE GODS, I WILL.

He caressed her face, not knowing when he'd get another chance to see her like this. But Shepard always looked so beautiful to him. Especially when she finally rested.

The much needed side of intimacy I like being "exploited" in fics as opposed to just smut and anything sexual, really. It's so tender I can make burgers with it. Goddamnit.

It’s late. Just got up for some water. You’re still asleep. Wanted to say how beautiful I think you are. -Love G

I saw so much art of this I just, you know? I can't even love Garrus properly anymore. I love him to such an unhealthy amount it's not even romantic. It's just protect this baby at all cost.

She at least deserved one message that didn’t ask anything of her. 

What a fucking end. Bra-fucking-vo!

Everything about this fic is pure, unadulterated, unconditional, raw love. The fact that it isn't intimating nor was it overwhelming of a read merits a spot on my list and bookmarked on my 'to feel good' folder under stressy-depressy-duchii [ Hi, I'm Duchii ♥ ].

This is the kind of fic that makes me, no — that requires a smoke right after and I'm only a super rare ciggie smoker. Not that I am promoting that, but what I'm trying to say is it's "that" good.

This, an absolute masterpiece.

ME Fic: Countless Messages

Summary: Garrus' first time saying I love you.

Links: Ao3

Length: 807

Garrus woke with a jolt as Shepard kicked his spur. The blinding pain almost had him wake her up until he noticed her curled to the side, thrashing her legs in anguish. He stood and grabbed two cups of water for them and sat on the side of the bed, massaging at her back.

Her teeth started to grind away as she held her breath, then soon followed by heavy snores. It had become a cycle for her: grind, stop breathing, snore. Even in sleep, Shepard couldn’t catch her breath.

Garrus worked his hand up to her hair, softly running his hands through until her jaw unclenched and her breath began to normalize. He continued to massage circles into her back and took the datapad of reports she had studied earlier.

Notifications began to pile up, reports and messages from the Alliance coming in full fury. He read and took notes, analyzing the data for her- one less thing for her to grind her teeth about.

But the countless messages kept coming. All begging and pleading just for Shepard. Each new one tore and pulled her in different directions until she was so spent she hardly had anything left.

Still, she found the time to pour paragraphs and paragraphs of herself into the messages she sent Garrus each day. As if she was trying to make up for the six months apart.

Her messages range from war room updates to small things that he loved to read about most. From her childhood to her favorite music to trashy TV shows that she used to have time to watch.

Garrus’ favorite so far had been when she finally found Boo after his fifth escape attempt. A zoomed-in photo of a hamster in distress locked back up in his cage with several layers of duct tape wrapped around it, captioned:

“Known fugitive on the lam was finally captured and brought in. I need your expertise on this interrogation, Vakarian.”

Each message was an excuse for her to give more of herself to him. And always signed just for him with -Love S.

Love.

Garrus stumbled over the word, always catching it in his mouth the countless times he'd tried to say it. 

Garrus fell in love with Shepard as she hung from the Normandy airlock. On their final push on the Collector base, she barely made the jump. But he caught her. He held her suspended in the air, and she beamed a bright smile at him- all while gunfire surrounded them. Not that, in that moment, he allowed himself to recognize it as love.

He always expected the worst, that she’d leave. One quick fling, and she figured out she’d want something closer to home.

But she kept coming back, kept assuring, kept peppering her love into each of her actions and words towards him. With each word she sent. She gave every piece of herself to him.

Now, knowing that she would remain at his side through hell and back, a worse realization came to him: that if he said the words, he would lose her. This time, they wouldn’t have Cerebrus's funding to bring her back.

“Garrus…no, hmmm. Run!” Shepard’s chatter cut through his thoughts. Her legs thrashing out again. A whimper trembled out of her lips, and her eyebrows knitted in pain.

Garrus stroked her hair again, massaging the base of her skull. His mouth plates pressed to her hairline.

Her eyes parted with mint green iris peeking out. Her eyebrows relaxed as a small smile formed.  

"Hmmm, I love you," her words fell so easily from her lips. So open to the hurt, open to the vulnerability those three words could cause.

He could give that piece of himself, just as she had done countless times. 

“Shhhh, I’m okay. I’m here, I...I love you too, Shepard,” Garrus' voice hitched in his throat, but he continued. "We're on the Normandy, in your room. Boo's still locked away, and fish are still swimming. Everything is okay for now. Keep sleeping."

"Double-check the duct tape," she mumbled as she closed her eyes and her body pressed deeper into his touch. He caressed her face, not knowing when he'd get another chance to see her like this.

The bags under her eyes had grown heavier. The orange glow of her scars seeped through, breaking up the blue hue of the aquarium. The gray at her temples began to multiply and spread. But Shepard always looked so beautiful to him. Especially when she finally rested.

He let her go, returning to the datapad and finishing up one more thing for Shepard before she woke.

It’s late. Just got up for some water. You’re still asleep. Wanted to say how beautiful I think you are. -Love G

She at least deserved one message that didn’t ask anything of her. 

[sixth-light]

The Crusades: A Fandom Primer

Like many of you, I am very excited to see a whole lot of fic about everybody’s favourite new Crusades-era Muslim/Christian immortal warrior husbands! However, a preliminary reading indicates that fandom is a bit hazy on what actually happened during the Crusades. Or where. Or why. They’re a much-mythologised piece of history so this isn’t surprising, but at popular request – ok like five people that counts – I’m here with a fandom-oriented Crusades primer.

Please bear in mind that I’m not a historian and this primer is largely based on my notes and recollections from several undergraduate history courses I took in the mid ‘00s. I expect the field has moved on somewhat, and I welcome corrections from people with more up-to-date knowledge! There’s also this very good post by someone who is a lot less lazy about links than I am.

Where did they take place?

The Crusades, broadly, describe a series of invasions of the Eastern Mediterranean (modern Israel, Syria, Lebanon, Beirut, Jordan, Cyprus, and parts of Turkey and Greece) by (mostly) Western European armies, religiously justified by their belief that the city of Jerusalem should be part of ‘Christendom’, i.e. ruled by a Christian monarch. In the first expression of European settler colonialism, nobles from the area of modern France and Germany founded four Crusader Kingdoms (aka ‘Outremer’, ‘overseas’) – the County of Edessa, the Principality of Antioch, the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and County of Tripoli.

  After a first unexpected wave of success in the First Crusade (1096-1099), which surprised everybody including the participants by conquering Jerusalem, the Crusaders were gradually driven and the last part of Outremer was lost to European control with the fall of the city of Acre in 1291. Crusades after that still nominally aimed to take Jerusalem but rarely got very far, with the Fourth Crusade famously sacking the city of Byzantium, their nominal Christian allies, in 1204. During this whole period activity that can be considered part of the ‘Crusades’ took place around the Eastern Mediterranean.

The most important thing to remember is that modern national boundaries didn’t exist in the same way; Italy, Germany, France, Spain, and the UK were not unified nations. Most of the southern Iberian peninsula (modern Spain) was ‘al-Andalus’, Muslim kingdoms ruled by nobility originally from North Africa. Sicily had been an Emirate up until very recently, when it had been conquered by Normans (Vikings with a one-century stopover in France). Italy and Germany in particular were a series of city-states and small duchies; Genoa, if you’re curious about it for some reason, ;), was a maritime power with more or less a distinct language, Genoese Ligurian (their dialect had enough of a navy to qualify). England had recently become part of the Anglo-Norman Empire, which ruled most of England (but not Wales or Scotland) and also large parts of modern France, particularly Normandy.

The Muslim world was similarly fragmented in ways that don’t correspond to modern national boundaries - there were multiple taifa states in Iberia, the Almoravid Caliphate in Morocco, the Fatimid Caliphate in Egypt, and (nominally) the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad, one of the great cities of the era, although the Seljuq Turks were the major power in Anatolia (modern Turkey) and what we describe as the ‘Middle East’. 

The largest Christian unified power in the wider European/Mediterranean region was the Byzantine Empire, centered on the city of Constantinople (modern Istanbul), which quite fairly considered itself the direct continuation of the Roman Empire, the capital having been moved there by the Emperor Constantine in 323. In fact, the really big political and religious question of the time for Christians was who got to be considered the centre of Christendom (there was no real concept of ‘Europe’ at this point) – the Orthodox Church, the Byzantine Emperor, and the Patriarch of Constantinople in Constantinople, or the Holy Roman Emperor (er…dude in nominal charge of a lot of German and Italian principalities) and the Roman Catholic Church led by the Pope in Rome. The Orthodox Church in Constantinople and the Roman Catholic Church had agreed to disagree in 1054 in the Great Schism, so in 1096 this issue was still what you’d call fresh.

Onto this stage of East-West disagreement and the heritage of Rome crashed the Seljuq Turks, a Muslim group from Central Asia who swept through Anatolia (modern Turkey), Byzantium’s richest province, culminating in the Battle of Manzikert in 1071 which wiped out Byzantium as an independent military force. The southern provinces had fallen under Muslim rule long ago, during the era of the first Umayyad Caliphate – including Jerusalem, famous as the birthplace of Christianity and a holy site for Judaism and Islam as well, but also a fairly uninteresting provincial town. Until...

Until…what?

Here’s why all the geography matters: It is generally accepted that the First Crusade kicked off largely because Alexios I Comnenus, the then-current Byzantine Emperor, requested aid from Western Europe against the Muslim Seljuq Turks. Byzantium often recruited mercenaries from Western Europe; the Normans (aka the Vikings), who had settled Normandy and southern Italy in the past century were frequent hires. Hence those runes in the Hagia Sophia.

Meanwhile in Western Europe, the Pope – Urban II – was having difficulty with the current Emperor, and was eager to heal the Schism and establish the primacy of the Roman church. He declared that an expedition to aid the Byzantines would have the blessing of the church, and that a new kind of pilgrimage – an armed pilgrimage – was religiously acceptable, if aimed against the enemies of Christendom.

Pilgrimages (travelling to holy sites, such as churches that held saints’ relics) were a major part of European Christianity at the time and many people went on pilgrimage in their lives, so this was a familiar concept. Western Europe was also somewhat overpopulated with knights – don’t think plate armour, this is 1096, think very murderous rich men with good swords – who could always use forgiveness, on account of all the murder. The Roman Catholic church, unlike the Eastern Orthodox church, also subscribed to the concept of ‘just war’, that war could be acceptable for the right reasons. And so a whole lot of nobles from the area of modern France, Belgium, England, Germany, and Italy decided that this new Crusade thing was something they wanted in on – and they took several armies with them.

I’m going to skip over a bunch of stuff involving the People’s Crusade (a popular movement of poorer people, got literally slaughtered in Anatolia), the massacres of Jews in Eastern Europe, and a lot of battles, but the takeaway is this: Alexios probably thought he was getting mercenaries. He got a popular religious movement that, somewhat unfortunately, actually achieved its goal (Jerusalem), did next to nothing to solve his Anatolia problem, and gave a succession of Popes a convenient outlet for errant knights, nobles, and rulers: going on Crusade.  

How many were there?

Official Crusades that anybody cares about: Nine, technically. Crusade-like military events that immortal soldiers might have got involved with, plus local stoushes in Outremer: way more. WAY more.

The First Crusade (1096-1099): First and original, set a frankly (heh) terrible precedent, founded the Crusader States and captured Jerusalem. Only regarded as a clash of civilisations by the Western Christians involved. For the local Muslims it was just another day at the ‘Byzantium hires Frankish mercenaries to make our lives difficult’ office.

The Crusade of 1101: Everybody who peaced out on the First Crusade hurried to prove they were actually up for it, once the remaining First Crusaders took Jerusalem. Didn’t do much.

The Second Crusade (1147-1150): The County of Edessa falls, Eleanor of Aquitaine happens (my fave), the only winners are the people who semi-accidentally conquer Lisbon (in Portugal) (but from Muslim rulers so that…counts?).

The Third Crusade (1189-1192): You all know this one because it has RICHARD THE LIONHEART and SALADIN. Much Clash of Civilisations, very Noble, did enough to keep the remaining Crusader kingdoms going but access to Jerusalem for Christian pilgrims was obtained by treaty, not conquest. Indirectly responsible for the Robin Hood mythos when Richard gets banged up in prison on the way home and is away from England for ages.

The Fourth Crusade (1202-1204): Aims for Jerusalem, ends up sacking the Eastern Orthodox city of Constantinople, just not a great time for anybody, more or less the eventual cause of the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453.  

The Fifth Crusade (1217-1221): Still going for Jerusalem, starts with Cairo instead, does not get anywhere it wants to even after allying with the Anatolian Sultanate of Rum, making the whole ‘Christians vs Muslims’ thing even murkier than it already was post the Fourth Crusade.

The Sixth Crusade (1228-1229): Somehow these things are still going. Nobody even does very much fighting. Access to Jerusalem is negotiated by treaty, yet again.

The Seventh, Eight, and Ninth Crusades: Seriously nobody cares anymore and also nobody is trying very hard. Kings have better things to do, mostly. People end up in Egypt a lot. We covered these in one lecture and I have forgotten all of it.

The Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229): Why take a three-year trip to the Holy Land to fight pagans when you can fight the ones in your own backyard (southern France), AND take their stuff? Famously the source of the probably apocryphal ‘Kill them all, God will know His own’ quote, regarding the massacre of most of a city harbouring Cathars (a Christian sect deemed heretical).

Can we circle back to that ‘massacres of Jews’ bit? WTF?

Crusades, historically, were Not A Good Time for Jewish communities in Europe; when Christians were riled up to go and Fight The Infidel, it was a lot quicker to massacre local Jews than travel to the Holy Land. Also, then you could take their stuff. I will note here that it is VERY TACKY to use historical pogroms as backdrops for your non-Jewish main characters so keep this in mind but, like, use with extreme caution in fanfic, okay? Generally life was a lot easier for Jewish communities in Muslim-ruled states in this period, which is why so many Hispanic Jews ended up in Turkey after they were expelled from Spain. 

What were they really about, then?

Historians still Have Opinions about this. Genuine religious fervour was absolutely a key motivator, especially of the First Crusade. The ability to wage war sanctioned by the Church, or to redeem your local sins by going and fighting against the pagans, was part of that, too. Control of key trade routes to the East was probably not not a part of it. The Crusader States were definitely Baby’s First Experiment With Settler Colonialism, and paved the theological and rhetorical ground for the colonisation of the Americas. But many individuals on the Christian side would absolutely have believed they were doing God’s work. The various Muslim rulers and certainly the local Christian, Jewish, and Muslim inhabitants of the Holy Land itself were mostly just getting invaded by Franks. As time wound on the Crusades became more and more political (frequently featuring intra-religious violence and inter-religious alliances) and less and less about their forever nominal goal, control of Jerusalem.

