#and im kind of generally a slow responder regardless

[locksox]

HI!! i had really hoped to open my commissions publicly much earlier this year + under better circumstances, but life really hit me like a brick lol

Payment via Paypal OR Ko-fi!

prices are listed in USD, but i send all invoices in AUD!

I am not very fast when it comes to commissions. I may finish the same day as payment, or it may take me a few weeks, so please be patient if that is the case!

My style varies greatly, if you would like a specific look, please provide a reference to some of my previous work :)

If anything is unclear, please dont hesitate to dm me or email me at locksoxcommissions@gmail.com !

also if youre feeling extra generous and can afford to donate to my cause, I did refresh my kofi to accept donos n stuff too!

[smokedanced]

Some relevant recent stuffs:

I am active again, and while I never promise continous high activity levels, I’m resuming looking at the dashboard more and interacting with people’s posts more. I am open for plotting and being sent memes. I will likely be posting an interactions call that people can like for plotting, reply for memes, etc. but you are free to approach me yourself as always. If we’ve plotted before and I never got back to you, I would appreciate if you gave me a nudge about that, but as that is not your responsibility, I will also try to go through both Discord and IMs to see if I have left any plotting messages unresponded (I will be slow about this because my social energy is very lacking; if you do message me please don’t think anything of it if I take a long time responding). Some light plotting is preferred, but starting with memes is also a lot of fun, so feel free to do either/both.

I’m slowly still moving/adding muse pages, prioritising basics tabs and verses for canon muses and additionally biography tabs for OC muses. So keep checking my muse directory for added links! Although, I expect to post muse specific interaction calls kind of based on both who I have a lot of muse for and whose pages are informative enough. I’m also coding a navigation page, and before I link for that, my about pages and rules page both have pretty decent navigation links.

My rules page has remained basically the same for a long while now, but if you’ve been here since years ago and haven’t looked at it since following, I’d give it a read. I redid it I think the beginning of last year, entirely, and I have added to it and tweaked it since, but the main points remain similar.

I’m going to make a post about this separately, but friendly reminder that my interest tracker is mandatory* if you want me to interact with you. This is in my rules so if you follow me, you should be aware of it. I can’t read minds, you need to communicate with me which of my muses you are interested in writing with, regardless of who followed who first. (*it’s a soft requirement; if you simply send me things or message me, i will of course respond to those interactions, and send you things from the muses you interact with first, even if you haven’t done the tracker, but please just do the tracker if you can.)

I also run three other roleplay blogs. If you’re interested (I am basically open to following anyone I am mutuals with on all of my blogs so please feel free to follow; I have anxiety about following first sometimes because I don’t want to make people feel like they have to write with all my muses if they write with one), I run

Castiel @waywardfeathered (rules are the same as here, but please not that he’s canon divergent; right now a low activity blog)

the Doctor (Thirteen) @dochaes (rules are the same as here, but please note that she is canon divergent; this is also a low activity blog) and

the player character of the Mass Effect trilogy, Shepard, @dutyworn (again, rules are the same in general, but please note that while she is crossover friendly, the only manner I will cross her over and away from the trilogy universe is through wrong universe kind of a crossover; I will very happily place her in any fandom, but she will always have her personal history as a soldier from 22nd century Earth/Milky Way; I can drop her into your fandom and make it make sense in how it happens for her and her canon’s timeline; this is probably my highest activity blog at the moment).

Please do feel free to interact, whether we have written together before or not! :)

[quillheel]

🚢 Dani and Rouxls still bumpin around in my head tbh--

send 🚢 or ( 'SHIP' ) if you ever considered shipping our characters romantically and want me to fill out the following form for our muses. / always accepting!

do i ship our characters together? — yes (i could def see it but they could also work as just platonic friends too! very much 'it could work either way' for me <3) | no | not yet but maybe soon

would i like to ship with you? — yes! | maybe, i'm willing to try | no

type of relationship (potentials) i could see — childhood or high school sweethearts | exes | engaged | married | long-term relationship | crushes | unrequited love (aka: rouxls is a naenae ass bitch episode 219218 and doesn't say shit/automatically assumes things and then covers the things he convinced himself of with The Facade) | fling | long distance | online relationship | just dating | new relationship | toxic lovers | friends with benefits (<- w this one, probably starting with friends w benefits in a kind of work setting in how rouxls rationalizes it and then he realizes oh. oh fuck. im doomed. (read: caught feelings))

tropes i'd enjoy writing for them — friends to lovers | enemies to lovers (mostly given the lightner/darkner thing they got goin on!) | exes to lovers | fake relationship / dating | forbidden love (looks at the lightners/darkners thing they got going on--) | grumpy and sunshine | star-crossed lovers | surprise pregnancy | second chance | soulmates | amnesia / mistaken identity | forced proximity | secret relationship | slow burn relationship

would i rather plot first or jump right in and see where it goes? — develop their relationship first | jump right in | something in between (im flexible but i tend to work better when we discuss stuff between a NEW new ship yk! we already kinda got a grasp on their base dynamic though which helps a ton, so i'd be okay with either!)

what now? — let's plot something | send me shippy memes | i'll send you shippy memes | write me a random starter (feel free!) | i'll write you a random starter (im bad at starters i gotta just acknowledge it at this point :( )

anything else i want you to know about me / my character / my shipping habits — uhhhh Idk what else to put down except like. i could see their dynamic going in a LOT of different ways depending on Dandie n circumstance and whatnot!!! I've seen some shipping stuff of hers on the dash before but never really seen the intricacies but I think they'd be really interesting regardless, esp with all the Things Rouxls has n would have to kind of get over/work through :] he's also somewhat low muse rn but i have DR on switch its chillin even if its not consistent BKHB (tho i also cant promise i'll be consistent either just bc of irl stuff and generally focusing On that vs discord n tumblr n whatnot, but im vv game for this!!!!! if i ever dont respond its bc of the Ough, not u (tho i think we're in Really similar situations rn in a kind of. morbidly ironic way))

[fuckyeahharryhart]

KINGSMAN: THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, IN MY AU, HARRY HART WOULD STILL BE A BADASS WHEN THEY FIND OUT HE’S ALIVE. HE’S JUST A BAD ASS WITH NO MEMORY

IN MY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - this is what happened when they found Harry. And Roxy is alive, cause “what the hell?” And basically is an excuse for me to thirst on Colin Firth as Harry Hart, who will always be a badass gentleman spy, memory or no.

Merlin, Eggsy and Roxy survived the explosions that destroyed Kingsman. Following the clues from their doomsday protocol, the three of them traveled to Kentucky to Statesman HQ.

They are confronted by Agent Tequila where they try to explain what they are doing there. Tequila does not believe them. He disarms and disables them. The scene begins in Statesman underground holding room. Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin wake up to find that they are bound and restrained.

(apologies in advance for grammar, spelling, format. First draft, secondish draft. Just did one quick read-through and fixed most of the glaring errors.

PS I kinda nerded out with the amnesia and weapons research) 

-----------------

The room remained vague and shadowy. Eggsy fought against a heaviness that kept his eyes closed. He tried again to blink them open. No such luck. They were uncooperative. Moving on. Assessing what little he could, he tested the restraints that bound him to a cold metal chair both at the wrists and ankles. Zip ties. Cheap and easy, but harder to release from than traditional handcuffs. He tried anyway. And then a second time, only with more force. Nothing. He willed himself to relax. If he couldn’t get free with brute force, it was time to get creative. Switch to strategy and problem solving. At least try to figure out what the hell was going on and why a souped up cowboy was holding them hostage. 