How’s Wikipedia on this?

Basically not too bad but I’m not totally confident on some of the bits about motivation (see: white supremacists love this period, ugh.)

Why did they stop?

The prospect of re-taking Jerusalem vanished entirely as the Ottoman Empire centralised and took a firm hold over most of the Levant (and made inroads into Europe, as far as Austria, taking Constantinople in 1453 and finally ending the continuous Roman Empire), the Spanish Reconquista and various intra-European conflicts (the Hundred Years’ War, for example) absorbed military attention, and then the Reformation happened and half of Europe stopped listening to the Pope and started stabbing each other over who was the right kind of Christian. But the concept lingered; white supremacists love the Crusades. Which is why it is a very good idea to be sparing with Crusader imagery around Niccolò in fanfic set in the modern era, and please for fuck’s sake stop with the ‘crugayders’ tag, Yusuf wasn’t a Crusader.  

What other fun facts should I keep in mind re: Nicky | Nicolò and Joe | Yusuf?

·        Genoa is not the same as Italy; Nicolò is Nicolò di Genova and would have spoken Genoese (Ligurian) and considered himself to be Genoese. Italian as a language didn’t really exist yet. The language he and Yusuf would most likely have had in common was the ‘lingua franca’ (Frankish language, literally) of the Mediterranean trading region, a pidgin based heavily on maritime Italian languages. Yusuf 300% would have thought of him as a ‘Frank’ (the generic term for Western Christians) and probably annoyed him by calling him that until at least 1200 or so.

·        Yusuf is apparently from ‘Maghrib’, which I assume means al-Maghrib/the Maghreb (as his actor is IIRC of Tunisian descent), i.e. North Africa. He could have had relatives in al-Andalus (southern modern Spain), he may have spoken languages other than Arabic natively (Mozarabic or Berber), his native area had universities before Europe did. Basically: this is as useful as saying he’s ‘from Europe’, do better backstory writers.

·        Taking the whole ‘Nicky used to be a priest’ backstory at face value: being a priest in 1096 looked pretty different to how it did even 200 years later. They were still working on the celibacy thing. The famous monastic orders were still forming. Some priests could and did hold lands and go to war (this wasn’t common but it happened, especially if they were nobles by birth). Nicolò di Genova would not necessarily have seen a conflict between going on Crusade and being a priest, is what I’m getting at. If he was ALSO trained as a knight, he was from a wealthy family; it took the equivalent several villages to support a knight.

·        ‘Period-typical homophobia’ is going to look very different for this period. They are NOT getting beaten up for holding hands. Or sharing a bed! Or even kissing, depending on the circumstances! I am not an expert on Islamic sexual mores of the era but Christian ones were heavily on the side of ‘unsanctioned sex is bad, sanctioned (marital) sex is slightly less bad’, and there was no concept of ‘being gay’. An interfaith relationship would be in some ways more of a problem for them than the same-sex one (and in some ways less difficult to navigate than a heterosexual interfaith relationship.) The past is another country.

·        Look just no more fanfics where Yusuf is trying to learn ‘Italian’ in the early twelfth century I am BEGGING you all

[hearth-and-veil]

Handling Magical Liars

There are many, many people in magical communities who will lie about their abilities for gain. Whether it's money, status, or just awe, they want something from you. Try not to give it to them.

Please keep in mind that not everyone is a liar; some people just suck at communication. Some people are just assholes. However, these are typically some good indicators that someone is full of shit.

1. They're self-aggrandizing. Actions speak louder than words. People with real power and skill don't have to talk constantly about how great they are.

2. They blame you if you can't tell how powerful they are. Anybody who puts the burden of proof on you to know that they're ✨️special✨️ isn't. Just like all people who run around bragging about being special, different, quirky, unique... and they're actually basic af. Same here.

If someone is claiming to be powerful, but gets mad that you can't feel their power, and tries to blame it on you being weak/inexperienced/stupid/etc, they're not. Anyone truly powerful can demonstrate.

3. They claim to be more than human. If someone is trying to tell you that they're a god, a demi god, a spirit, an elf, an alien, a primordial, etc., they are completely full of shit. Worse than just being full of shit, they also think you're stupid or they wouldn't be trying to get you to play along.

4. Your intuition says something is off. Trust your intuition. Intuition is a primal, magical part of us. Allow it to help you.

5. They can make you powerful too, but only if you join their cult super special secret ancient tradition conveniently passed down without notice (or documentation) for thousands of years. All you have to do is pay them or serve them. Interesting how that works.

Still not sure? That's ok. Some liars are quite good at it. Some are using magic to influence you. Here's some steps to take to be sure.

1. Ask. Ask a trusted member of your community. Ask me. Hell, ask them. Some people will cop to their bullshit to save face when they're caught.

2. Play along for a while, providing false information. If they go along with your lies, you know they're definitely lying. I use this a lot with psychics and mediums. Oh my Grandpa Mort, who lost an arm in Normandy, is trying to warn me about a curse that you can lift for $500? Interesting. I don't have a Grandpa Mort. None of my family was in the European theater. None of my grandpas are amputees. Also, my immediate grandparents were all born after WWII.

3. Laugh. I'm not kidding. When someone makes some insane claim, just laugh. Their reaction will tell you a lot. If they insist, it probably isn't true. If they laugh too, or back off, or say they understand your skepticism, or something like that, they could still be lying but I would be a bit more favorably inclined towards them.

4. Tell them to prove it. They'll either flounder or argue. Don't let people bullshit you with talk about faith, or witchcraft not being evidence based. Substantiate or suffocate.

You've determined they're lying. Now what?

1. Ignore them. You are under no obligations here. Quoth Cardi B: If I see you and I don't speak, that means I don't fuck with you.

2. Don't ignore them, but ignore their nonsense. Ok, not everybody is quite as good as me at pretending entire people don't exist, especially when they stand in your presence. It's a learned skill. So still be nice to that person, and just pretend they never said anything so stupid.

3. Flat out tell them you don't believe it. My typical response, if any, is the good ole "Yeah, no." One thing: don't apologize or equivocate. You don't owe them your belief, and you have nothing to be sorry for.

4. Leave. If they won't stop bothering you, or they make you feel unsafe, remove yourself from the situation.

5. Warn others. You don't have to drag the liar, but if you know other members of the community, give them a heads up. It's only polite.

Warning: some people believe their bullshit. That doesn't mean it's true, but people get caught up in their own hype. People who really believe what they're saying can be dangerous if corrected. Nobody likes their delusions challenged. Be careful, be safe. Sometimes the best thing to do is walk away.

[transmascfrankiero]

all of mcr’s songs ranked out of ten based on whether or not you can strip to them:

romance: could work if you were going for a Super Melancholy smiths-esque vibe but overall too slow and pretty. 1/10

honey: headbanger soundtrack to showcase your revenge body to ur ex. bonus points for underlying ‘gonna murder shitty boyfriend’ context thanks to audition-inspired video. but slightly too angry to be seductive. 5/10

vampires: too goth, too many feelings. reminds me of pot dreads frank. would not work. 0/10

drowning lessons: this song is cursed and cannot be listened to in public unfortunately 0/10

sorrows: if u were going to do a strip routine while beating the shit out of someone for trying to stealing ur tip money this would be a gr8 choice 6/10

halos: it’s about blowing your own head off and taking too many pills to cope w/ wanting to die all the time. 0/10

turnstiles: please do not!!! strip!!! to a song!!! about 9/11!!!! what is wrong w/ you!!! -100000000/10

monroeville: if u were doing a private lil strip dance for your george a. romero-obsessed s.o. where u both cry over the idea of having to kill the other person b/c they turned into a zombie then sure??? but other than that no. .5/10

best day ever: ehhhhhh. too fast. kinda weird to get sexy to unless u have a hospital kink. 0/10

cubicles: wow the thought of doing a strip routine to a song about pining for ur coworker who doesn’t know u exist is too sad to even joke about -20/10

demolition lovers: it’s a long song but it’s got cool tempo changes for variety and if u got the stamina then go for it. 4/10

helena: so, like, i get it. it’s a bop. u could dance to this beat for sure. the costumes and color scheme from the video make for gr8 stage pictures and the dancing corpse lady is v pretty. i could understand why if u were doing an emo strip routine u would want to use helena. but please for the love of all that is holy do NOT strip to a song gerard way wrote about his dead grandmother okay i am BEGGING you -∞/10

give ‘em hell kid: FUCK YEAH YOU LOOK PRETTY WALKIN DOWN THE STREET IN THE BEST DAMN DRESS U OWN. 10/10

to the end: this would be a hilarious choice for a bachelor party ngl 7/10 for that alone

prison: absolutely you could strip to this song but u gotta COMMIT okay u gotta light something on fire onstage and challenge gender norms while screaming your head off 8/10 but only if ur not a coward

i’m not okay: it’s a bop, but can u strip to it? no. 0/10

ghost of you: mikey way did not die on a beach in fake normandy for u to strip to ghost of you. seek help -5/10

jetset life: dude this song like. actually works??? for a strip routine??? so long as you don’t actually listen to the words, from a musical perspective, u could totally strip to this 10/10

interlude: what kinda weird catholic shame kink do u need to have to strip to this song. also it’s too short and too pretty. -5/10 (unless ur into catholic shame idk)

venom: this would require such a high energy routine but if u can make being sweaty work then this is a gr8 choice 7/10

hang ‘em high: this is a BATSHIT INSANE choice for a strip routine but if u want to do it then PLEASE do. i like ur style. 8/10

deathwish: u can strip to this only if u introduce ur routine by dedicating it to everyone who ever said eyeliner on dudes was gay. 5/10

cemetery drive: i think not. 0/10

never told you: if u are a highly theatrical highly murderous stripper then yes definitely 7/10

desert song: this song is Way Too Beautiful to strip to sorry you can’t have it -300/10

the end.: the only sexy thing about this song is how good gerard’s voice sounds so no. 0/10

dead!: this is a bold fucking choice but u have to play your cards just right. high risk high reward but SO much to potentially get wrong 6/10

how i disappear: u could. but why. 2/10

sharpest lives: holy SHIT yes ABSOLUTELY u should strip to sharpest lives. the drama. the beat. the spy rock guitar that frank accidentally nailed. this is one of THE choicest options from their catalog. why aren’t u stripping to this right now 50000000/10

wttbp: cute idea but don’t actually 0/10

i don’t love you: again, a bold fucking choice. u could strip to this in an edgy, meta sort of way but it’s missing the trashy factor so it’d have to be part performance art and part strip routine. if ur into that then totally 5/10

house of wolves: i mean i would pay money to see someone strip to this song so 7/10

cancer: LMAO YIKES -2000000/10

mama: this would be GLORIOUS if u fully embraced the sheer insanity and went Bonkers in Fuckin Zonkers burlesque-show-in-hell w/ it. 100/10 but u gotta pound the floor wailing at some point

sleep: i’m conflicted on this one like on the one hand it’s a good tempo for stripping but on the other hand it’s a song about being cruel to ur loved ones in order to force distance between u and them b/c you’re terrified of them getting hurt and it being all your fault. so maybe don’t strip to this one actually 0/10

teenagers: a bop w/ a great beat and fun costume ideas from the video but two major drawbacks being 1. ur getting naked to a song about teenagers which is uhhhh sort of Inappropriate and 2. it’s kind of also about school shooters which is also Inappropriate to get naked to. 0/10

disenchanted: why would u want this. you sad fuck. idek what to say except if you want to strip to this song i’m crying on your behalf -100000000/10

famous last words: don’t????? don’t. Do Not. stop that. -12/10

blood: this is HILARIOUS omg please strip to blood 10/10

kill all your friends: sure?? no objections but it’s an odd choice. this goes for the demo too. 2/10

heaven help us: if u want to strip to this then you definitely just read unholyverse for the first time and while u are valid, Don’t 0/10

my way home is through you: not an especially sexy song but it’s fun!! you do you 3/10

astro zombies (cover): uhhhhhh it’s a no from me dawg. i’d be thinking about danzig, like, the whole time. 0/10

desolation row: sure but u gotta be willing to get punched in the face by the riot squad for maximum effect 4/10

common people (cover): just b/c gerard would strip to britpop doesn’t mean u can. 0/10

emily: NO!!!! -50000/10

party at the end of the world: nah. 0/10

not that kind of girl: literally please consider the subject matter of this song and rethink ur life choices. -10/10

all the angels: it’s a cool song but don’t strip to it that’s weird -2/10

jack the ripper: you and the person who wants to strip to astro zombies can go sit in the suicidegirls corner together how about that. 0/10

na na na: a banger!! strip away my friend 9/10

bulletproof heart: a good song but not a strip song 1/10

sing: sorry this song is [REDACTED] it gets no score

planetary (go!): you could try to strip to this but it’s such a classic four-on-the-floor that i think you’d end up just regular dancing to it and forget to be sexy so 4/10

the only hope for me is you: are you doing a strip tease for michael bay. stop. put ur shirt back on shia lebeouf 0/10

party poison: like this is a hilarious option and i support you but realistically it’s pretty fast for a strip song 3/10

save yourself, i’ll hold them back: this is a safe option. Too Safe. almost soulless. a person who’d strip to this would avoid eye contact the entire time and never smile and later when you went out for a smoke break you’d overhear them on the phone with their ex arguing over child support payments. 4/10

s/c/a/r/e/c/r/o/w: the more i think about it the more fun the idea of stripping to this becomes so i say go for it 6/10

summertime: i’m Certain that gerard would prefer if you didn’t -5/10

destroya: is this objectively the best mcr song to strip to? Absolutely. it’s got everything you could possibly want right down to built-in moans and fever dream drums. but the only person in the universe who Can Must and Should strip to this song is gerard. sorry them’s the breaks. ∞/10 but only if you’re gerard way

kids from yesterday: don’t. 0/10

vampire money: 100% yes you should strip to this. bonus points for stealth twilight references 1000000/10

we don’t need another song about california: do i like this song? yes. is it sexy? no. 0/10

black dragon fighting society: i can’t understand what the FUCK gerard is saying in this song AT ALL so i can’t recommend that u strip to it b/c i have no fucking idea what it’s ABOUT 0/10

f.t.w.w.w.: i mean. this song is about eating pussy. and robots that are built specifically to fuck. so yes you can strip to this but you gotta dress up like a pornbot 100/10

mastas of ravencroft: again i cannot understand most of the fucking words and the ones i do understand are something something RICKETY BONES RICKETY HANDS so like. probably not the one 0/10

boy division: i could go either way on this one like it’s really fast but it’s also about cocaine so??? 3/10

tomorrow’s money: while this song slaps overall violent nihilism does not a strip song make 1/10

ambulance: no. 0/10

gun.: antiwar messages are sexy but not the right kind for stripping 1/10

the world is ugly: PLEASE no. 0/10

the light behind your eyes: oh my god this is so DEPRESSING why would you want to strip to this who hurt you -2000000/10

kiss the ring: yes yes yes it’s got built-in audience participation conceit factor if u let ur audience kiss ur ring, totally works 10/10

make room!!!: again, slaps, but not a strip song 1/10

surrender the night: dude we talked about this!!! dying violently w/ ur loved ones is Not Sexy!!! 0/10

burn bright: i guess you could strip to this but again it’s Too Safe tread carefully 3/10

fake your death: i want frank iero to strip to this song so i can throw tomatoes at him for being a LYING SACK OF SHIT FOR TWO YEARS i’m not gonna rate this one but frank if ur out there i have a basket of slightly squishy heirloom tomatoes and i am COMING FOR YOU

[tealenko]

Somebody that I Used to Know (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3: Port Observation

Wow... chapter 3 already. This one is more funny than the previous one. I thought this chapter would be difficult to write at the begining but in the end it was one of the easiest.