His training, his instincts wanted to kick in regardless of the fact that he was restrained. He ran through his checklist anyway. Scan and clear the room. Assess the threat. Spot entrances and exits. Locate the nearest weapon. It didn’t necessarily need to be a gun. Any object that could possibly disable an enemy would suffice.

It was infuriating that he was unable to proceed with his training. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was a moot point anyway, nothing of him seemed to be responding to his commands. His surroundings remained a bleary haze. His brain still foggy, was trying to catch up.

The renegade cowboy that had disarmed and disabled Eggsy, Roxy and Merlin, was waiting rather patiently for them to wake up. That is, until the point he was no longer patient and decided to empty a bottle of perfectly good whiskey on Eggsy and Merlin. As he considered himself a gentleman, he spared Roxy.

 It was unsettling how he took the three of them down so easily. Eggsy reasoned that they certainly weren’t at their best. Shit had gone down in the last 24 hours and they were damn tired.

Eggsy and Merlin sputtered in protest. 

“So good of you to join us.” The cowboy’s tone was relaxed and untroubled.

He took a casual stance and leaned up against the wall like he was just waiting for something interesting to happen.

His head cocked to the right. “Now where was I?”

 Nodding to himself, “Oh yeah”, he said, as if he just remembered something fascinating. His fingers snapped together with a sharp click. “You were just about to tell me who ya’ll were and how the hell you found us.” He mentioned this as if he were waiting for them to describe what they ate for breakfast and whether or not they had enjoyed it.

The disparity between his gregarious tone, his friendly manner, and the slightly hostile glint in his eyes was disconcerting.

He crossed his legs on the other side and tipped his head to the left.

“Anytime ya’ll are ready to start talkin’, Im all ears.”

They had already tried to explain what happened to their headquarters. Well, their tailor shop backstop. How likely was it that generations of tailors had passed down a secret doomsday protocol for survivors in case of complete destruction? Of their tailor shop? Eggsy had to admit, as a story, it positively wreaked implausibility. But it was true, aside from replacing their secret intelligence agency with a bespoke suit business. 

From the cowboys perspective, it would seem kind of insulting that they expected the him to buy their story. Actually, It would seem pretty insulting to expect anyone with the most basic cognitive skills believe it. The problem was that, as ridiculous as story was, it was, in fact, the truth.

Eggsy didn’t have any more to say. Roxy, who would probably take him down if given half the chance, wisely remained quiet. Merlin’s furrowed brow meant that he most likely had a bloody lot to say, but nothing that would improve their situation. 

They had reached an impasse. 

The cowboy regarded them thoughtfully from under his Stetson, wide brimmed hat. 

“We don’t have folks from your neck of the woods in these parts that often.” His lips pursed in thought.

“I would reckon once every year or so, some might pass through here that sound like y’all. Why,” nodding his head confirming his own information. “I think it was just about a year ago, we had someone drop in unexpectedly.” 

He gazed up and to the right, as if recalling a memory. Maybe y’ll know him.” He said, his eyes falling back on them.

Merlin. “I highly doubt that.”

The cowboy drew back slightly, irked by their obstinance. These brits were stubborn as all get out. Did they seriously expect him to believe their doomsday protocol story? What was this? Were they on some kind of scavenger hunt?

“I just find it awfully convenient that you just “happened” to find this bottle of whiskey with our name on it. Right after your entire “shop” exploded with ALL it’s employees and everyone who worked there. Every single person who knows you, gone with it. That would be mighty upsettin’ if I was in ya’lls shoes.” He tried on a little sympathy for size. Nope, didn’t fit. He continued with his slight undertone of sarcasm. 

 “Can’t even make a call to see if anyone can vouch for y’alls.” Such a shame, he thought. Alrightly, he’d just keep talkin’ at ‘em until one of them slipped up or said something interesting.

He could talk into the night for all he cared. “Not even anythin’ left to take with you. Except a couple of watches that can unlock a biometric security system.” Now this was legitimately irritating. 

“Why would some little ole tailors shop need to have a biometric security system? I mean, ya’ll look mighty fine in them suits and spectacles, but sorry to say, not that fine.”

He used this opportunity to break out one of his favourite southern idioms. “You see, that dog don’t hunt.” He amused himself.

“Look.” Said the Scotsman. “We have no idea what you are talking about. The only reason we are here is because we found one of your bottles.” 

He nodded his head in understanding, before pressing his lips together, this time doubtfully twisting them to the side.

“See, here’s the thing. Lots and lots of folks have our bottles. Ain’t none of them ever broken into our maximum security “warehouse” before.”

“You’re looking for the Brit, ain’t ya? “His eyes narrowed. “And now why would that be?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed even deeper. “We still don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was reaching the far ends of his exasperation. “We do not know anyone here. Quite sorry to say, but we have never heard of Statesmen before. In our part of the world, we prefer a single malt scotch. No offence.”

“None taken.” He said pleasantly.

The cowboy pushed himself off the wall.

“Well,” he huffed, “It seems we’re at a stalemate.”

The cowboy continued to study them as he spoke.

“Ya’ll telling’ me a story you say is the truth.”

He shook his head in disappointment, feigning sadness. “And I just don’t believe ya. Now we could go round n round like this until we’re all blue in the face. But that sounds like a waste of time to me.”

“If we ain’t getting anywhere like this, might be time to switch things up a bit?”

“Ya’ll say you don’t know the Brit. But I’m thinkin’ y’all should talk to him. Might be able to make some sense out of what’s comin’ out of your mouth ‘cause I just don’t get it.”

Silence from the three of them. Well, weren’t they a stubborn bunch. 

The man sighed dramatically and shrugged his wide shoulders. 

“Well, it appears you wont be cooperatin’ with me. I think it’s about time ya’ll talk to someone else cause I sure aint getting’ nowhere with ya. But I don’t know if you’re gonna wanna talk to him.”  

He regarded them sympathetically. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that table when he’s the one asking questions. Ya’ll might be wish’n to see my pretty face again.”

Three almost identically frustrated faces looked back at him.

“Word is round here, don’t matter what you won’t say to me.” 

He started ambling across in front of them, from wall to wall in slow, measured steps. 

“What matters is what y’all gonna to say to HIM.” He stopped mid-stride, turned toward them. 

“Now, I’ve seen him doin’ his thing, right?  Believe me, he’ll have ya talkin’ in ways you can’t even imagine.” He continued along his thoughtful line, turning away from them.

He began to let the heel of his boots scuff the floor with every step. “You wont even be able to shut up, ya’ll talk so much.” He spoke over his shoulder. “ Tellin’ him things you ain’t even tell your mama.”

No response from the three Kingsman.

He turned toward Roxy. “My apologies little lady, but here at Statesman?  Guys and gals? We’re all on equal footing.” He had the gall to wink at her. “No matter what our name says.” 

He hooked his thumbs under this belt and hitched the whole get up, flask holster and all, up his non existent hips. 

“I hate to see a pretty miss like you have to go down with the likes of them.” He tilted his head in the direction of Merlin and Eggsy. “But, at Statesman, no special treatment for the fillies.”

Roxy proceeded to murder him with her eyes.

Absurdly, he decided it was a good and proper time to dial up the charm.  “Say, you don’t wanna tell me what you and your boys were up to here? I’m pretty sure you’re the one keeping these fellas in line.”

Her eyes were wide and fierce. It turned out that Roxy no longer needed to blink. 