Summary: James wants to know if the rummors about Shepard are true, so he ends up getting Steve and Garrus drunk to find out. Things get a little unconfortable when Shepard enters the room and overhears part of the conversation.

Words: 2757 Rating: Teens and Up Warnings: Alcohol

Previous chapter -> [link] All chapters -> [link] Read in AO3 -> [link]

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“So you don’t know” James asks Steve while he is dealing the cards.

“Why should I? You know her longer than I do.” Steve takes a look at his cards, deciding how many he should discard. “Why do you ask? Curiosity? Or do you have ulterior motives?”

“Are you crazy? Well, if she wasn’t my C.O, maybe, but I mean… I’m wise enough to don’t get involved in that kind of mess.” James throws away two of his cards. “Maybe I’m trying to distract you with gossip. Well, how many do you want?”

“Just one.” Steve says. “I didn’t think you were smart enough to make that kind of decision Vega, you seem more of an accion guy, rather than a thoughtful one.”

“Looks can be deceiving, I mean, look at Mr. Major specter.”

“Wait, Alenko? No… He looks too, mmm...”

“Serious, right?”

“But it cannot be, I’ve never seen a more ‘by the book’ type of guy. No, it must be… well, It would make sense...”

“What?”

“No, no. This isn’t right James. We shouldn’t be talking about this stuff. Just… just place a bet.”

“You’re gonna leave me like this Esteban? Come on, I’m sure she won’t mind… maybe she’ll tell us if we ask nicely.” James throws a couple of poker chips to the center of the table.

“Yeah sure, I won't be the one who discovers if that's true.” Steve raises the bet. “And why did you think of Alenko to begin with?”

“Ah nah… If you don’t tell what you know you can’t expect me to do so.”

“Do you see the bet or not?”

“I do.”

“And you have good reasons to think if she had something with someone it was with the major?”

“I do.” James matches the bet. “You said it makes sense, before you stopped talking.”

“She is going to kill us.”

“She’ll never find out.” James looks at his cards smiling. “Tell you what, if I win this round you tell me, if you win ask whatever you want.”

“Ok, let me see your cards.”

Both of them place down their cards onto the table.

“Ha! So spill, what did you hear Esteban?”

“God, I should've known better that to bet against you.”

“Spill it out.”

“Well… I met someone who was part of the Normandy crew, the first one, and he told me there were rumors about her having a thing for someone in the ship, he didn’t say who, only that the person in fact was a lower rank… so in theory Alenko fits the pattern, but also do so many others, why do you suspect of the major?”

“Now you wanna know, eh?”

“Come on Vega, why?”

“Why wouldn’t I. Man, you weren’t there on Mars.”

“Mars?”

“Yeah, I’ve never been more uncomfortable in my life, you could cut the tension with a knife.”

“Just because of that?”

“He seemed really pissed off with her.”

“Ay James, what kind of telenovela are you writing in your head?”

“Just saying what I think.” Steve starts laughing.

“I don’t even know if you are serious or if you're messing with me.”

“About what?” Says a third voice entering the conversation. Both of them raise a hand a little to say hello.

“Ey Scars, spying on us?” Says James, standing up to go to the bar.

“Just stopping by for a drink.” Garrus says, sitting in the bar area and turning his head to talk to Steve. “What are you two up to?”

“You don’t wanna know… I think I need a drink too.”

Steve sits next to Garrus, in the meanwhile, James, who moved quickly to tend the bar, starts mixing drinks in front of them.

“This will be my first time making a dextro cocktail, wish me luck Scars.”

“Just… try not to kill me Vega.”

“Relax hermano, I’m a pro. Ask Esteban, he was at one of my famous parties.”

“How was it?”

“I couldn’t say… I don't remember much of that week to be honest.”

“Eh eh eh… I see, the best kind of party.” Garrus taps the bar with his hand. “Okay James, do your best. If you’re able to mix something that makes me forget the reapers by the end of the shift I’ll put you in for a medal once this is all over.”

“Sure… this is going to be fun, I’ve never seen a drunk turian.” James finishes mixing the drink and offers it to Garrus. “Are you even able to get drunk?”

“Well… you’re about to find out.” Garrus takes the drink and downs it in seconds. “Not bad, Jimmy...” He points at his glass to ask for another. “By the way, what were you two talking about before I got in? Steve seemed distressed.”

They all start drinking, and Steve succeeds to avoid the conversation for a while, until the drinks begin to kick in, loosening Vega’s tongue. By the time they’ve explained their whole conversation to Garrus, none of them is sure if they will be able to stand up without difficulties.

“You don’t appreciate your life, eh Vega?” Garrus says, finishing yet another drink.

“Come on Scars, we wanna know!”

“I don't. The commander's business shouldn’t be of our interest.” Steve tries very hard to stand up, letting himself fall onto the couch when the whole room starts spinning.

“I agree. And I’m sorry to disappoint you James, but I have no clue If what you say it’s true or not. Why do you wanna know?”

“Well, I’ll be hella funny to tease her about this when I have the chance. And him. I wanna get my info right before I do so.”

“Oh no, no no no… You really wanna die.” Garrus looks at James with an alarm expression on his face. “Listen to me Vega, do not get into that, never, don’t even think about it. I’m not joking.”

“You said you didn’t know anything.”

“No, don’t go there Vega.” Garrus tries to escape the conversation by leaving the room, but in his state he is only able to take a few steps before he gives up, sitting in front of Steve. “You ehm… should leave it.”

“Look at it this way, if you tell me what you’re sooooo afraid of maybe i’ll understand your reasons and put the subject away, but if you don’t…. well… I’m sure Lola knows if It’s true or not.” James walks towards the coach, grabbing his drink, and sitting next to Steve. ”So?”

“So… this is something that doesn’t concern you, and I don’t even know that much but…“ He takes a second, questioning if he should keep talking. ”There was, in fact, something between them,” he finally says. ”But the only thing you should know It’s that it ended up pretty badly, so you shouldn’t insist on the subject.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I mean, he ended up pointing a gun at her, what a revelation.”

“Not what I was talking about, and to be fair with Kaidan, she was pointing hers at the council.”

“And he backed her up once she explained herself.” Ads Steve.

“So what were you referring to?”

“You aren’t going to quit, eh?”

“Nope”

Garrus sighs and takes a second to process everything. He shouldn’t tell him this, but he is way too drunk to get to that conclusion and is also starting to think that he will indeed ask Shepard if he doesn’t tell him.

“You see… Shepard and Kaidan only met once when we were on Cerberus and well… How do I put this? Ah yes, have you seen the big dent at the access cargo wall, right at the entrance of the ship?”

“Yes.”

“Shepard’s response to their conversation… She… She broke her hand hitting the wall as soon as we got back on the ship.”

“You’re shitting me!” Says James, half laughing half in awe.

“No, no I'm not. And THAT’s how it ended, so I wouldn’t bring it up anymore or talk about it with anyone, especially with Shepard.”

“What is it that Vega shouldn’t talk about with me, Garrus?” Shepard says, appearing out of nowhere, and sitting next to the turian. “Well?”

The tree of them freeze, and after a few seconds of general panic, James starts talking.

~

“Let me get this straight… “ Shepard says, looking at James. “We are at war with the reapers, probably facing extinction, and your priority right now is to know whether or not I hooked up with Alenko back in the day?”

“Yes… Well no, Garrus already confirmed that part.” Shepard turns her head towards the turian, who is trying his best to avoid her eyes. “What I really wanna know is where you stand right now.” Says Vega, without even thinking.

“Please Commander, he’s… Well, we’re… a little bit too drunk right now. Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t mean it.” Steve pleads, trying to save his friend from the mess he’s in. “You know Vega, he doesn’t really have a filter, now less than ever.”

Shepard sights and takes a big breath.

“No harm, no foul, eh?” She says, examining the three men one by one. “ And you seem, in fact, pretty drunk. Well… I guess you really needed to blow off some steam, eh?” She starts laughing at the situation, and the mood of the room lightens a little.

“Do you want a drink, Lola?”

“Sure, why not? Pass me a beer if there’s any”

“Don’t you wanna one of my cocktails? Garrus really likes them.” Says James on his way to the bar. “They seem to loosen his tongue.”

“Don’t push your luck, Vega.”

“I had to try, here you go.” James hands the beer to Shepard and sits again next to Steve. “So… you are mad, aren’t you Shepard?”

“No, I’m not… I can see why you would be curious about that kind of subject.”

“Not, with as… With the major.” Steve and Garrus look directly at James, trying to make him stop talking with their gaze. “I mean...”

“Oh please Vega stop talking before she kills you and everyone else in this room.”Garrus pleads, seeing James isn’t going to stop on his own. “Hey Shep, I’m so sorry about all of this, seriously. I thought if I explained the situation a little he would be satisfied and would not bother you… but I think he, we, are way too drunk to function like propper beings, I’m truly sorry.”

“Yes, please James, stop talking.” Steve adds.

“I’m just saying that as members of her crew, we should know this kind of thing. I don’t know… maybe we have to protect the guy if she tries to shoot him again.” All three of them start laughing at James' comment, with Steve almost falling out of the couch and Garrus trying really hard to look away from Shepard’s direction. “I’ll be also nice to know if we have to pad the Normady’s walls.”

Shepard is looking at the whole scene in silence, drinking her beer with a thoughtful expression on her face. They continue like this for a while, with James making endless jokes and the other two trying not to laugh, and failing miserably.

After a few minutes the room gets filled with quietness, and as the effect of the alcohol begins to fade a little, all three of them start to realize what a terrible idea it was to say all that out loud, in front of her.

Shepard smiles a little, as they are desperately trying to find something to say. James is the first one to talk again.

“Lola, I...”

“I am not.”

“What?”

“You ask if I was mad at Kaidan, didn’t you?” All three of them stare at her in awe, not believing what’s happening. “Well I am not, so you shouldn’t worry. Now, I think you should go to sleep this one off.”

Steve and James make a sigh of relief, nod at her, and disappear in a few seconds, thanking whichever god was able to let them off of that situation. Garrus, on the other hand, stays where he is, looking at her while she stands up to throw her empty bottle away.

“Why aren’t you?” Garrus asks, with more concern than curiosity on his face.

“What?” Shepard says, turning to look at him.

“Why aren’t you mad with Kaidan?” He takes a second, trying to analyze what he knows about the situation. “I would be, If I were you.” Shepard moves to sit in front of him but doesn’t say anything. She just nods at him, waiting for him to carry on with his argument. “I mean… I was there in Horizon, Shepard. I saw what you went through, for months, when we were with Cerberus.”

She looks at him, smiling a little. But she doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like Kaidan. He’s a good guy, a good soldier but… I just can't wrap my head around the fact that you aren’t mad at him.”

“Why should I?” Shepard takes a moment to think and Garrus smiles, waiting for her to order her thoughts before exposing them. “I won’t deny Horizon was a low blow but, after thinking about it, I can't say I blame him for any decision he made. I mean… When you look at it from the outside... I magically came back from the dead, joined a terrorist organization, destroyed a relay, killed thousands of batarians and ended up arrested on Earth.”

“When you put it that way...”

“Yeah… I’m actually surprised he didn't shoot me at the Citadel.” They both start laughing. “I did give him a lot of reasons.”

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

“Aw, thanks Garrus, I knew down there you cared about me.”

“Funny, Shepard… Very funny. You know what I meant. You’ve lost enough people you care about.”

“Yeah.” Garrus sees how Shepard’s smile fades away, looking at the door for a second before talking again. “Well… I’m also glad… that he didn’t.”

The turian stares at her for a second, trying to read her face, and Shepard doesn’t know how to act. She looks to every corner in the room before looking again in his direction, his expression it’s still the same.

“You’re creeping me out Garrus, what on Earth are you..”

“Do you like him?”

“What?”

“Kaidan… do you like him again?”

Shepard is suprised, to say the least. Garrus has never been the type to talk about feelings, and even less in such a blunt way.

“Why do you ask and what have you done with Garrus?” She says laughing a little.

He laughs in return, knowing how uncharacteristic it is of him to have this kind of conversation.

“I just… Shepard, look, we’ve been friends for years now, so allow me to say this, and then you can do whatever you like with my advice.” She nods at him. “If we all die in a week...”

“Don’t jinx it”

“Again, funny… But, if it happens, what would you do, if you knew it before time?”

Shepard looks at the ground, she can’t deny she has wondered about that type of situation, but in the end reality was always stronger than the ‘what if’s.

“I see what you mean Garrus… but if I don’t die in a week and he doesn’t... well… I still need to be able to work with him, you know? There’s more at stake here than my feelings.”

Garrus nods, knowing he won’t convince her and stands up as she does.

“Thanks for the conversation anyway, I know what you were trying to do and I appreciate it Garrus, I truly do.”

“One day you’re gonna have to put yourself first than the rest of the galaxy Shepard, if anyone has earned the right that’s you.” As they walk out of the room he decides to attempt again. “You haven’t answered my question,” he says when they make it to the door, trying one last time before they part ways. “Do you like him again?”

She looks away for a second, a thousand thoughts going through her mind, before she decides to give in and tell the truth.

“Not again.” She turns to look at Garrus, who’s waiting patiently for her response. The look on his face is a mix between kindness and concern, free of any kind of judgement, and after a few seconds in silence she gives him a melancholic smile, taking a big breath before looking directly at Kaidan's room. “I… I’ve never stopped.”

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I'm in love with the friendship between Garrus and Shepard, one of my favourite moments in ME3 is Garrus cheering you up in a conversation between missions. This gives me the same vibe.

I'm also very glad I was able to get Vega in this history, he's always very funny to write about.

Previous chapter -> [link] Next chapter -> [link] All chapters -> [link]

As always feel free to ask for fics or give me suggestions!!!

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

♡ 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ♡

(nothing sexually or relationship-like, they just want the best for you uwu)

words count: 950 (i’m tired sorry ;-;)

y/n disappeared. 

just like bull, nobody saw her when they escaped from the market garden-maneuver, nobody heard her voice, nobody talked with her. but when winters reckoned up the manpower from the company, someone shouted the most worst thing, what they can ever expect. 

“y/n’s don’t here!” 

winters knew that it was no time to send some people to search you, and he prayed for her -even dead, even alive- self to survive this horrible day, the horrible night. 

“‘s everything alright, dickie?” nixon’s sound was impalpably careless, but when he looked up at the wagon, looking at the worried, sad and impious faces, he thought that something isn’t alright. 

how can, when the angel of the easy company is disappeared? or even though, gone? 

liebgott just watched as they moved away from eindhoven, thinking about y/n, about his so-like-little sister, who always bugged him and was fucking annoying, but now, he wanted to hear her voice, just like joe toye, who always pisses her off during a movie, when she told jokes with george for each other. 

-everything’s alright, dude, she’s like a roach. she survives everything, just let her be -toye slapped his back carefully, as the battlefield slowly got smaller and distanter. 

˙˚˙ᵕ꒳ᵕ˙˚˙‧̍̊

at night, during dinner, guarnere fiddling a little coin between his fingers. she gave him that penny, when he wasn't able to buy a new razor for himself. “keep that, gonorrhea, just in case if you need one new shitty razor”. he don’t needed a razor, he just needed your smiling face, but he only canned face with the brown wall in front of himself. 

-how can be she so freaking reckless? she gotta stay on her flat butt, and now, now… so fucking dumb, oh my-

-chill, perco. they didn't found a corpse, not even hers. so, she just escaped like us, just… not in the good direction -george nudged him, trying to save his friend from the completely depression, tucking a cigarette between his lips. but he also hoped so strong that she gonna sit there; in the quarters when they go to sleep just like everybody else in the company. 

-and if she’s now in the nazi’s arms? 

-please, frank, she probably just got lost in the woods, or between the destroyed houses. 

-okay, just, you know…

-yeah, i know. but don’t worry, y/n’s a fucking firecracker, she survive everything. remember, when we all thought in normandy that we’re went astray and gonna fucking die? -malarkey bent forward, drinking from his beer, chuckling about the memories. 

-oh, god, don’t say anything! she found the way, you said that “you wanna live? then go with her”. 

-that was so fucking unmanly, we actually screaming at everything just like fooly sluts! 

they laughed so hard at guarnere’s words, remembering about the company’s, hell, the world’s best little soldier, y/n y/l/n. suddenly, george heard from the nearest table that some men from other companies bragging about her. but not that good, happy way like them. 

-that’s hard as fuck for the easy, i know. 

-that y/n chick was always so cheery, i think she canned cheer them up on some other way too -the other guy poured him some beer, george dubbed malarkey a little bit, nodding his head in the men’s way. 

-i only can think that she’s got here because he didn’t got any attention at home, and now, between men like this… like heaven for gays. 

-what the fuck? -liebgott whispered, now the whole table listened to the three men with rapt attention. 

-but now, so pitiable… little y/n got killed or lost as fuck. you know, i knew from the beginning that she’s gonna crap out, if not on the first day, than now. 

-say no more, i go there and beat the shit out of them, let me- -guarnere wanted to stand up, but eugene grabbed his arm, forcing him to stay on his arse. 

-you are so right, easy’s men had a good life with that girl, but now no warming, you know, even up, you know, even down, the cock- 

-sorry, but what the fuck are you talking about? 

liebgott’s harsh, loud sound crashed the pleasing, comfortable moral of the pub, the other three guy snatched his head on their direction. the good mood was now destroyed like some broken glass-castle. one of the men was ready to turn back and say some more things, but liebgott stood up and looked at them. -yes, you, you dickhead! how dare you to talk about y/n like this? 

the ugliest, most hateful guy looked at him, disgust in his eyes, a little grin in the corner of his mouth. 

-i just talking about that how much you like y/n. or love? i don’t know, can you explain? no, no. now she’s gone, and-

-y/n’s way stronger than you, so shut the fuck up, okay, you moron? -malarkey also shouted at him, anger in his voice. 

-way stronger? in what? like sucking you off and-

he can’t ended his sentence, because just like at the boat to europe, liebgott got up and grabbed his collar, beating him so hard that the guy spit out some blood and saliva. 

-you wanna have more, huh? if you keep talking like this, even about y/n, even about any of us, you can pray for the next morning, you miserable motherfucker! -at the end, joe ugrently spat in his face, leaving him there, sitting back to his friends, guarnere gave him a high five under the table. 

the guy just nodded fearful, the other two sat there, looking down at the table to their drinks. slowly, the party began to get back to the ordinary, cozy mood, but it was spiced with some hidden hate. 

nobody at easy’s table scoffed at liebgott, they all felt right when he told those words. 

because nobody can hurt y/n, even if she aren't here, even her pure soul.

the soul of easy company. 

[historic-old-guard-lover]

Does Boooker still loathe the English ?

TL;DR: Probably. The would-be French and would-be English have invaded, fought, and demeaned each other for pretty much the entirety of the last century (1066 CE to ~1914 CE). Even if Booker doesn’t really care about international politics despite being born during a time when the countries were actively fighting, he still would have been raised to look down on them as Protestants. And it’s not hard to find a reason to dislike the British *cough* destructive imperialism *cough* in the pursuit of spices that they don’t use *cough* and they made speaking their language globally important *cough*. (aside: France has a bad history of Imperialism, too, so Booker doesn’t have much of a moral high-ground) Let’s take the shortest tour through French-British conflict that I can give you. There will be a a few names, but please know that I already cut out hundreds of them.

What kicked off this epic mutual dislike? A literal bastard Frenchman with inadequacy issues. Beginning in October of 1066, the soon-to-be-famous William the Conqueror got tired of just being the bastard son of the Duke of Normandy (northernmost France) who secured the duchy for himself and decided to invade and conquer his distant cousin’s country. As you might have guess from his moniker, he was successful and had himself crowned King of England by December of that year. It helps to remember the distinctions between all those pesky pieces of the British Isles:

[ID: Euler diagram showing geographic (green) versus political (blue) labels.]

William conquered England, below, and then had the Pope approve of his new position by Easter. Yes, you heard correctly. This guy had such an inferiority complex that he became the internationally-recognized monarch of a neighboring country within a year. For the next hundred odd years, Anglo-Norman and not Old English was the official language of England. The whole British Imperialism thing starts to make a little more sense: they had it done to them first and they lost badly. Eventually, William’s (still Normand) descendants known as the “Plantagenet Kings” stretched themselves a little thin trying to claim all of France as their kingdom as well and decided to re-brand themselves as English and reinstate Old English as the official language to cope. And yes, this is those Plantagenets who will give rise to the Yorks and Lancasters who will cause the English War of the Roses where all the royalty kills each other for power and leaves the Tudors to come to power. But we’re not there yet.

[ID: picture of the British Isles and Northern France which shows the lands controlled by William the Conqueror by 1087 in pink. Notably, he controlled only England and not Wales or Scotland.]

Before the Normand royals of Britain all kill themselves, they have to stir up international drama. Edward I claimed in 1295 to the members of parliament that the King of France planned to invade England and extinguish the English language. Yes, this was a NORMAND king who was doing the same thing a generation or two ago. Then in 1346, his still-Normand grandson Edward III forged an ordinance from Philip VI of France calling for the destruction of the English and presented it to his parliament. This little performance kicked off the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453 CE). It’s towards the end of this major conflict that the royals decide to incite civil war, by the way, because they really were too dramatic to live. Just so you know, I skipped over TWELVE WARS between William the Bastard’s (yes, a real moniker) invasion and the Hundred Years’ War so that this article wouldn’t drag on forever. By the time that the Hundred Years’ War is over, the (Welsh) Tudors are on the English throne and, excluding that time the English invaded France in 1475, the two nations decided to stop trying to conquer each other. This is Europe, however, and they’ll continue to be fighting each other through proxy wars at least twelve more times before we get to the 1770s. A lot of this proxy fighting happens over Italy, in case you’re interested.

If you thought that 700 years of nearly continuous armed conflict (a decade or two doesn’t really count as a break in the long run) wasn’t enough to justify the hate between England and France, you’ve underestimated the power of religion. France hosted the (what we call Roman) Catholic Papacy in Avignon from 1309 to 1376. France is to this day a VERY Catholic nation, with up to 88% of its population belonging to the Church if you count lapsed members. Between William (1066) and the 1770s, a little itty bitty religious movement you might have heard of called the (Protestant) Reformation shook Europe when the German Princes decided they were tired of listening to this Roman Pope dude, so they supported this funky little scholar-monk-priest name Martin Luther whose students eventually said fuck it, the papacy is trash let’s start our own church. Christians, being Christians, took this as a new thing to hate about each other despite the fact that most of the doctrine is still the same and whether you were Catholic or Protestant became very important to people from the mid-1500s CE onward. In comes the man with many wives, Henry VIII. He was king while the German Princes were revolting and decided he wanted a divorce from his first wife. The Pope said along the lines of unless you give me a good reason, it’s a no from me and Henry replied something like the fact that I want to marry a younger woman is reason enough, I’m going to make up my own damn church and I get to have as many divorces as I want and then he established the Church of England. And then he went on the have six wives (and one mistress whose bastard he acknowledged) who were either beheaded or divorced except for the last one. I personally regret he never got to the full eight-piece set he must have been going for. Since 1534 when Henry VIII first flaunted papal authority by divorcing his wife, the French and English have also had the pleasure of hating each other over religious differences.

[ID: French corsairs with booty and British prisoners in 1806, depicted in a later painting by Maurice Orange from the Wikipedia page on French state-sanctioned pirates called “corsairs” that I didn’t have the space to get to in the article.]

Booker is born and grows up in a France that is funding the American Revolution and stealing from their trading ships (because fuck the British). This whole “America” decision destabilizes the country, leads to the popularity of the guillotine, and sets the stage for Napoleon Bonaparte (who, fun fact, was actually average height because the French decided to change the length of an inch for a while and if you think otherwise, it’s British propaganda). It helps to understand that the English and French had entered what we now call the Second Hundred Years’ War, this time started by the English trying to depose the French King, where they’d been skirmishing with each other from 1689 until Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo in 1815. When I say that the diplomatic strategy was “fuck the British,” this is what I’m referring to. There were very few rules that couldn’t be broken in pursuit of disadvantaging France’s island neighbor and vice versa. As a poor person, he definitely hated the French monarchy but he probably equally hated the English because, again, fuck the British defined the 1700s CE. Booker ends up conscripted in part because of the British (and in part because of Napoleon being a little too power-hungry). I think our depressed Frenchman has enough room in his heart to hate both the British and Napoleon...and neither has given him a good reason to stop hating them. UK-French relations arguably only normalized because of the increasing threat that Imperial and then Nazi Germany posed. Even during WWII, however, the British dragged their feet to begin helping the French eject the Nazis and let the Americans lead that front (which was only 200-something years late repayment for helping with their Revolution, but who’s counting?). I have no guesses as to what Booker thinks of the EU, but the Brexit debacle is just another reason to resume disliking the UK for someone who unabashedly disliked them for two hundred years. Oh yeah, and they’re God-damned Protestants to boot. (note: that’s from a Catholic perspective, not mine)

[katekarnage7]

Ugh, man, I gotta go to beddd... but just before I do, I'm requesting Destiel and B, please! No rush, obvs

Eeeh! Thank you!

I call this little number: Words Said in Darkness.

Psst! AO3 link.

—

The air inside the bar was warm and stifling and the clang of human chatter was almost too much for Dean. The choked feeling in his throat wouldn’t dissipate. His hands were sweaty and his heart was beating far too fast for comfort. It had been far too long since he’d walked the floors of the Roadhouse, but even now, with the suffocating number of people around him and his buddies in their uniforms already dispersing to find lovely ladies to entice for the night, there was only one face he was looking for.

He traversed through the chaos of tables, chairs, and drunkards to the bar. If possible, his heartbeat sped up as a mop of raven hair came into view. The owner of this inky black hair currently had his neck bent and was so focused on drying a glass, Dean thought he might shatter it with his piercing gaze alone.

There was a moment, just a single moment, where Dean thought to turn and run the other way. Of course, he would never do that. Not even if you paid him, because just the possibility of seeing that gorgeous, gummy smile had his heart soaring. He swept over to the bar and leaned on it, clearing his throat to get the attention of the dark-haired man before him. “Evenin’, sunshine. I could use a whiskey. Neat, if you don’t mind.” 

Castiel’s head shot up, his blue eyes wide in astonishment. He breathed a single word, “Dean.”

—

Castiel was, simply put, exhausted. He’d already had a steady stream of soldiers on leave from their assorted bases, all of them boasting about how they’d soon be “kicking some Nazi ass” or “showing Mr. Hitler who’s boss”. In actuality, he knew that as soon as they set foot on the battlefield, they would be terrified. Perhaps, he thought, it was better that they at least had their confidence to hide behind.