“That’s quite a look you’re thrown’ at me.” The cowboy smirked.

“Well, I’m really sorry. I apologise for this, but ya’ll don’t give me no other choice.” 

He turned toward the side and pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket. The lenses were shaded to a dusky gold. He unfolded them, put them on and tapped the side of the lens. 

“Ya there?” He spoke into the air.

Evidently the glasses were a communications device and he received an answer in return. He nodded to himself. “Yep, affirmative.” 

There was another brief pause as he listened to the person on the other side. “Roger that.” He turned off the communication by tapping the side of the lens a second time. 

He looked at them almost sympathetically. “It looks we ARE gonna find out what happens when we change things up a bit.”

He walked over to the frosted panel window and flipped a switch.

Roxy, Merlin and Eggsy were momentary blinded by a brilliant white light. So bright and unexpected that they had to turn away. They squinted against the flare as coloured spots tripped behind their eyelids. They continued to blink until their eyes adjusted to the intensity of the new light. 

What they saw as the opacity of the glass dissolved… Well, to say they were ill prepared would be the understatement to understate all statements.

It couldn’t be.

It was utterly impossible.

But there he was. 

Outlined by a dazzling white light. 

Unmistakable.

It was Harry Hart.

—

The agents tried to gather their collective wits like they were trying to herd cats. It was nearly impossible. Harry disappeared from view. Sharp, tell tale footsteps could be heard walking down the short distance from the viewing area to their holding room. 

Between the three of them, none had taken a single breath from the moment Harry Hart appeared behind the glass.

For Eggsy, a white hot wave surged through his body and seared him from his finger tips to his toes. He could even hear the heat ringing in his ears. It was a high pitched whine that reverberated from one side of his head to the other. He had no control over his physical response. Any authority that he may have had, dissipated with the frosted glass. Apparently, his body knew exactly what to do, because it was doing its own thing, without any input from him. He set his thoughts aside and let his body do whatever it felt the need to. He was fairly certain he was exhibiting the physical signs of shock. He felt pale, his hands were damp and clammy. He felt weirdly mortified. He might as well be naked, for he felt exposed to the deepest, most secret recesses of his soul. Places that had no business being brought to light. 

He felt laughter bubble up through watery eyes he didn’t even know if he could call tears. For joy? Sheer bewilderment? Whatever the reason, his eyes were leaking. The buzzing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he felt sure he was about to pass out. He wanted to drop his head between his legs, but he didn’t dare pull his gaze away from the door he knew Harry Hart would enter from. He didn’t dare blink. Let alone look away. 

His ears burned, his cheeks flamed red and splotchy. It was as if he was caught off guard doing the most embarrassing thing he could think of, just times a billion and witnessed by everyone from his mum to his kindergarten teacher, not to mention every famous person that he had a crush on or looked up to and the whole mortifying episode was being televised live around the world. 

Whatever he was experiencing, it was nearly unbearable. Like suffocating and hyperventilating at the same time. Was that even possible? His heart had either stopped or was beating so rapidly that it felt as if it was hardly beating at all. Which seemed feasible as most of his blood had pooled in his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Surely, there was none flowing to his brain. It had signed out for the moment. It certainly wasn’t sticking around to see what was coming next. 

 He tried to arrange his face into the shape he thought would be appropriate for when his mentor, who he saw get shot point blank in the face, a man who died over a year ago, who he had spent what felt like a lifetime grieving, materialise as an interrogator for a covert cowboy secret agency in Kentucky. He couldn’t imagine what an acceptable face would look like in that situation, so he assumed that his face had no expression at all. It was the best he could do. 

He didn’t even posses the wherewithal to see how his partners where faring. He hoped that they were in a more presentable state. He moved his mouth to form words, but nothing came out. He tried clearing his throat, but it was dry and papery. Apparently, whatever autonomous system that controlled his salivary glands also decided that this whole situation was bullshit and decided to check out, too.

The track of the footsteps, even now so familiar, paused at the door. The handle turned with a weighty click. 

He didn’t have the brain capacity to even imagine what would happen next.

The only thing in his head were three letters. And they weren’t  ABC. 

They were W. T. F.

The door opened. 

They saw the man who had once been the foundation of their agency. 

The man who had once been its living and breathing heart and soul. 

How long had it been since he last thought of Harry Hart? After the initial grief, the denial, the anger, and finally, the acceptance, the loss became a dull ache.  Though tolerable, it never went away. They never found his body, but he didn’t have hope that Harry would ever return. He saw the shot that took his life. Even the best agent had no way of possibly surviving a point blank shot to the face. Harry fell where he had once stood. He didn’t get back up. And like that, Harry Hart was gone.

In the aftermath of V-day, Eggsy and the others didn’t have a chance to even stop and think about what happened to Harry, let alone process the loss. That came after. In the moments when time slowed down, things got quiet, and they no longer had the urgency of missions to distract them from the loss or to use as a vehicle for their anger and rage at the unfairness of it all.  

Eggy’s pain was not only due to the loss of his mentor, but also from the fact that he never got to tell the man just how important he was to him. Their final conversation repeated in his head, over and over, on endless loop. The last words that he had exchanged with Harry were harsh and accusatory. How much he wished that that conversation had not been their last. What wouldn’t he give to say the rest of the words that were caught in his throat. To finally release them. To say he was sorry. But the chance never came and the words clung to him, never to be spoken.

A tall man in a dark pinstripe suit entered the room.

At first glimpse, he was their Harry Hart. As perfect as they imagined and just as they all remembered him. Only on closer inspection did they notice small, but significant details that would indicate otherwise.

He was wearing what looked like the exact same suit he “died” in. But this one didn’t show any of the wear and damage that was sure to have happened in that final, brutal rampage. Either Statesman had an excellent tailor repair the original suit, or more likely, Harry had his suit replicated. 

The details were exacting as they had always been. The tie with the Windsor knot. The pristine white spread collar and crisp pocket square. French cuffs that were still held by the Kingsman cuff links. 

His standard horn rimmed communication glasses had been modified. The left lens was now shaded a solid black. There was an additional piece that covered his peripheral vision from the edge of the lens to the end of the arm on his left side.

How was it possible that he stood before them, as handsome and regal as ever? Hell, the man could even make a blacked out eye look distinguished. It added to his air of gravitas.

A curious pair of black cowboy boots with elaborate stitching, stood out from below the mid-break of his trousers. The footsteps they heard in the hallway didn’t come from his standard oxfords.

Neither did they see the familiar Kingsman standard issue pistol he would always pack without fail. In his right hand, held down by his side, he toted a nickel plated Colt Single Action Army revolver modified with a double barrel. He carried it by its smooth, wooden grip.

But he did walk with the same measured strides, familiar in pace and sound. Harry took his place in front of them as the cowboy found a space off to the side. 

They wore their incredulity in silence.  Words were insignificant compared to this impossible occasion. Words that would adequately express their turmoil did not exist. Merlin looked like he was trying to deconstruct a complex algorithm in his head. Roxy looked, he imagined bizarrely, like she had just been denied an orgasm. Where the hell did that come from? Eggsy fairly certain he looked like a bloody idiot.

And so they waited. 

Familiar, golden brown eyes, well, eye now, gazed over them. Making and then holding eye contact with each of them in the way they had always remembered he would when he required their full attention.

They searched his eyes and face for recognition. To see any kind of dawning realization that he knew who they were. Merely seeing Harry, alive and mostly whole, was something that was unfathomable to them. 

Finally, Harry spoke.

The vibration of his voice was able to resonate through their shocked and dampened senses. It was a deep and calming sound. Smooth, measured tones with an aristocratic accent that clipped his words. Vibrant. It was a voice that was warm, safe and familiar. It was a voice that sounded like home.

What was completely baffling were the words that beautiful voice said. 

��Please excuse my dreadful manners. But I don’t believe we have properly met.”

They turned and glanced at each other in confusion. What the hell? Surely there had to be some part of Harry that recognized them. At least Merlin, with whom he shared a history going back over twenty years. 

“Harry. It’s us.” Merlin implored. “We’re not undercover. Right now, we’re not anything. That’s why we came here.” 

“Harry.” Merlin’s voice was touched with sorrow. “Kingsman is gone.”

Harry’s face remained impassive. The spark of recognition remained unfired. There was no hint of softening, no warmth, no glint that told them, “Not to worry. Everything is under control.”  

Harry confirmed. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing your story.” He leaned back against the wall and took a casual stance. Crossing his legs in front of him much like Tequila did.  He placed a hand in a pocket. The other gripped the Colt lightly.

“It’s quite interesting.” He looked thoughtful. “And particularly unfortunate that this Kingsman Tailoring “Agency” that you speak of, was completely and utterly destroyed. How unfortunate that the three of you happen to be the only survivors.” 

Time paused with him as he contemplated this thought for awhile.

“It would seem rather convenient, on the other hand, for that gives us absolutely no way to possibly verify your doomsday scenario.” 

The disappointment on his face hit them with a guilt that was worse than his impassivity. 

“And why, all of a sudden, after a year, would not only one, but three mysterious Brits arrive here at Statesman, of all the places in the world, for no other reason than a bottle telling them to.” 

Beseechingly, Eggsy replied. “Harry, we don’t understand what’s happening. We thought that you had died when Valentine shot you outside the church.”

Harry’s face suddenly hardened. Slowly he pulled himself up to his full height.

“How could you possibly know that?” The air around them became sharp with tension. 

How did they end up on the wrong side of the interrogation table? They had never seen Harry from this perspective. But they had witnessed him work targets before. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

As Harry continued, his voice remained very calm and very steady. 

“No one. Pardon me. I should clarify. No one alive except Statesman has that knowledge. Not even I had that knowledge in the beginning.”

Instantly, it was crucial that no one speak out of turn. Harry’s voice had taken on a tone that was flat and affectless.  They had rarely heard it before, but they knew it was dangerous to be on the receiving end of that dull and indifferent voice. 

Harry was walking his edge. And Harry on the edge was not someone you wanted to push. To anyone else, he would have appeared unchanged. But he had the sharp glint in his eye, the set to his jaw, and the steely note to his voice that betrayed he was very, very angry. They only knew this because of their history with him. It was critical to tread very lightly. 

Eggsy words were dressed with caution. 

“Harry, you were at the church, “he emphasised, “on behalf of Kingsman.” He carefully walked through a minefield of words, wary of any misstep that would trigger Harry’s anger in their direction.

“We knew that Richmond Valentine was up to no good. You were assigned the mission to find out exactly what he was planning. You flew to Kentucky. Valentine was testing his SIM card transmitter on the people in the church. You were there as well. Even though you didn’t have a SIM card, the transmission was strong enough to affect everyone, whether they had a SIM card or not.”

 “Merlin and I were on the communication feed. We saw everything…. You were affected by the sound waves, too… You had no control…” He wasn’t sure how to continue, but he definitely didn’t want to mention the number of people Harry had killed.

Merlin spoke on his behalf. “Eggsy’s right. We saw you confront Valentine. We saw him shoot you in the head. We thought that you had died. The bullet destroyed the communication feed or else it would have transmitted…” he paused. “Proof of life, or confirmation of death.” 

Harry reflected. “Yes, I did almost die on that day.”

Eggsy and Merlin flinched.

“It was only through, whatever would like to call it, luck, perhaps fate. Regardless, it was Statesman that located me. They were able to save my life. I owe them. I am a man who honors his debts.”

The room prickled with silence. They dared not say more until they were able to see more of the landscape they were trying to traverse. It was littered with threats.

Harry, now pacing in slow, steady strides, continued. “With all the resources you say this Kingsman agency had, how surprising that it had to be strangers that came to my aid. Otherwise,” he recalled, “I would be, quite dead.” 

The three of them realised they were on eggshells atop a minefield. Never before had they been confronted by Harry in this manner. Never before had they even witnessed Harry in this state. They were uncertain of what to do when faced with this degree of suspicion and mistrust from a man, who in the past, would have given his life to save any of theirs.

When no one spoke, he began to ruminate. “At Statesman, we knew that it was Richmond Valentine who shot me. Confirmed by two of their agents.” He turned back toward them. “Though the question of why still remained unsolved.”

Coming closer. “But you three, now, are here with that answer,” He paused in-between his points for effect. 

“But you are here, completely by chance.” pause 

“Only because of a doomsday protocol scenario.” pause 

“A scenario that led you to Statesman.” pause 

“And I just happen to be here as well.” pause  

“Do you know what the odds are of that happening?” pause  

“Rather extraordinary, don’t you think?” pause  

“I must say, you are quite the interesting trio. Unassuming.  Not quite what one would expect for this sort of operation.  Perhaps that is the point. Disarm me with your improbability, with your accents, so familiar to my own. Here to deliver stories of how I was part of an organization that no longer exists. And you are the only other individuals who know what occurred the day I was shot.” He stopped in front on them. He turned to face them and drew tall once more.

Looking at each other was a dare none of them were willing to take. They knew that the most important thing at that moment was to maintain eye contact with Harry anytime he looked in their direction. If they couldn’t offer him any answers, at least they could show him that they had nothing to hide. Now was not the time to look or act guilty.

No matter how many tactics he used, regardless of how hard he pushed them, their story would be the same because they had no other story. Was there no memory of Kingsman at all? What about Harry’s moral code, that Kingsman only risked a life to save a life. Was that a credo he still followed? The did not know what to expect.

“Regardless. Questions for another time I suppose.” He waved his hand as if brushing them away.

“The pressing issue still remains.” He was firm and unyielding. “Who are you and how did you find us.”

 What could they possibly say at this point? They remained silent.

“We welcome our visitors and our guests. However, we do not take kindly to trespassers. You say you have nothing to protect, but your honor. If the three of you are the only survivors of your organization and you are as close as you say, I would assume that you would, at the very least, protect a third of what remains of your agency.

Eggsy suddenly found himself on the business end of a Colt Single Action Army revolver. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, he felt drunk, off balance, like he had fallen into an alternate universe. Where the laws of physics no longer applied. 

“Harry, it’s me.”  The only thing he could think of that could reach Harry was the guilt he had carried with him for over 17 years. The guilt that made him reach out to Eggsy in the first place. 

With self-possession he did not have, he composed himself as well as he could while being threatened by the mentor he once thought was dead.   

“My father saved your life.” He spoke quietly and deliberately and without hesitation.  “But you had made a mistake that cost him his. You were trying to repay him by helping me find purpose, to do something good with my life. You recruited me to Kingsman. You changed everything for me.” 

The look Harry returned for these words was almost kindly. 

“I’ll give you the following three seconds to prove that to me.”

Fuck. Eggsy was drawing a blank.

He could hear Roxy and Merlin, as if they were underwater yelling to Harry anything they could to make him stop.  

What felt like a lifetime later, the door burst open. Apparently, he had lost the ability to count, because that brief passage of time felt like much longer than three seconds. 