The night was going well, he supposed. His popularity with the ladies that frequented the bar could not be understated which usually resulted in some… interesting chats. In the moment at hand though, all of his energy was being focused onto one glass. He idly wondered how Dean was doing - idly, as if he didn’t always wonder about that exact thing - and if he was in good health.

As Castiel was about to put the glass down, a deep voice laced with bravado that inhabited so many of his dreams called out, “Evenin’, sunshine. I could use a whiskey. Neat, if you don’t mind.”

His head had never shot up so fast. In front of him, clad in his army uniform, with his light brown, teetering on blonde hair glinting in the light of the bar, green eyes focused on him and only him, stood Dean Winchester. “Dean,” Castiel whispered into the empty space. The words came out reverently. Nearly like a prayer. Truthfully, that what Dean’s name was; a prayer. Or, rather, the answer to one.

Vaguely, Castiel realized that Dean’s mouth was moving but he didn’t register a single word. Before he knew what was happening, he was being led outside of the bar at a respectable distance. The second they made it out into the fresh night air, Castiel found himself pushed up against a wall, Dean’s face inches from his own.

Dean’s emerald eyes looked mystical, nearly magical in the moonlight. The air between them was filled with tension and unspoken words. “Cas,” Dean whispered.

Castiel tangled his fingers in Dean’s hair, not caring that he was getting hair gel on his fingers. He stared into the emerald oceans before him, searching for the comfort he’d been missing since the second Dean left him months ago, and finding it. The staring continued for what seemed like seconds and eons at the same time. Then, as if they had reached some sort of unspoken agreement, Castiel allowed himself to lean in and press his lips to Dean’s soft, warm ones.

Dean reacted as passionately as he did the first time they did this, pushing back and giving as good as he got. Dean’s whole body radiated warmth, making Castiel’s skin dance with heat, even in the cool air of that spring night. He wanted nothing better than to allow Dean to swallow him whole, pull him closer than he ever thought possible. Sparks danced between their lips as they both desperately tried to make up for lost time. Castiel nipped and Dean’s lips and at some point, it became a heated clash of teeth and tongues.

Eventually, Castiel lost track of time and allowed himself to become completely absorbed in the kiss. The effect was spell-binding. And, after what seemed like forever, and yet not long enough, Dean pulled away, gasping for air. “Holy shit,” he mumbled.

Castiel’s lips twitched upwards. “There was nothing holy about that, Dean,” he said, running his thumb over Dean’s cheek.

Dean huffed a breathless laugh. “Fuck you.”

“Here?” Castiel asked.

Dean hit Castiel’s arm, obviously not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to get his point across. Though, Dean’s eyes twinkled with pride. He knew that he had a hand in teaching Castiel how to include this many innuendos in his speech.

Castiel tipped his head back and drank in the cool air. It sent refreshing blades of ice running through his lungs. “I didn’t know you were coming back,” he mumbled. 

Dean sighed, his breathing a little uneven. “Neither did I.”

They shared a moment where Dean was just holding Castiel like nothing else mattered. Silent and grateful to be together.

Castiel eyed Dean carefully. “How long until you ship out?”

“No idea,” Dean replied, moving to rest his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder. “Could be days, weeks, or months. Bosses are still planning it out but it looks like I’ll be stationed somewhere over in Britain for a while before movin’ out.”

Castiel nodded silently. Ever since he met Dean when the man was first on leave and stopped in at the Roadhouse for a drink, he had known the day would come when he would ship out. It just terrified him. After all, Castiel felt so attached to the man and there were… words that he couldn’t - shouldn’t - say to someone who could die in the next few months. These were also words that he certainly shouldn’t say to a man. It could get them both killed and they knew it.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by Dean’s knuckles softly brushing over his cheek. “You back with me yet, sunshine?”

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “How have you been?” he asked, doing his best to divert Dean’s attention from his jumbled up mess of feelings.

Dean sighed and leaned closer, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Been okay. I mostly… I mostly missed you, I guess,” he mumbled bashfully. That was the thing about Dean Winchester, he could say the most vulgar things without batting an eye, but if you asked him to say how he felt, he turned into a blushing grade-schooler. However, the endearing nature of this was not to be understated.

Castiel managed a gentle, soft smile, despite his tumultuous thoughts and feelings that begged to be heard. “I missed you too, Dean.” 

Dean let out a strained breath. “This is so fucked up. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Cas.” He stepped back, away from Castiel and out of his space.

Castiel fought away the choked, rejected feeling that bubbled up in his chest. “For what, Dean?” he asked gently. It was hard to get information out of Dean without causing him to burst, though, Castiel considered himself an expert on the subject by now.

Dean turned his back on Castiel and tilted his head up towards the sky as if he was searching for some answers that only the moon and stars could provide him. Castiel reached out and placed a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. Instead of recoiling, like he half expected Dean to, the other man stayed put under his gentle touch.“I’m… God, I’m sorry for doing this to you. You deserve so much fucking better,” Dean whispered. 

This… this confused Castiel more than anything the man had ever said. This included Dean’s references to music and singers that Castiel didn’t know. “Better…? Dean, I-”

Before he could say another word, Dean turned around and cut him off, sentences spilling out, rushed, as if he needed to say it before he lost the nerve, “You deserve better than this! I came back into your life after weeks of not seeing you and then pushed you into the first available alley and used you- Fuck! You deserve someone who won’t be leaving to go off and fight and possibly die in France or Germany or wherever the hell we’re storming! Someone who will stay here and make you breakfast in bed and just… Be able to say and be everything you deserve.” Dean’s eyes were frantic, desperate, and searching. 

Castiel took Dean’s hands, offering a calming presence. “Dean, it’s not of import to me whether you’ll be here for a month, a week, a day, an hour, a minute, or even just one more second. All that matters to me is that you mean the world to me. I’ve had much time to think and dream and the conclusion that I came to is that… I love you. And I will wait for you until the war is over and you come home. All that I ask is that you make it back to me safely, understand? Your safety is the most crucial thing for me.”

A pregnant pause filled the air. Dean’s eyes were wide in astonishment, taking in Castiel’s words as if he couldn’t quite believe them. Then, moments later, he pressed his lips to Castiel’s again but, unlike their first kiss in the alley, it was just a soft press of lips. No heat or urgency, just two people memorizing each other, desperate to hold onto a single memory before it would be lost to the night.

Dean’s lips soon moved to Castiel’s neck and in between soft kisses, the whispered words, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” were pressed into Castiel’s skin. Soon, the two would have to part. Soon, Dean Winchester would be sent to Normandy and would nearly lose his life on Omaha Beach. Soon, Hitler would perish and the war would be over. But before any of that could happen, the two of them stood in an alleyway under the cover of darkness, saying words they would never be brave enough to speak in the light of day.

After all, words said in the dark are often the most secretive, the most precious, and the most dangerous. But, even years after, when Dean would return to Castiel’s arms after the war, Castiel would still hold the memory of that alleyway close, because it was the first time Dean truly allowed him to see every inch of his bared soul. At last, there were no secrets and no lies, just two people, fighting for a love that would never be recognized or appreciated. A love that could easily get both of them killed.

Words said under the cover of darkness and the cover of night are truly the most beautiful and the most truthful.

[barbariccia]

mordin’s assistant isn’t exactly hidden, but the clinic’s stretched so thin that no one could even offer to go poking around a couple of shut doors.

well, he’s getting threatened by batarians anyway.

Batarian: We know you’re spreading the plague virus. We saw the vials in your bag.

Daniel: No! Those vials contain the cure. Please... you have to believe me.

Batarian: Maybe we should cut off your fingers. That should loosen your--

we run in, guns akimbo, and have the option to tell your squad to shoot the fuckers, or you can use a paragon/renegade option to talk him down.

Renegade Shepard: Pull that trigger, and you’re breathing through a new hole in your head. Let him go, and you walk away.

Daniel, eyes shut tight: Oh, God...

Batarian: You must think batarians are stupid. What’s to stop you from killing us if we let him go?

Shepard: Let him live, I let you leave. Kill him, I do the same to you.

they back off, and we tell the squad to stand aside so they can get out of here.

we tell daniel to run back down the district to the clinic because mordin’s swamped, and head off on our way again. it’s pretty simple to find where you’re going from here, it’s only up a staircase and around a corner, and you’ll know you’ve found the right place when a vorcha - sorry, a blood pack’s boom-squad - tells you to pound dirt, essentially.

Vorcha: We shut down machines, break fans! Everyone choke and die! Then Collectors make us strong! Collectors want plague! We kill you first!

cue shooout. EDI tells us at some point there’s a control system at the back of the room; we inject the cure there and start the systems up again. and we’ve also got to go turn the fans on manually. while shooting an absolute legion of vorcha, batarians and krogan. even on an easy difficulty it’s easy to get overwhelmed.

but we’re numero uno, so we manage it, and make our way back to mordin’s clinic, where he’s still working and chattering away rapidfire. hey, his assistant’s there, too!

Daniel: For a second there, I thought you were going to shoot them even after they let me go.

Shepard: I was tempted for a minute. But I figured they didn’t deserve to die.

Mordin: Merciful of you. Risky. Would have killed them, myself.

Daniel: Professor? How can you say that? You’re a doctor. You believe in helping people.

Mordin: Lots of ways to help people. Sometimes heal patients. Sometimes execute dangerous people. Either way helps. Go check on the patients. Lots of work to do. Think about what I said.

mordin’s more than happy to join us, giving daniel control of the clinic, and he says he’ll meet us on the ship.

man, the post mission insights to TIM’s thoughts on how he can use the team against shepard, against the world... i like these insights.

back on the normandy, jacob is escorting mordin to the briefing room, and says it’s an honour to be working with him.

Shepard: You’re very well informed.

Mordin: Salarian government well connected. Espionage experts. Had top level clearance once. Retired now. Still hear things. Informed of name only. No knowledge of man behind it. Anti-alien reputation listed as problematic.

you heard it here first, folks, we’re calling TIM.

we catch mordin up to speed - what we know about the attacks, and the peopel carrying them out, which is little and less, other than what we’ve seen on freedom’s progress.

Mordin: Gas, maybe? No. Spreads too slow. Airborne virus? No. Slower than gass. Drugged water supply? No. Effects not simultaneous.

Shepard: You don’t have to sit there and guess. We collected samples from one of the colonies. I’d like you to analyse them and figure out how the Collectors did this.

Mordin: Yes. Of course. Analyze the samples. going to need a lab.

EDI: There is a fully-equipped lab on the combat deck, Professor Solus. If you find anything lacking, please place a requisition order.

Mordin, looking around: Who’s that? Pilot? No. Synthesized voice. Simulated emotional inflections. Could it be... no. Maybe. Have to ask. Is that an AI?

Shepard: The ship is equipped with an AI, yes.

Mordin: An AI on board? Non-human crew members? Cerberus more desperate than I thought.

Jacob: The Collectors have taken tens of thousands of colonists. We’ll do whatever we have to to find and stop them.

Mordin: Yes. Of course. Can’t risk being captured like colonists. Need to identify, neutralize technology. Need samples. Which way to the lab?

<mordin solus has joined the normandy>

i love mordin so much. his voice patter is difficult to get across in text alone, but he speaks at such a rapid-fire pace that it’s a delight to keep up with him and know that this is how fast his brain likely works, and he throws words out just to help the brain juice chug along. i love that he’s retired and yet needs to keep his hand and mind moving - he’s the kind of person that could never just stop and rest.

better, even though he’s introduced to us as a doctor, he’s surprisingly... cold and calculated, which is perfect for the mission we need him for, certainly, but is a little chilling. his face is scarred and he’s missing one of the horns on his head, telling us on first meeting that he used to be part of the STG; this isn’t someone who got to where he is by being pacifistic, certainly. we’ll learn more about where he’s come from and where he’s going in the future. let’s go have a chat with him now anyways.

[mvrcutios]

— INTRODUCING:

➺ Alexandre Preston as  M𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔬

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel,  i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues,  platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

           ➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter)  for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

   ➺ for he  is the devil in every detail                

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the  devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of  what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + )  The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + )  It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

                          ➺    A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no?  Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will.  I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

                                                     -Xandre

[indigosandviolets]

The Secrets a Book Can Tell

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x OC x George Luz

Word Count: 2,564

Summary: Andrew and Luz watch a movie even though Luz just can’t seem to shut up, but soon they’re all called to Bastogne. Andrew remembers how he came into the possession of the book he refuses to die without, but then the possibility of dying seems to only get worse as they start the march to Bastogne.

Notes: This chapter was originally just gonna have a minor flashback with Albert, but since someone said something about wanting to learn more about Andrew’s past, I made that a whole part!

Part Eleven of We Happy Few

-

The darkness of the room would have been perfectly coupled with silence, moving and working together to create a peaceful place as the men of Easy Company watched a movie.

That silence, of course, was not going to happen, all in favor of Geroge Luz.

“Gotta penny?” He said as the scene changed. Andrew nudged his side, trying to get him to shut up. Andrew had just wanted to hold hands with the lovable goofball, but because he kept talking he kept drawing attention to himself.

“Shut up, Luz,” Toye said, not turning around.

“Come on, I’ve seen the move seventeen times.”

“And I haven’t,” Toye replies, turning his head to look at Luz. “So shut up.”

Luz, being Luz, didn’t pay any mind. “Gotta penny?”

Andrew nudged him again. “George, stop,” he whispered. He had only seen the movie once before, and he barely remembered where that line even was, if it existed. It seemed to be Luz’s favorite, and he persisted.

“Gotta penny?” His voice was becoming more exaggerated, and Andrew was a blushing mess.

“George, please, quit it.”

“C’mon, it’s my favorite part,” He whispers to Andrew before saying the line again. “Gotta penny?”

Toye looked back at him again, ready to kill and Andrew could see it. He prayed that Toye didn’t have his brass knuckles. Luz stayed focus on the screen. “Gotta pen-ny?”

The woman finally says it, and Luz cheers. “For fuck’s sake, George,” Andrew says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Admittedly, he did love the idiot, but he wanted a quiet movie where they wouldn’t get caught while doing slight, domestic things. Luz had deflected that by, well, being Luz. Luz turned to Andrew after, his always present goofy smile lurking on his face.

He leans over into Andrew’s ear, whispering, “You know you love me.”

As Luz pulls away, Andrew glares at him. It’s not a mean one, it’s just an annoyed one, and Luz knows it based on the little laugh that he lets out.