“Stop!” a woman yelled urgently. She tossed Harry a black umbrella. He caught it deftly with one hand.

“Their story checks out.” She held her palms out toward Harry. Please stop.

“I checked our doomsday scenario locker.” She explained. “Only to be opened in the case of a catastrophic event that cripples the agency to the point where we cannot rebuild on our own. It was established by a network of international intelligence agencies, forged when they first began. Since autonomy was the goal for each agency, once the protocol was put into place, no agency was to uncover it unless absolutely necessary.” 

“Take a look.” She nodded to the umbrella in his hand. “Kingsman. It has our logo on it.”

Harry paused to inspect the handle. Sure enough, the Statesman logo replaced the “s” in Kingsman.

He handled the umbrella in a way that seemed familiar to him. It almost seemed like he was looking for other recognisable features. Eggsy has seen plenty of Harry handling the umbrella like it was an extension of himself. He had saved Eggy’s life with it. It looked so natural in his hands. Like it completed the final picture of their Harry Hart and he was hopeful that this might be the final piece of the puzzle.  

Harry looked at the umbrella thoughtfully. It was difficult to read his face if he didn’t want it to be read. After a pause, he tossed it lightly back to Ginger. 

“Not good enough.” The gun swung back toward Eggsy.

They froze, unable to move, speak or even breathe. They were at a loss, nothing in their training prepared them for this. Roxy and Merlin could only watch helplessly as Harry cocked the revolver at Eggsy. Was it a live round? Or was it blank?

What kind of FU world would allow something like this to happen? Eggsy thought. He grasped for any hope, any last play that he could make, but the only thing within his reach was empty space. It simply slid through his fingers, without purchase, without substance. There was nothing that he could hold on to.

BUT… his eyes darted towards Harry’s right hand. The gun in his face was blocking his view… Fuck it. He squeezed eyes shut as he opened his mouth. The words ran together and toppled over each other as they spilled out without pause. 

“you wear a gold signet ring on your right little finger gentleman are traditionally supposed to wear the ring on the left hand but you wear yours on your right because a Kingsman always wears it on whatever hand happens to be dominant and you are right handed”

Nothing happened. And it was quiet.

Cautiously, Eggy peered from one eye. He wasn’t dead. He opened the other eye.

Harry regarded him from along the barrel of the revolver. Eggsy flinched away from its deadly mouth.

Harry deliberated. His mind took a step back and a step to the side. He looked at the situation from a different perspective. Because he was wearing a signet ring on his right hand, not on his left, as was the gentlemen’s  tradition. He was wearing it when he was shot. He could not recall where the ring came from, or its significance. Researching the insignia came up with no leads. But he continued to wear the ring, for no other reason than it felt right to him. Like he insisted on wearing his suit, rather than Statesman’s tie and jacket. 

His eyes let go of some of the hardness. Eggsy hoped that he saw a little softening at the edges. 

Harry’s voice, so familiar it made his heart hurt. Not accusatory, but with interest, he asked, “How do you know that?” 

Eggsy, with great effort willed his gaze to leave the barrel of the gun and meet the face that had once meant so much to him. He caught Harry’s eyes and didn’t flinch.

He took a deep breath. “I know,” he said with a calmness and a clarity he did not feel, “because I’m wearing one, too.”

Harry, without breaking eye contact, nodded to Ginger. She hurried to Eggsy’s side. After a quick glance, she confirmed, indeed, he was wearing a signet ring exactly like Harry’s.

Harry lowered his gun. There were three consecutive sighs of relief.

“My apologies.” He said as he holstered his weapon.

“It seems as if we have much to discuss.”

———

They found themselves in a massive great room at Statesman HQ, the top floor of a huge structure the shape of the Statesman signature whiskey bottle. Floor to ceiling windows circled the entire room, providing a 360 degree view of the rolling hills of Kentucky from every vantage point.

The centrepiece of the space was a leviathan of a conference table. Elaborately carved, solid hard wood. The trees that created that table must have had lived for years to grow to such a substantial size.  It had space to sit 12, but only few of the spots were occupied.

One of which by a larger than life, genial, vintage cowboy of a man. A little flashy, a little ostentatious, more than a little gregarious, he was the head of the Statesman outfit. With a place at the head of the table, he leaned back in his plush armchair with aplomb. He introduced himself as “Champagne” or Champ as he was known affectionately by his agents.

Roxy wasn’t surprised that, aside from Ginger Ale, she was the only female present. Hell, Ginger was the only other female that she had seen since they had entered Statesman HQ. Well, technically ‘broke in’, but still. They had an invitation, even if it was only in the shape of a whiskey bottle. A bottle that they had emptied while wallowing in self pity. Even Merlin was a bit maudlin, at one point, sobbing into his whiskey and singing Country Roads a little off key. Roxy had side-eyed him until Eggsy spotted the secret message hidden behind the label. She wondered they they had made the clue unnoticeable until the bottle was emptied. They could have quite possibly missed the hint. Being under the influence of, admittedly, very smooth whiskey did not enhance ones ability to spot decades old subtext on the back of whiskey labels. Whose clever idea had that been? 

Once again, she found herself in the odd situation where she wanted to be taken seriously as an agent, but Agent Tequila’s insistence on calling her sweetheart, miss, darling, filly of all things didn’t give her much confidence that Statesman would be any different from the old boys club that was Kingsman.

Even back at HQ, she was often, dear, dearest, or darling. The only person that she tolerated those endearments from where Eggsy, who used them in jest, and surprisingly Harry Hart. But Galahad, and Galahad Sr. calling her dear was much different than a two-bit, over the top, slick cowboy secret agent she had just met calling her something as intimate as “darling”. 

Would it kill him to call her Lancelot? It miffed her that he used Eggsy’s handle and not hers. Looking at the head of their organisation, she didn’t expect him to be much different. 

She took a seat the near end of the table, between Eggsy and Merlin. Agent Tequila walked in with Ginger, followed by Harry. She was surprised when he continued past them and walked around the head of the table to the other side, the Statesman side, and took a seat next to Ginger. He pulled out his chair, as smooth and as graceful as he sat thousands of times at the head of the Kingsman table. Even unbuttoning the last button of his suit so it wouldn’t crease and smoothing the back of his jacket before he leaned into his chair. The crossed legs, the hands folded on the knee. The authoritative, yet relaxed posture. It was all so familiar. What she couldn’t reconcile was the inscrutable, impenetrable expression that fell over his face every time he glanced in their direction. There was no warmth, no familiarity, no flicker of understanding. It made his face look unfamiliar and she did not like it one bit. 

To add insult to injury, Ginger had leaned over and whispered something in his direction. The small hint of a ‘not quite smile’ that pressed his lips together, his mouth just barely turned up at the corners, meant that she had shared an observation that confirmed something in his mind in a bemused sort of way. It was the look Harry had once made, when inquired about Eggsy’s tardiness, she revealed that he was running late because it was JB’s birthday party later and he wanted to get the dog “pupcakes” to celebrate. The memory tugged at her heart.

She didn’t turn her head to see how Eggsy was faring, but she could almost feel his dejection. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious on his face. Sometimes he was a little too earnest for his own good. Not that her other side was an improvement. Merlin was seated directly across from Harry. Only a distance of several feet, but it might as well have been lengths of the world for as distant Harry was from them. The furrow between the Scotsman’s brows had appeared the moment they discovered Harry alive. It took up residence on his face. Harry Hart, the man who was the only person close enough for Merlin to consider a friend, was now a mystery to him. 

The loss, between Eggsy and Merlin, was a cold empty space that Roxy had the unfortunate pleasure to be seated between. She was determined to warm up whatever mood vacuum that had sucked her in. Or at least not make it any worse.             

 And why did she always have to be the mediator? The men had elected Roxy as their spokesperson as neither of them thought that they would be able to speak without laughing, crying, shouting or hitting something. Predictably, she found herself the voice of reason. To be fair, she WAS the one with the least emotional involvement. Not that she hadn’t adored and respected Harry Hart, like everyone that worked under his guidance, but she had to admit, Merlin and Eggsy must be twice as confused and devastated by the recent turn of events. She mentally steeled herself against any additional revelations that might be thrown their way. But at this point, if there was something that could top this most recent turn of events, they might as well just blow up this joint and let it all burn down, too.

After everyone had settled in, and to her amusement, a pour of whiskey was set in front of each of them. She decided to get this “rodeo” started. She nodded in Champs direction. He tipped his chin, tapped his glass with his pen to get everyone’s attention and announced the opening of the meeting. All the Statesman and Harry, emptied their glasses. From her peripheral she saw Merlin and Eggsy follow suit without hesitation. Did all agencies revolve around the consumption of alcohol? She had already developed quite a tolerance from her brief stint at Kingsman so far. Well, if it brought these two agencies on familiar ground, who was she to argue? She tipped her glass back. And the welcomed the warmth after the initial burn, though still much smoother than could be expected. She appreciated the added touch of liquid courage. She cleared her throat. 

“We find ourselves here, under what we,” she gestured to herself and her colleagues, “believed to be the most difficult of circumstances. Only to be faced with another impossible situation. As you can imagine, the revelation that Harry Hart, our Sr. Agent Galahad,” she nodded in his direction, “who we believed had been killed over a year ago by Richmond Valentine, that he is still alive, has been shocking for us.”

In Harry’s direction, she continued, addressing him directly. “Harry. If we had believed there to be even the most infinitesimal chance that you could have survived Valentine’s bullet, we would have not hesitated to garner all the forces of Kingsman to find you and bring you back.”

Harry, respectfully listened to Lancelot, attentive, but without revealing anything aside from simple interest.

She faltered a little under his gaze. And she, too, wished for that little wink, the small tilt of his chin that would encourage her to continue. Just as he first did when she joined Kingsman, nervous over her first debriefing. There was no comfort to be found in his direction. She took a deep breath and continued. 

“Both Eggsy - our current Galahad - and Merlin witnessed the events of what we thought was your death.” She forced herself to face him, eye to eye, without hesitation. After all that he had sacrificed for them, it was the least she could offer him.

Her voice was clear and firm, her words meticulously thought out. “They saw you get shot, point blank, in the face, by no more than a distance of 10 feet, by a 9mm semi-automatic Heckler and Koch P30. The bullet destroyed the communication transmission via the left lens.”

Both Eggsy and Merlin were looking down. Both remembering all too clearly the events from that day. The details were painful for them to hear, especially when the man who they thought had died, was in fact, sitting across the table. Even though they had every right to call time of death, they couldn’t help but feel they had left him behind. 

Roxy continued. “Merlin, our communications and technology strategist and Galahad, who was at the time, your protege, had witnessed all the events up to the point the bullet severed the transmission. We could only deduce, at that point, that a bullet of that caliber, from that distance, would have shattered the lens.” She took a deep breath, “and continued through the left eye and exited the back of the head. Resulting in immediate death.” 

She could sense Eggsy flinch by her side. He had seen the whole thing far too clearly. 

“As much as we wanted to, we were unable to collect the body at the time of death. Due to unforeseen circumstances regarding treachery within the highest ranks of our agency, Merlin, Eggsy and I, had to straight away address both the source of our internal corruption and abort the plans initiated by Richmond Valentine. We were successful in both, but not in time to prevent casualties, both enemy and civilian.”

In speaking so intimately regarding what they thought was his death, she decided to switch identifiers from “the” to “your”. The man was sitting right in front of her. She spoke with a new earnest note in her voice. Rather than distancing herself from her words, she decided to speak from the place that had felt the same grief and loss as Eggsy and Merlin.

Harry’s eyes took on a different note as he heard the emotion in Roxy’s voice. 

“In the immediate aftermath of V-day, after the initial threat was neutralised, we flew to the States in an attempt to find you, identify you, and bring you home for proper internment, but we were unable to locate your body. We tried over weeks, through every channel, every resource, we followed every lead, with no success. We didn’t hope to find you alive.” 

She fought against the wave of emotion that threatened her composure.

“But we hoped that we would be able to properly commemorate your bravery, your integrity, your sacrifice, with the honour, dignity and grace worthy of your life and your legacy.” 

Roxy had stop for a moment, but she did not look away. A small tear rolled down her cheek without her noticing or bothering to wipe it away. It was as if the loss was new again. This pain was fresh. For all of them.

Harry’s eyes finally softened and they caught a glimpse of the man they remembered. But whether it was empathy for Roxy, clearly struggling to continue as her emotions caught in her throat, or understanding how they felt and what they had to do in the most difficult of situations, they did not know. 

And whatever amnesia he was experiencing had to be temporary, right? Surely Melin could devise a plan to help jump start his memory. Now that the were there, they could help him remember.

—

Roxy was determined to continue until the end. 

“After the events of V-Day, we had to recenter and regroup. Our agency had clearly been compromised. We needed to locate and close the leaks and tie up any loose ends.  Our losses were felt across the board. We had to rebuild what we could from the ground up. To recapture the integrity of our organisation. The immediate need to clean up the aftermath was one of the few things that we could focus on to help us come to terms with your loss. We knew, that if you had survived, you would have taken the mantle of Arthur. And that it would be your highest priority to rebuild the agency beyond reproach.”

“After several weeks, in which we continued our search for you, we felt that it would be best for us personally and professionally to move on. We held a private memorial for you, and honoured you as best as we could. After that, we could only move forward. It was a difficult time for all of us.” 

“We found ourselves here, after our organisation was levelled again. This time with only the three of us as survivors. Our HQ, our foundry, our storefront.” Her eyes flared with anger at this point. “And all of our agents worldwide aside from Galahad and I, were all taken down as targets.”

“Merlin was the only surviving handler and tech strategist and the only one of us that had been with the agency long enough know that a Doomsday protocol existed. With all of our resources destroyed, we had no way of protecting ourselves, to find out who had organised and carried out such a coordinated attack. Our last and only option was to see if this protocol existed.”

“We found the Statesman logo. Located your distillery here in Kentucky. At this point, we really had no plan beyond finding your organisation and hoping that you would be able to assist us.”

“We still had some tech in our possession, which I admit, looked suspicious for a group of tailors to have, let alone know how to use. That’s when your agent found us. We meant no ill will, but we had no other way to get into contact with your organization.  We didn’t even know if you existed. We had nothing to lose but to continue to follow any clues that we might come across. We had no protocol for a circumstance like this.”

“You can only imagine our bewilderment to be taken as adversaries when we were looking for help. And then our shock of finding Harry Hart. Finding him, not only alive, but with no memory of the agency he was devoted to over 30 years. It still is an unthinkable situation that we were not prepared for and obviously, are still trying to process.”

She had been speaking for a long time. She paused, took a sip of water, swallowed, before continuing.

She addressed the table. “Everything that we have said is the truth. We were also an independent intelligence agency with headquarters in London.” 