Going to the movie had already been a strangely emotional thing for Andrew. He didn’t let it show, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the first time he and Luz kissed before the movie (which they did before this one, just a lot more hastily than that first time) and the circumstances around that kiss. He also couldn’t stop thinking about how he had been pulled out of the said movie to kiss Liebgott.

Now, this time it wasn’t Liebgott, but they were pulled out of the movie -- everyone was. Welsh took up the attention of the room, standing up at the top of the stage in the front of the makeshift theatre. “Get your gear, everyone, we’re moving out. Take everything you’re gonna need.”

That’s not really what Welsh said, but Andrew was sent straight into getting ready so quickly that he couldn’t remember exactly what the Lieutenant said.

Andrew buttoned up his jacket as fast as possible, threw as many warm clothes his combat bag would carry as far down as possible, followed by a few packs of cigarettes and half a bar of chocolate that he had stolen with Liebgott from the canteen.

He slipped on his winter coat and hat before throwing the bag over his shoulder. As he did so, a book fell off his bed in the haste. He picked it up carefully like the book was so fragile that it would snap in half at too harsh of a touch.

It was All Quiet on the Western Front, the same copy and edition he had carried with him from Toccoa. He rubbed his finger over the now worn spine, moving to the corners of the cover. They had been bent over, rumpled, becoming soft. He opened the book, and other than his name written in a soft pencil, a message had been written in on the back of the front cover.

Remember, read to Luz!

Andrew’s fingertips touched the messy note, remembering how Luz had asked him to read to him that fateful night in Normandy. He sighed, slipping the book into the inside pocket of his winter coat and stepping out with the rest of the men, ready to get in the douche-and-a-half’s.

-

Andrew acquired All Quiet on the Western Front from his brother, Albert. Albert had always been a novice reader, in fact, his second choice for his major in college was literature, but he stuck with finance and business instead. Having no other real male figure to try and emulate in his day-to-day life, Andrew too picked up a love and real passion for reading.

It had started off small, with reading a new book once a month after Albert had moved out. It became a rock and grounding for Andrew to become more in tune with himself -- and to tune out his parents as well.

This soon escalated to two, to three, to four, averaging one a week. He couldn’t get enough of the words as they seemed to fly off the page, and he also couldn’t get enough from the escape of his parents. He read anything he could get his hands on, it was like an obsession.

All Quiet on the Western Front, though, wasn’t one of those books that he read in a week. Albert had left a copy behind, but it was well-read, torn in many places. There were even whole chapters missing from here they had been ripped out (Albert used them for inspiration and note-giving). What he could read, though, was mostly in German. Albert had went out and gone and bought a German edition of the book, learning the language just to translate the book. Andrew couldn’t understand it, other than the simple “Ja” here and there. It was a nightmare to read, and it was one of the things that Andrew had taken with him when he stole the truck and drove to Chicago.

“Al,” Andrew said one night as they sat on the couch after dinner. They had been listening to the radio, hearing updates about the war in the Pacific. Andrew had already looked into enlisting for the Army that morning. “Why in the name of God did you have to leave me a book in German?”

Albert shrugged. “Motivation, I guess.”

“Motivation for what?”

“To get you to visit me,” Albert said, smile wide on his face. Andrew now remembers that he and Albert did share a smile. There were several things that the two of them didn’t even come close to being similar in, but you couldn’t deny that the Marin boys had the same smile. “Took you, what, three, four years?”

Andrew hit his older brother’s shoulder. “I hardly call it a visit.”

“Then what is it?”

“An escape.”

“Yeah, that works.”

Andrew held the German edition in his hands for a moment before giving it over to Albert. “Half of it’s gone, by the way. You ripped out a lot.”

“I know,” Albert replied, taking the book and holding it up to the light. “You know, I forgot half of it.”

“The book?”

“Well, that, but I forgot half the German I learned.”

Andrew laughed. “What good you are to the Army.”

“That is why, my dear brother, you are going instead.”

Andrew sighed. “If they’ll take me.”

Albert looked over to Andrew. “They’ll take you, don’t worry. I hear they need guys for their new Airborne program.”

“The hell is that?”

“You think I know?”

Albert got up, placing the book on the coffee table before he walked over to his bookshelf. He scanned it for a minute before pulling out a newer copy of the same book -- this time, in English.

“Here,” Albert said as he gave Andrew the copy. “It’s brand new. You’re gonna need something to read when you have downtime.”

Albert and Andrew couldn’t have expected that downtime for reading to happen where the book actually took place, but that night, Andrew tucked the book away into his bag after writing his name on the inside cover, not sure when he was going to read it.

-

Andrew sat beside Liebgott and Babe, nestled between the two, his knees pulled up towards him to keep in as much warmth as possible. Everyone was talking to a replacement -the name he didn’t quite catch, maybe Ray? - what why he had so little on him.

“You need four pairs of socks,” Skip Muck tells him. “One for your feet, one for your hands, one for your neck and pair for the balls.”

Everyone seemed to agree. Everyone was asking the replacement of what he had on him and what he needed.

“You got cigarettes?” Someone asks, and the replacement nods.

“Yeah, I got a half-”

Andrew can’t hear the rest of the sentence as everyone grabs for cigarettes, even Liebgott and Babe. Andrew puts his hand on Lieb’s shoulder. “I got you a pack, calm down. I’ll get it out when we stop.”

“You gotta coat?” Liebgott asks. And he asks it again. He keeps asking it until another matter is deemed more pressing, that of which he turns to look at Babe and Andrew to say, “I gotta piss.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” Andrew tells him.

“No shit,” Liebgott says, turning away. Andrew knows that Lieb is being a little short with him, but that’s mainly due to the fact that he still felt awkward around Babe after what happened before Eindhoven. Despite this, Liebgott moved his hand around Andrew’s waist, most of their bodies covered by the winter coats so that no one would see it. He accomplished this by timing it with when the truck lurched as it went over a rough patch on the dirt road, knocking everyone into each other. This was a perfect time, Liebgott seemed to decide, that he give a little reassuring squeeze to Andrew.

“Why the hell are we even comin’ over here anyway?” Guarnere asks everyone. “We’re supposed to jump outta planes, not ride out and march to the battlefield.” Andrew knew that Guarnere was always somewhat passionate about the things he thought were problems. “This is the fourth Army problem, right? They should be sendin’ in the sixty-eighth, not the one-o-one.”

Andrew leaned his head up to get his voice over to Guarnere. “We’re still Army, Guarnere. They’re gonna send us wherever the hell they want to. It doesn’t matter if we’re armored or not.”

“The hell do you know, Marin?” Guarnere says.

“Guarnere, where the hell have you been the last two years?” Andrew replies. “You of all people should know that Mister Eisenhower doesn’t give a shit about who gets sent in. As long as the problem gets resolved, they could send in the fucking coast guard and he couldn’t give a shit.”

Guarnere turns, patting the replacement on the shoulder. “That’s Andrew Marin. Second smartest guy in the company.”

“Who’s first?”

“That’s Bull.”

Andrew looked down, smiling to himself. It didn’t sound like a lot, but to be second to Bull? He could only dream.

As the truck came to a stop, Andrew, Babe, and Liebgott were the first out, and Babe and Andrew stood by a pit that had been filled with gas, waiting for one of the Lieutenants to get it lit. Andrew almost did it with his lighter, but he needed it -- he smoked too much to not have one on him. They also waited on Liebgott, who had gone to resolve the pressing matter of having to piss.

“It’s so goddamn cold, Babe,” Andrew says as the fire finally reaches them. Andrew didn’t think that the smell of burning gas would actually be comforting.

“Remember how they said we’d be home by Christmas?” Babe tells him. “Way back before Market Garden?”

“Jesus, yeah, I do,” Andrew laughs. “I wrote to my brother about it too. What a load of good that does now.”

“Hey, at least you and Liebgott will be together for Christmas.”

“Yeah, if we don’t freeze our asses off.”

“Hey, kiddos,” Liebgott says as he returns to Babe and Andrew. “How’s the fire?”

“No one else is gonna here us, you don’t have to say kiddos, Lieb,” Andrew tells him. “It’s good. How was the piss?”

“As good as a piss can get while you’re freezing your ass off,” Liebgott replies, standing beside Andrew. “I would not recommend it.”

Andrew chuckles, looking up from the fire and out to the road. He doesn’t quite see it at first, but there’s movement. A lot of movement. Men, disheveled and battered and bruised, walking on the road, out of the town they were supposed to go into. Andrew taps on Liebgott, making him look at the marching men.

“What the hell happened to them?” Babe asked. “They look like complete shit.”

“I have no idea, Babe.”

Andrew looked over to Liebgott, who didn’t say anything. He just looked back at Andrew, and Andrew could feel just how scared they both were. Not of what was ahead, but for each other, worried if they would get through the hell that walked before them alive. If the guys there had only been in for a month and looked like this when they were pulling out — while it was starting to get cold — what the hell was going to happen to the rest of them?

Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Guarnere talking to one of the men. Now, if there was anyone who only took the absolute truth, it was Guarnere.

“I’ll go talk to Gonorrhea,” Andrew tells them. “Just get what you can find, yeah?”

“Drew, what-“ Liebgott starts, and Andrew turns around. “What do you expect him to know?”

“He’s talking to one of ‘em, so he knows more than us,” Andrew says. “Plus, he holds more power, being as we’re only tech corporals and he’s a goddamn sergeant.”

Liebgott purses his lips before he sighs. “Fine, but be careful, alright?”

“I will be. We promised, remember?”

With that, Andrew turned and walked to Guarnere, who had just stopped talking to the soldier from the fourth army. “Bill, what’s going on?”

Guarnere looks at Andrew. “It’s a goddamn suicide mission, that’s what it is,” Guarnere tells him. “They probably went in there with 200 guys, now they’re comin’ out with 93. Just get their ammo and pray to God you’re not gonna be dead before your birthday, Marin.”

Guarnere walks off to get ammo from the men before Andrew can ask another question. He steps back from the road. His birthday is in less than two weeks and Guarnere was telling him that he might die before then. Terrible thought, he knows, but that’s the truth. Anyone could die out there, be it God’s will or good ol’ Mr. Hitler’s.

Maybe that’s why Andrew brought his book, because he knew he wouldn’t die without it. Because he knew that if he did die, no one else could have that copy, with the worn cover and dog eared pages and cracked spine and message about Luz talking about a promise he hadn’t quite carried out yet, because if he wasn’t able to read it to Luz, no one would know but him and Luz. Not another soul could have known what happened on that night in D-Day, only Andrew, Luz, and All Quiet on the Western Front.

-

tag list: @alienoresimagines @fromcrossroadstoking @easyroses @leximus98 if you want to be added, please let me know!

[buzzdixonwriter]

You Don’t Say

For me, one of the unforeseen benefits of Facebook and other social media is that it gives me a chance to do rough drafts of ideas, assembling my thoughts and getting feedback before committing to more permanent form.

And sometimes, like asteroids colliding in space, two separate ideas / posts slam into one another and either create something new and unexpected, or else shatter themselves and reveal interesting aspects of their nature heretofore hidden from view.

That happened recently with a pair of Facebook posts I made on Dennis Prager and Harlan Ellison.

Let’s get the turd out of our mouth first.

. . .

Dennis Prager is a purveyor of herpetology lubricants admired by many on the right-leaning-nazi side of the spectrum, primarily because he keeps his mouth closed when chewing.  Half of what he says is repackaged self-evident truths of the “Don’t eat the yellow snow” variety, a quarter is opinions that if not startling original are at least not genuinely harmful, and the remain quarter is egregious bullshit for which he deserves a public pants down spanking.

Hmm, what?  Oh, yes; purely metaphorically, of course.

I long since wrote off Prager as a. utterer of inanities, but recently his turdmongering was forced on my attention by someone who posted a link to Prager’s argument that the “left” (i.e., basically anybody who thinks Auschwitz was a Bad Idea) is inflicting harm on both the American body politic and the universe at large by denying people like Prager the right to drop the N-bomb whenever they feel like it.

As some of you no doubt already knew, Prager is a member of what polite bigots used to refer to as “those of the Hebrew persuasion”.

That a person from an ethnicity that historically suffered hatred so vicious and specifically targeted that a special word had to be created for it (“anti-Semitism” because the original word -- “Jew-hatred” -- was too damned ugly even for bigots to use) now has his knickers in a twist because he’s “not allowed” to use the only other word of equal or greater impact -- also coined specifically by oppressors for expressing unrestrained hate and contempt against those oppressed -- is so rich in irony that all I can do is swipe a phrase from Jim Wright over at Stonekettle Station and say Dennis Prager has “all the self-awareness of a dog licking its own asshole in the middle of the street”.

First off, he’s lying: Neither the “left” nor American law prevents him from dropping the N-bomb whenever he feels like it and I invite him to go down to the intersection of Normandie and Florence in South Central and drop it at the top of his lungs for as long as he is able and please make sure to take plenty of video recorders along because I really wanna see what happens next.

Second, why the fuck would you want to say that? Seriously, other than in an evidentiary context (a cop giving testimony in court, a journalist reporting what some bigoted politician says, etc.), who today gains anything from repeating the word other than inflicting unjustified distress on people who have done nothing to deserve it?

(This is the point where a bunch of alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and say “but whatabout all the times when black people say it?” and to those trolls I’m gonna say STFU & STFD; if you can’t grasp the difference in context then you’re too damned stupid to be allowed out in public except at the end of a leash and with a ball gag in your mouth.)

It’s a word specifically created and designed to be used to brutally oppress people who did nothing to deserve that brutal oppression.  Why would anybody outside that group use it except to participate in that brutal oppression?

. . .

Least there sit any in the cheap seats who presume the above rant was targeted at Dennis Prager simply because he was Jewish, guess again, ya yutzes.

Few writers enjoyed as brilliant and as incendiary a career as Harlan Ellison, and I count myself privileged to have been one of his friends.

Ellison, as many of you know, also was Jewish, a damned tough little bastard, singled out for hatred and abuse as the only Jewish child in his backwater Ohio school, growing up with nerves & balls of chromium, a bona fide Army Ranger, and a writer so honest and fearless that when he wrote about juvenile delinquency in the 1950s he did so by infiltrating and joining a street gang to get first hand experience and insight on the kids who ran in that crowd (and as icing on the cake, James Caan played him in the TV version!).

Top that, Dennis.

Harlan’s electric eclectic career features many highpoints, but the one I want to focus on is his brief 4-year run as TV critic for the legendary Los Angeles Free Press (a.k.a. The Freep) from 1968 to 1972.  

What’s interesting is that Harlan did this while at the same time at the height of his demand as a TV writer.

You got any idea how hard it is to make a living while you’re gnawing on the hand that feeds you?

Harlan may have been crazy, but damn it, he was honest.

Back to the issue at hand.

Recently I’ve been re-reading his TV criticism columns, collected in two volumes, The Glass Teat and The Other Glass Teat.

The depressing thing is that all the evil we see today was in place back in those days, and the same smug pious frauds and their dimbulb marks kept congratulating themselves how wonderful they were as things continued to spiral out of control.

Oh, we've had good moments when we made changes that improved the lot of people who'd previously been marginalized, but the core cancer is still there. Harlan was no cock-eyed sentimentalist -- he was often filled with anger and could vent it spectacularly at deserving targets -- but he did have hope that somehow we could keep nudging the ball further towards the goal lines.

The columns make fascinating reading; they are nowhere near as dated as one might suspect. Sometimes they offer diamond-like brilliant dissections of a particular instant in the cultural gestalt, other times they examine the unseen (well, to most audiences, that is) tides of Hollywood that shape our media, sometimes he turns his attention to bear on seemingly insignificant and forgotten local programming only to show with McLuhan-esque clarity how that tiny piece of seemingly insignificant fluff is symptomatic of a much wider, much vaster, and far more serious problem.

One entry caught my eye in particular, the March 7, 1969 column on a failed ABC pilot called Those Were The Days.

Harlan sat in the studio audience watching the taping of that pilot, and his column praised the courage and insight of producers Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin, the brilliant performances of Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton, and the raw honesty of the pilot’s sharp comedy and writing.

Those of you not in the cheap seats have already realized this was the second failed pilot for what would eventually become All In The Family over at CBS (there was an even earlier original pilot called Justice For All back when Archie and Edith’s last name was Justice, not Bunker.)

I remember the hoopla when All In The Family finally aired in January of 1971 as a mid-season replacement.

You might count Archie Bunker as the white Dolemite insofar as the comedy sprang from the shock of all the crude and vulgar things he said.

Lear and Yorkin were mocking that mindset, belittling bigotry, exposing the Babbittry of millions of “good” Americans who lacked either the self-awareness or the courage to take a long introspective look at themselves and realize how badly they were failing as citizens of this country.

Audiences weren’t supposed to like Archie Bunker.

And that’s where Lear and Yorkin made their fatal mistake.

No, audiences didn’t like Archie.

They loved him.

. . .

Asteroids collide, and sometimes they form new planets, and sometimes they shatter and expose what lies beneath.

Prager’s modern day Babbittry crashed into Harlan’s half-century old anti-Babbittry, and from the explosion a stark truth revealed itself.

It’s almost impossible to make an outlaw a villain in popular media.

No matter how many banks they rob, stages they hold up, sheriffs they shoot, the mere fact that somebody wrote a song / dime novel / movie about ‘em makes them into heroes.

Demi-gods.

People to be admired.

Emulated.

Professional wrestling knows this.

You can never be so big a heel that you won’t have a legion of followers.

And you can turn a heel into a baby face in the blink of an eye and none of the fans will remember the despicable acts the wrassler did just last week.

You put an Archie Bunker on TV, you do not get millions of people to recognize themselves in his hateful / hurtful behavior and change their ways.

Oh, hell no; you get millions of people to applaud him for saying and doing what they say and do in private.

And now that it’s all big and bold and brassy on TV, why it becomes even easier to say it in the privacy of your own home, then over the fence with the neighbors, then in the bar down the street, then on the street itself, and then against people who have done you no harm, who have committed no sin other than the heinous crime of not being exactly like you.

I remember watching and liking All In The Family when it first came on because I, like millions of other Americans, got the joke:  Archie was no hero.

But it wasn’t long before the voices cheering Archie began to drown out the voices laughing at him.

Lear and Yorkin tried undoing their damage with Maude and The Jeffersons and Good Times and other spinoff shows, but the bigot was out of the bottle.

Archie Bunker, even though written in a way to ridicule his use of bigotry and stereotypes, became a champion and defender of those who clung to said bigotry and stereotypes.

So tell me again why you want to drop that N-bomb, Dennis.

Explain to me -- even while you talk out of both sides of your mouth and claim even if everybody can use they word maybe they shouldn’t use the word -- how that does anything to help anybody…

…other than bigots and hate mongers.

Your argument is as circular as the thumb and forefinger gesture white supremacists use to signal one another, a gesture deliberately chosen because it lets them transgress openly by lying about the truth meaning of their gesture.

And Harlan, you were right about Those Were The Days as it began evolving into All In The Family.  Absolutely brilliant -- but absolutely deadly.

Not airing All In The Family wouldn’t have eliminated racial / ethnic / sexual prejudice in the United States…

…but it would have denied those ideas a voice.

The narcissist always proclaims, “I don’t care what they say about me so long as they spell my name right.”

Well, that’s what we got with Archie Bunker.

None of the bigots cared if we made fun of their ideas…

…just so long as they got their ideas out there.

Because ideas are made legitimate by their presence.

Now clearly, this is a bade that cuts both ways.

Ideas once unthinkable -- liberty and justice for all in the form of racial and gender equality, f’r instance -- need to be championed in public.

But we need to shout down and stamp out the bad ideas.

The United States took their foot off the neck of the defeated white racists after the end of the Civil War, and as a result jim crow came roaring back, and things did not change for millions of Americans for another entire century.

We allowed bigots and hate mongers and slavers to be whitewashed and glorified and forgiven for their crimes against humanity…

…and in the process we allowed them to continue victimizing African-Americans more and more.

Every song about the Ol’ South, every novel glorifying plantation life, every movie showing happy field hands, every statue commemorating murderous traitors as men of honor and principle, every single iteration of that idea made millions of people’s suffering not just possible but inevitable.

. . .

Now this is the point where the alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and ask “did you ever drop the N-word?”

Not in casual conversation, no.

I was born and raised in the South (Appalachia, mostly); my father’s side of the family were almost all Southerners.

Almost all.

My paternal grandmother was born and raised in New Jersey and met my grandfather when both served in the U.S. Army medical corps in WWI.  When my grandfather died in his 40s, my grandmother originally moved back to New Jersey, but her three children (dad and two aunts) felt heartbroken at having to leave their Southern cousins and friends behind so even though she carried no particular love for the South, my grandmother moved her family back and stayed there for the most of her life (she and one of my aunts moved out to California to be near us, but that’s another story for another post).

One thing my grandmother absolutely refused to tolerate was use of the N-bomb anywhere near her, especially under her roof or in the homes of her children.

This included both the -er and -ra variants, because Southern racists who didn’t want to appear as uncultured and as boorish and as bigoted as their backwoods cousins preferred the second pronunciation because they could claim they were actually speaking respectfully about “colored people”.

So I grew up in the rare white Southern home where the N-bomb merely wasn’t used, it was actually denounced as wrong.

Now, don’t go thinking my grandmother was some great paragon of virtue; she wasn’t (she was hell on wheels, in fact, but that’s another story for another post).

But she did recognize there was something wrong with the use of the N-bomb, and whether she demanded her children never use it in any form to keep them from appearing to be boorish, bigoted louts, or whether she just thought it was simple good manners of the golden rule variety not to use it, I dunno.

But I do know we never used it, and when my parents heard our neighbors or schoolmates use it, we were reminded in no uncertain terms that we were never to use it.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t used it.

A couple of decades ago I wrote a screenplay based on the life of Robert Smalls, in particular his incredible escape from Civil War Charleston by hijacking a Confederate gunboat and sailing it right past Ft. Sumter to join the Union fleet, bringing his wife and several other escaping African-Americans with him.

As a skilled harbor pilot, Smalls enjoyed certain privileges other enslaved African-Americans didn’t.

For example, he was allowed to go about the streets of Charleston unescorted…

…provided he wore a big diamond shaped brass tag around his neck.

Like a dog.

The tag indicated to slave catcher patrols that he was one of the “good” ones, that he could be trusted because he was helping his masters in their struggle against the Union by guiding blockade runners into the safety of Charleston harbor.

But knowing Southerners the way I do, and knowing the kind of low class good ol’ boy types they recruited for such jobs, I couldn’t imagine the slave catcher patrols being particularly courteous to him, even when they knew they had to let him pass because clearly he had the protection of some high positioned muckamuck.  

And I could easily imagine them flinging the N-bomb at him with great glee, taunting him, daring him to act “uppity” so they could beat the crap out of him and teach him some manners and remind him of his place.

So I used the word in their dialog in my script.

Would I use that word today?

Probably not.

It’s not that crucial to the story, and if the viewer doesn’t grasp the concept that these are bigoted bully scum from their actions and attitude, then I’ve failed my job as a writer.

Have I ever quoted people who dropped the N-bomb?

Yeah, I have, in the past.

I’ve quoted Richard Pryor and Blazing Saddles and Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction.

I would excuse it then as the aforementioned evidentiary context but ya know what?  I don’t quote those lines anymore.

I still think Pryor is hilarious and will recommend his routines to anyone I think might be interested, but he as a member of the African-American community at large (because like any other ethnic group, African-Americans have numerous sub-cultures and sub-communities among them), he could say things in a way neither I nor any other white person could say them.

(And, yeah, there’s a big debate going on to this very day among African-Americans about the appropriateness of that word and you know what?  Whatever decision African-Americans reach for themselves is their business and should not involve any input whatsoever from we white folk; we not only can’t use the word, we can’t even comment on how they choose to use it.  Period.  Full stop.)

Blazing Saddles when it came out used the N-bomb to be deliberately transgressive, to make a sympathetic point re how unfairly African-Americans were treated.

All well and good.

But nine years earlier there had been a movie called A Patch Of Blue and while it wasn’t a raucous comedy like Blazing Saddles it tried making a point about race relations in America and it was a really. Really good movie and it made some important points but today is virtually unwatchable not because of any flaws in it but because the times have changed.

Ditto Blazing Saddles.

We don’t need to approach the problem that way any more.

Quentin Tarantino?  I really like what he does as a director and a screenwriter but his use of the N-bomb to show us how transgressive his characters are is really shallow.  I have a strong feeling his movies are going to be considered embarrassingly passé’ in a generation or two, much the same way as benign-yet-stereotypical characters in 1940s movies render many of them passé’ today.  

Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction lose nothing by changing the N-word to something else.  

Maybe an argument could be made for its use in Django Unchained or The Hateful 8 but even there I think substituting another word wouldn’t significantly change the tenor or tone of either movie.

So I stop quoting those lines from Tarantino’s films, at least not fully.

I can admire his skill / talent / craft without signing off on his problematic elements.

Let me offer an analogy: If a creator can get the same dramatic effect by pretending to shoot somebody but not actually blasting them with a gun, then they can get the same dramatic effect by using something evocative of the N-bomb without actually dropping it.

(By the way, for those who may be curious, my mother was from Naples and a bona fide card carrying member of Mussolini’s Fascist Youth Brigade, but that’s another story for another post.)

. . .

We are plunging into a new cultural conflict -- and while I think there will be violence, I don’t see it being violence on the scale or level of political organization as the Civil War -- and we can only win by refusing to let the bigots and the hate mongers spew their bullshit in the marketplace of ideas.

There is no compromise with an oppressor.

Stand up to it every time you encounter it.

Make it unthinkable, never acceptable. 

  © Buzz Dixon

[masseffecthoe]

Soul Glitches

Chapter 3

< Chapter 2

Kaidan was still unconscious despite Jun's best efforts to heal him. She was no medic, but his head had been pretty banged up and there was really no way to tell how affected his implants were. She spied Shepard from the corner of her eye and cursed the major under her breath. The last thing the commander needed was to worry about his sorry ass.

"I did all I could, but we have to get him to the Citadel asap. Someone has to check on his amps."

"Right. Joker, get us to the Citadel."

"Alright commander. Meanwhile, you've got Hackett on the line." She left in a hurry, sealing one more glance at the major's still form. Jun turned to him as well, wishing there was something more she could do to help. She missed Dr. Chakwas, the older woman would have been all over the situation in no time. Liara came around the bed, gentle hand placed on Jun's shoulder. The asari had a way about her that was soothing and Jun was grateful for it. Perhaps it was her voice.

"Do you think he's going to make it?"

"He's like one of those cockroaches from Earth, bastard's gonna outlive us all."

"I hope you're right, for the commander's sake." She left soon after, excusing herself to go examine the blueprints. Jun hoped they had been worth it, because while Kaidan was a pain in the ass, he was still part of the crew, part of Shepard's little family of misfits and one of their oldest friend. She'd miss the bastard, though probably not as much as the commander. She noticed James leaning on the wall besides the door as she finally got up to leave.

"So the commander and him." They were so obvious even the marine put two and two together and figured it out. The world was ending, actually, a lot of worlds were being eradicated, so she doubted anyone cared for regs those days.

"Why do you care? Shepard got you all heart eyed, too?" She punched him lightly on the shoulder as they exited the room towards the mess hall. She needed sometime to eat. "He enlisted around the same time we did, they also go way back."

"Doesn't really explain why you hate him so much... you sure you don't have a thing for him, princess?" With the most serious expression she could muster she turned to him with her hand on her chest as if offended, stopping him in his tracks.

"I would rather go on a suicide shuttle ride with you again than ever considering Alenko."

"I'm just that irresistible." Jun shook her head, smile cracking through her poker face. The lieutenant was good company, a change in scenery from the otherwise overly serious people on the crew. She would stay up with Joker in the cockpit, but since he'd been getting along with EDI more and more it was sometimes hard for her to follow their inside jokes.

"Anyway, I don't actually hate him... I hate that after all the years he's known us, fought alongside the commander, he still can't get his head out of his ass and trust, if not us, at lest her. Anderson and Hackett sing her praise with every chance, yet Alenko seems he wants to prove she's a god dammed traitor."

"The Cerberus thing?"

"Yep. She was basically dead, in a coma for two years. Then when she wakes up she asks about him every chance she gets... and he's angry she didn't call him..."

"If they're so close why didn't she?"

"He was on some kind of classified mission, no one told us where he was, just that he was alive and well."

" Guy has issues then. "

" Don't we all? " He raised an eyebrow and smirked, his ego basically bursting at the seems. "Oh please, don't act like you're above this."