She turned again to Harry. “You were an integral member of this agency for most of your adult life. You know each of us well. Merlin has been your colleague for over 20 years. You knew Eggsy’s father, he saved your life in a mission that had gone sideways. That was seventeen years ago. You had recruited him as a way to repay his fathers sacrifice. My uncle was also a long time colleague of yours and our families go back many years.”

“We are so grateful that you are alive. We are sorry that we left you behind. That would never be our intention. We are forever indebted to Statesman for saving your life and taking care of you. But as you can imagine, we have questions of our own. How did you get here? How did you survive? Do you have no memory of Kingsman at all? What can you remember? Obviously, you have retained your skills, but to what extent? If you honestly don’t remember, then we can see how unbelievable our story is. But I think if you are still a man of honour and integrity, then you have to feel that we are not hostiles or adversaries. We pose no threat to you. Your instincts must tell you we are offering you the truth.”

She could tell that Harry was processing the information, she just couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Roxy concluded. “And that brings us here to the present. I think our most pressing question is “how did you survive?”

Harry nodded to Ginger to answer the question. He seemed to want to observe the conversation. His attention had never wavered from Roxy while she spoke, only widened at times to include Eggsy or Merlin. If he had come to a conclusion, there was nothing that they could see.

Roxy gladly handed off the meeting to Ginger. Harry’s unwavering gaze was getting a little unnerving. Without the added scrutiny, she could get collect her own thoughts and feelings. Kingsman recruitment training had been brutal, but nothing could have prepared them for the last 48hrs. Nothing in the Gentleman’s Guide had a blueprint on how to behave when your agency gets blown up and your dead mentor, comes back to life, has amnesia, and then almost shoots you.

——

Ginger spoke up.

“I would like to confirm that we now have proof that your story is legitimate Which means, Harry, what they are saying about your history with Kingsman is most likely the truth.”

Harry tilted his chin slightly in her direction in acknowledgement. 

She spoke in the direction of the three Kingsman. “We have just received corroboration from several independent sources that the events did occur as described and that your agency was the target of a massive strike against organisations such as ours. We are sorry for your loss. You will have full access to our resources to investigate this adversary and we will provide you with support. This is a threat that affects all of us.”

Merlin spoke up. His voice was rough with concern. 

“Harry, what happened?” 

Harry’s voice, deep and a with familiar, crisp authority, suddenly filled the space.

“At this point, I believe Ginger will be able to recall the events much more clearly than I. I have no recollection of events immediately following the shooting.” He turned to her. “Please, continue.”

Merlin gaze remained fixed on Harry and worried there for several moments, before he turned his attention to Ginger.

“The day prior to V-Day, we detected the transmission of a very low frequency sound wave. Much lower than what is normally used for any legitimate communication. This frequency, for the time and location, was suspicious to say the least and it was imperative that we investigate. Agent Tequila and I helicoptered to the spot, about 10 miles away.”

“The frequency stopped right about the time we were closing in on the location. We had already pinpointed the source so we knew where it originated from. Even though the transmission had stopped, we could still find clues to its origin.” 

“We were just flying into the zone when we witnessed the shooting. We saw Valentine and his accomplices depart. They didn’t confirm death. I expect they thought that shooting someone in the face.. well, there are not many outcomes. Our timing couldn’t have been better planned. We had developed what we call “alpha gel” to use on our own agents in the case of a head shot. Previously, a head shot meant immediate death. Body armour can only protect so much. We’ve lost very good agents.’ 

But depending on where the bullet entered the skull and if there was minimal damage to the actual brain and spinal cord, the gel could potentially save an agents life. 

Harry was still alive when I checked his vitals. I applied the alpha gel immediately. It’s crucial to activate the gel to prevent tissue damage and accelerate the nannites that are used to repair neural pathways. I won’t go further in depth at this point. The main issue at that moment was to preserve life. 

Of course, because of his glasses, we knew that he was intelligence, we just didn’t know whose and we had no way of finding out without compromising Harry’s safety and our anonymity.  

Harry suffers from retrograde amnesia, which could be from the injury. But it can also be a side effect of the alpha gel. However, when life it at risk, the benefits outweigh the possible negative outcomes. This kind of memory loss, you lose existing, previously made memories. This type of amnesia tends to affect recently formed memories first. Older memories, such as memories from childhood, are usually affected more slowly. 

She motioned to Harry, while he listened closely to her explanation.

“So while Harry was whole as a person, personality wise, function wise, cognitive and behavioural skills in place, he had no memory of who he was aside from what could be observed. He had no memory of his past, people, places, events. This was an interesting case because usually with retrograde amnesia, there can be the regression to the younger self. The skill set and knowledge and the growth that occurred during the time of memory loss can also be lost as well. Such as, if you learned French while you were in college, but you lost the memories of this timeframe, in most cases, you would no longer be able to speak French. In fact, the whole memory that you learned it to begin with would be gone. In these cases, the knowledge and skill learned during this time would also be forgotten. However, in some rare cases, the ability to remember the skill remains, while the memory of the past when it was learned is lost. 

“In Harry’s case, it was obviously the later.” 

The slightest shift in the landscape of Harry’s face indicated that we was thoughtful and reflective. How must it be to wake up and not know who you are.

Harry, while still maintaining full concentration on Ginger, set a small part of him free to revisit the day he regained consciousness. Which technically, would not be regaining consciousness, since he had no recollection of losing consciousness to begin with.

——

POV HARRY HART

“My name is Harry Hart.”  It was the first thought that went through his head.

Secondly, “Caucasion male, 6’2”, brown hair, brown eyes, 58 years of age. 13.5 stone” That all sounded perfectly reasonable to him.

Thirdly, wasn’t a thought, it was a feeling of emptiness. Not as if he was missing something. It did not feel like loss. It did not feel as if he was lacking. That would imply that there was something present to begin with.  It was not a feeling he could identify or that felt familiar or could find a word that was representative. It was unusual for him. He never found his vocabulary lacking. Perhaps if it could be called a non-feeling. He was a vessel. Neither empty, nor full. And no desire to be either or. An interesting sensation. 

When he first woke up, he had not realised that he was suffering from amnesia. Due to the amnesia there were no memories that insisted he should be a certain person. That he had to exist in a certain place. Doing something specific. A curious circumstance. There was no sense of surprise waking up in the condition he found himself to be. He did whatever he would do in a circumstance like this. Assess the situation. 

As he entered a conscious state, his mind automatically shifted into overdrive. But without moving. Without betraying any kind of change. He felt the need to remain unnoticed. He did this from where he rested. He first determined if he had sustained any injury or damage that had caused permanent physical disability or bodily harm. He had full function of all of his appendages. He did not know how long he had been in this state, but he did not notice any signs of muscle atrophy or joint stiffness. They must have a system that stimulated muscle tissue and nerves to prevent deterioration or he had not been in an immobile state for any length of time. Blinking his eyes was like scrapping sandpaper and his throat was a desert of sand. He attempted to make any kind of noise and found it difficult. That meant he had to have been out for at least some meaningful period of time. His head did ache something awful, and he noted a bandage or some other type of patch over his left eye. The use of only one eye would change his perception of depth, and the range of his peripheral vision, but he did not doubt that he would be able to adjust accordingly.