"What? Can't help if I'm perfect."

"Aha, right. And I'm a krogan shaman"

"Never knew their shamans were so..."

"Hot? Beautiful? Wise beyond their years?" He leaned forward getting dangerously close, the scar on his lower lip pulling his smirk in an extremely appealing way. The man was right, he was close to irresistible.

"I was going to say squishy."

"Hm, well I guess you're not exactly wrong. But hey, you can't have it all, right?" She shrugged and watched those damn lips widen in a full cocky grin. "I mean, not all of us can be as perfect as you."

They passed a few more friendly banters as they grabbed some food from the mess hall. Not a lot of options since they were without a cook now as well. Jun really hoped they were going to get him back before they headed in the next crazy mission. It would be even sadder if they'd die on an empty stomach. It would have been nice to gather the entire old crew, after all what more important things they'd have to attend to besides the extinction of all they're races. She missed Tali the most. The two had become fast friends working on different parts of the Normandy and exchanging ideas. The quarian was just the sweetest girl ever. And then there was Kasumi; the woman was a blast to hang with and the two enjoined sneaking in on Jacob's training sessions. Jun looked James up and down again admiring the way his muscles flexed as he opened the fringe door for the third time. She was sure Kasumi would agree with her, the lieutenant was a walking work of art.

They arrived at the Citadel in short time, Normandy at full speed. They were already waiting for them at the docking bay and Kaidan was hauled away to the hospital before Jun got to the exit. She was unsure if they should follow Shepard to the hospital, the woman looked like she wanted to be alone for a moment. And besides, she really hated hospitals. Huerta Memorial held memories from the worst period of her short life. But the commander stopped, C-sec's officer Bailey coming into view and telling them the Council was waiting for them. There was conflict in the commander's eyes, but Jun nudges her a little.

"Go see Kaidan. The Council can wait a few minutes." Shepard nodded, the decision already taken. The group quickly dispersed, Liara choosing to attend to the Council and prepare their findings of the blueprint. Before Bailey turned to leave as well, he shot her and James a look.

"What about you two?"

"I'm just a tourist this time." The lieutenant put his hands up, excusing himself from any of the political implications and Jun saw the perfect opportunity to get out as well. She couldn't stand Udina and if the meeting was anything like the last one, she might not resist to throat punch him.

"I'll make sure he doesn't get in trouble." She smiled politely at the officer and he bid them good luck in their mission. When she turned towards James, he was already at one of the tall windows overlooking the Presidium. She approached casually and regarded the view as well, the opulence and serenity of it all.

"Been here before?"

"To the Citadel yeah, but never up here on the Presidium."His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched tight. She understood his anger perfectly, the richest and most "important" beings lived here while in other parts of the universe people were fighting for scraps. But that was not something unique about the Citadel, it happened everywhere. And in some ways it was natural for the people in power to gather in such a place, even if perhaps they did not deserve said power to begin with. Life was unfair like that, she'd gotten used to it long ago. "This place is wrong, so calm while Earth is burning. As if the war isn't going to reach them too soon."

"It's a facade, Vega. If you look closely you can see they're all scared." She turned to watch the people on the hallway they were in, elbows resting behind her on the rail. "See that guy over there on the phone? He was asking about his son when we passed by him. Those asari by the elevator, they're being called back on their planet. Probably preparing for the reapers to hit Thessia... It may still look grand, but it's as much a hell hole like any other if you put it under a microscope. A shiny, skyscraper filled hell hole." She watched the creases in his brow lessen as he took a closer look around them.

"You spent a lot of time here?" James watched her face change completely, lips pressed in a thin line and eyes narrowing and he realized he'd hit some sensitive subject. She was silent for so long he'd thought they'd just dropped the subject.

"Well I kinda live here I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, I mean I haven't for a while... but I have a little apartment in the Wards. But it's not like I bought it or anything. It belonged to my parents. I didn't even know about it until I was... well..."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a long breath of air.

"I spent a while in the hospital after the... military thing. When I got out I was told I had an apartment here. It makes sense I guess, my parents used to travel to the Citadel a lot, but it just never crossed my young mind they actually had a place here, you know. Lucky me." James thought her reluctance to share had something to do with her parents, but now he was even more curious about her being in the hospital. He decided not to push the issue though. They were practically still strangers and she owed him no in depth story of her life.

"Come on."

"Where we going? "

"You need a drink."

"Apollo's Cafe?"

"I was thinking lower." They were going to work on the strangers part and what a better way to get to know a fellow soldier than behind a glass of batarian ale.

Purgatory was packed as usual, the music audible as soon as they stepped out of the elevator. James made his way through the crowd, the little engineer in tow, and secured a spot at the bar for them. There, the mood was more visibly desperate than on the Presidium, people drinking away their fear and sorrow for the fallen. He turned towards Jun now perked on a high stool next to him, her eyes wide and searching.

"What are you drinking?"

"Um, whatever you're having."

"You never explored this far, princess?" He chuckled and ordered his ale and some asari honey mead for her, deciding he didn't want her in an alcohol induced coma. Shepard would kick his ass.

"Hmm, what gave me away?"

"You look like a lost puppy." She cocked her neck and looked curiously at him, lips pursed in a child like manner. If not for the standard alliance uniform she was wearing, she would have looked nothing like a soldier in that moment. He was even more taken aback by her next words.

"I've never seen a puppy."

"How could- Really?"

"Yeah, I saw a few of those big military dogs, but never an actual puppy. Anyway I think I'm more of a cat person. Saw one of them bastards on Earth last month and nearly took it with me."

"But you did your military training on Earth, right?"

"Some of it." She drowned the glass in one swift movement, the subject clearly touchy. "Look, I've been to Earth twice, once for the military when I spent most of my time on base and now after Shepard turned herself in. Did a little exploring this time around, but can't say I've actually seen much." He took a long drag from his own glass, the familiar burn tingling his throat. It was a shame so many humans were so far away from their home planet, Earth was a wonder like none he'd ever seen. "I've always been a little envious of those who lived back there. Out here, there's no place that's really your own, you know?"

"There's no place like it." He hadn't wanted his voice to sound so broken, but he was reminded of his uncle, the warm days spent on the beaches and the giant robots trampling everything there. The cold fingers on his arm brought him out of memory lane, her hand looking so fragile on him.

"We're going to get Earth back." The emotion on her face was almost palpable, she wore her heart on the shelve like none other and he found himself wondering out loud.

"How did someone like you end up on this crazy crew?"

"Someone like me? What's so different about me?" He regarded her for a moment, her unscathed skin, doe like eyes and soft hand still on his arm. What was different about her? Everything, but not in a bad way. She could pull her weight in a fight and was trustworthy enough for Anderson and Shepard to keep her around. She had her fair share of past trauma and was by all means, an Alliance officer.

"Didn't mean it as an insult..."

"What did you mean by it then?"

"Look, I saw you are capable on the battle field and you even saved my ass back on Mars."

"But? Courage Vega, I don't bite. Too hard." She pulled back her hand, but broke into a smile and he relaxed. He thought he might have offended her, yet there she was trying to make him uncomfortable. It was going to take a lot more for her to make him blush.

"But you're so... soft."

"Soft?"

"Yeah, you don't look like... i don't know. You don't have that haunted look in your eyes the others have." Her fingers curled around her long empty glass, thumb slowly dragging on the rim. She was serious for a moment, making James think he overstepped that time. She lost her parents young, enlisted, been injured gravely enough that she didn't want to talk about it and survived Shepard's mission on the Collector's base. She'd seen her fair share of gore and surely had her own demons, probably hidden deep below the pretty surface. Why couldn't he hold his mouth shut some times? But the moment passed and she turned towards him with a wicked little grin and he couldn't help but smile as well.

"Looks can be deceiving, lieutenant. Or you're not looking close enough."

"Oh? You want me closer, cariño?"

"Well the view ain't that bad, though I've certainly seen better." She lifted her glass, pointing at him with it and changing the subject at the same time. "One more, then we go get some noodles. I'm starving!"James chuckled and ordered them two more drinks. He enjoined her presence, liked that he could be his flirty self and voice concerns without having to explain or excuse himself. And for brief moments, time until they return to Earth seemed to pass just a little faster.

Chapter 4 >

[pip-n-flinx]

Little bit of Mass Effect Salt Incoming

So, one of my favorite twitch/youtube personalities recently released a video about his favorite series ever, mass effect! While I was initial thrilled (I didn’t even know he played ME tbh) I gotta say I’m a more than a bit salty about it. I still love him and and watch his stuff, clearly ain’t nobody perfect, but I want to get some things off my chest and most of the people I know who are into ME follow me here. SO here goes.

Here’s the thing, he absolutely hates one of my favorite characters from the franchise. He made jokes about leaving them to die, not regretting it, how horrible a character they are, and even references several moments in the first game as the source of his opinions. He goes into far less details from the 2nd and 3rd games in the franchise, but contends that they failed to change his mind.

Now, it will come as no surprise to some of you that he hates Ashley Williams.

For the sake of clarity, I’m going to get some stuff out of the way right here before explaining to you what he said and why I disagree:

- I have done multiple playthroughs of ME. One included the Ash Romance.

- Most of my playthroughs I romanced Liara.

- My opinions are not ‘ASH IS BEST GIRL CHANGE MY MIND’

- Before someone @’s me with some bullshit, I’d just like to observe I’ve heard a ton of Ash Hatred since I got into the fandom. I would be surprised if you were bringing something new to my attention when it comes to Ash. I’ve spent a great deal of my time playing this game and even more following other content creators of any medium I could find. Please Please Please PLEASE don’t waste your time regurgitating something you heard someone else say and I SWEAR BEFORE ALL THAT IS GOOD if I hear one more “She’s just a ____” comment I will end you no character in this series is “just” anything.

- THIS IS NOT KAIDEN ALENKO HATRED. I actually find the Virmire decision heart wrenching every time.

- Finally, before we move on, I’m not telling you how to play the goddamn game. I have enough trouble with Virmire, Horizon, and the Coup d’etat missions in my own playthrough, I have no intention of re-living the guilt and stress of it for someone else’s Shepard. I got enough emotional baggage from this game already thanks. MOVING ON “Ashley is a space racist.” ALRIGHT listen up kiddos. Her Grandfather, the one who started the Williams Curse? He did that by creating and signing off on Cerberus during the First Contact War. The pro-human splinter group founded during the first encounter and conflict with aliens that humanity experiences? That was her Grandfather’s Idea. And yes, she begins ME1 with some pretty racist commentary. “Can’t tell the aliens from the animals” is a reprehensible line. Now, I don’t think she says anything reprehensible when she talks to Shepard about not liking the aliens on the Normandy, but I can also agree that it comes from a place of fear and discomfort, and that definitely contributes to the argument that she’s a space racist. HOWEVER: what a lot of the Ash haters miss is a moment after Virmire on the Citadel, in the wards, when a isolationist xenophobic populist party known as the Terra Firma party approaches Shepard asking for their support in the next election. This comes after Ashley has had a chance to work with Wrex, Garrus, Tali, and Captain Kirrahe. She DRAGS the leader through the muck, stating that while she likes some of the parties platform the party is full of racists and the refusal by the Terra Firma leaders to denounce the racist comments and racists members of the party is enough to lose them her vote already. She gets so heated about Shepard has to command her to stand down. You don’t get to cherry pick her interactions from ME1 and ignore her character growth. She also falls right into her big sister roll with Tali almost immediately. She tells Tali that it took years to get women accepted in the military. When Tali responds that the Migrant Fleet doesn’t have the luxury of sexism, she replies “sounds great, but I don’t think I could get used to the uniform.” In ME2 she refuses Shepard’s offer, despite earlier referring to Shepard as “a god back from the dead.” Why does she refuse? Because Shepard is working with Cerberus, the organization her GRANDFATHER CREATED. She’s all for the Alliance, and the Alliance is either working with or directing the Citadel Council having earned an honored spot after the Geth attack 2 years before. She is committed to working with the government that is dealing with the other races and refuses to work for Cerberus even though you could argue its in her blood and definitely in her upbringing. Honestly, I can’t fathom why people bring up this scene when trashing Ash, this is a moral stand from a woman accused of being a racist and the flip flop here even from people in the fandom I respect is baffling to me. In ME3 there are a whole plethora of scenes you could pick from but I want to talk about her reuniting with Tali. She immediately tells Tali to drop rank with her, observing they’ve been through enough together that the rank isn’t important. This is especially poignant to me if Tali herself is exiled after the events of ME2.

“Ashley is just a soldier, she doesn’t have any personality beyond that.” BULLSHIT she doesn’t. She’s struggled to find her place in the military due to the family stigma around her grandfather, so she hangs a ton of her personal identity on her family. She’s a supportive older sister, an adoring daughter, at least passingly religious if only because “there are no atheists in a foxhole.” She calls her sisters regularly, tells stories about growing up with them, mourns her late father and reads a ton of poetry, demonstrating a more critical appraisal of literature than Shepard, Vega, Joker, or even Kaidan (”its about not giving up?” is that the best you’ve got Shep? thats pathetic.) Whats more, she doesn’t just read one poet, she picked up some poems from both her “sappy” dad and more pragmatic mom. She’s also a great window to military families in ME, which you can’t really say for Kaidan or 2 out of 3 Shepard backstories. I think in a story about a war to end all wars it would be a disservice to not write about all the widowed men, women, an aliens who are living not quite far enough from the war.

“Why can’t she just trust Shepard? Why does she have to refuse to help in ME2 and then be so standoffish in ME3?” Honestly? If my lover had been declared KIA and then magically came back working under cover for a shady organization with a history of criminal crimes like murder and torture I TOO would have trust issues. I feel like we often gloss over just how horrible an organization Cerberus really is. Even ignoring the “they rebuilt you” angle which gets EVEN CREEPIER in the first Mars mission in ME3 I can’t imagine immediately flip flopping between Cerberus are war criminals to my best friend presumed dead is working for them to its alright now totally nothing out of the ordinary that compromised my opinion of their judgement took place.

So I just can’t see the Ashley Williams hate. I can see leaving her behind (no I can’t, no one ever dies in this series, how dare you tell me anyone dies?) on Virmire. But I just can’t fathom the hatred.

With all that said Kaidan is not boring, Ash is more than a racist soldier, and I love all the characters in the ME trilogy. Thank you. Good Night.