He had no reason to question his cognitive function. He processed information unhesitatingly and with ease. Without a sense of doubt, without faltering, he scanned the room and began to examine his surroundings. He was being held in some kind of hospital or medical ward. Not civilian. It was either private or for research. Maybe military. Hi tech, advanced equipment. Everything was in pristine condition. Two exits on opposing sides. No windows. A complex ventilation and filtration system suggested an underground location. No immediate threat that he could ascertain, but that could change at any moment. No apparent weapons. Some medical instruments that could possibly work. He was not restrained so he was not being held against his will. Or there was no need if he was unconscious the entire time. He did not feel any urgency or sense of immediate danger, but he did not question his need to assess the situation .

He heard two people approach the door to the left. Judging from the echoing quality and the gradual volume and clarity of their foot steps, from a fairly long corridor. 

His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow and steady, his heartbeat was slow and rhythmic. He concentrated on the sound. One set of footsteps was clearly male. The stride was longer, more pronounced, in heavy shoes, presumably boots. But an easy pace. Most likely 6’, 13 stone, physically fit. His gait was even, balanced and light. Not the walk of someone that led a sedentary life. The second set of footsteps he concluded were female. Lighter, but not timid. A confident woman. Just a smaller stature. Medium height. Slight frame. Like her partner, fit, alert, competent. 

He did not know why or how he came up with these deductions, but he did not question them. He held the information in his mind so it was easily accessible. The voices, once they became decipherable, were relaxed and easy. Their tone was jovial and non-threatening. Younger than he was. American accent, with a southern drawl. He could be in the US, but anywhere was possible. While he did not expect danger, he still prepared himself for the risk. Mostly, his need was to understand the where he was, how he got there and have leverage over the situation.

The door opened with a heavy swooshing sound. He did not hear the click of a lock being turned, so he was not being held in high security setting.

The two individuals were still conversing, and he could just almost decipher what they were discussing. The man remained on his right hand side while the woman walked around the foot of the bed to inspect the instruments and diagnostics panels to the left. Her back was turned away from him. The man remained at his side. A quick glance in his direction. A holster was slung around his waist, it held a nickelplated SIG-Sauer P226 with wooden grips. A quality weapon. To his advantage, the strap securing the weapon was not snapped in. That would have been a trickier maneuver.

He guessed the woman was in medical, the man, based on the weapon and the fact that he was not actively participating in the tasks, that he was a guard or protection of some sort. With their relaxed tones, and familiar interactions, possibly a friend or colleague. 

Not one to overthink a situation, he decided now was as good a time as any. No use in waiting, expecting a better scenario. Best to address the situation you know rather than wait for one you don’t. Never a guarantee for a better set of circumstances. Only guarantee is time lost.

He waited patiently for the moment to proceed. Just a small distraction was all he needed. It arrived sooner than he anticipated and under better circumstances that he had the right to expect.

“Tequila, would you be able to hand me the print outs right behind you?” 

Harry saw him turn away from the bed, his hips rotated in his direction, the angle ideal for him to grab, cock and point. He only hoped that his deductions regarding his physical state were correct, or it would be a moot point. He might not even be able to sit up, let alone hold a weapon.  Take the out, the told himself. 

These thoughts occurred within fractions of a second. Without hesitation, in one fell swoop, he grabbed the gun, pulled back the slide to load the chamber. Thankfully his body responded without any resistance or weakness and he slid himself back into an upright position. 

He judged the distance between the three of them. The man called Tequila, was close enough by his side to possibly disarm him, so he swung the weapon in the woman’s direction. She was far enough away that the gun was not within her reach. He centered the sight at her chest. It was not the aim of a stop shot. It was the aim for a kill shot. Might as well show them he was not a man to underestimate. He did not want to shoot her, but he did want to make it very clear to them that he was a man to take very seriously. 

Once he guaranteed that he had their attention. Though he had many questions he wanted answers to, he asked them the two questions that were the most urgent.

His voice was gravelly, but still clear enough to understand. 

“Who are you?”

“What am I doing here?”

For having a gun aimed at her chest, the woman was surprisingly relaxed. She held up her palm towards the other man. She would handle this. The man shifted his weight back to a holding posture rather than the offensive stance that prepared him to take action. 

“You have a British accent. That’s helpful to know. How are you feeling?”

“My first two questions still stand.” He regarded them impassively, but kept any notes of aggression from his tone.

—— 

Gingers POV

“My name is Ginger Ale, I’m Head Strategy Executive and Director of Medical here at our outfit.  This is Agent Tequila. Welcome to Statesman, our whiskey distillery. You���re at our HQ in Kentucky.” 

She handed him a cup of water. “Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

She was succinct. “As for what you are doing here, we were waiting for you to wake up so you could tell us. We found you outside of a church about 10 miles from here. You had been shot in the head. You were still alive, so we did everything we could to keep you that way. You’ve been unconscious the entire time here. Your vitals were strong. We were just waiting for you to wake up. We have some questions for you as well.” 

Her voice was gentle, but firm. He did not catch any inflections or hesitations that would indicate she was lying, or with holding information. Her tone was honest, forthright and it put him slightly more at ease. 

“I answered both of yours. Would you be so kind to answer mine?” She asked politely.

He did not refuse, but he didn’t say yes.

“How are you feeling.” she asked again.

“Would you care to clarify?” He asked in return. “There are multiple ways I can respond to your question.”

So he was witty.

“Pick one.”

“At the present moment, tolerable. Though this persistent ache in my head leaves something to be desired” He equivocated. 

“That’s to be expected with a headshot. You did lose your left eye. There will be residual pain/discomfort until the injury is completely healed.”

“What is your name? 

“My name is Harry Hart.”

“Do you feel comfortable enough at the moment to answer some questions for us? Is there anything that you require immediately? 

“More water would be appreciated. Otherwise, feel free. Fire away.” He looked amused. He reached over to return Tequila’s gun. “Perhaps a poor choice of words in my case.” He revised his response. “Very well then, proceed.”

She refilled his water and pulled a chair next to his bed. Tequila found a place strategically viable to intervene if things went sideways. He wasn’t one to get caught off guard twice.

“Now, since we are on a first name basis, can you tell us why you were at the church that day? Why would someone would want to kill you?”

“No.”

“No?” 

“I simply do not know.”

“Why you were there? Or why someone wanted you dead?”

“Neither.”

“Where are you from?”

His face remained blank.

“That may be a little vague.” Ginger specified. “Where do you live? Where is your home?”

No response.

How old are you?

“58” 

“Do you know what you do for a living? Where do you work?”

An almost imperceptible turn of the head.

“Can you remember where you went to school? Secondary or university.”

He squinted his eyes. But no answer.

“Do you know who the current world leader is? President? Prime Minister?”

Her regarded her impassively. She started to form her own understanding of how he was communicating. She could play along. Any form of communication was good for her. It didn’t have to be words. There was more than one way to impart information. It would all get her to the same place. Plus, she would have the chance to read his non-verbal cues. That would be a challenge. His expression was nearly inscrutable.

A slight turn of the head meant I don’t know. His impassive face meant maybe, but he can’t know for sure. The blank disinterested stare meant that he had no idea what she was referring to. She was already intrigued by her patient. She was becoming more fascinated by the moment. 

Changing tactics, she asked. “Can you play the piano?”

A slight tilt of the head. This was new. That meant the question sparked something in his mind. It was a possibility, but he couldn’t know for sure. Interesting. She went further down her tangent.

“What’s pi to the tenth decimal?”

Without hesitation, he rattled off. “3.1415926535”

“Parle vous français?”

“Oui”

How many languages can you speak?

“Six ”

“What are they?”

English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Arabic.

Hmmm. Arabic was interesting. She filed that away to look at more closely at a later time.

“Do you know were you learned Arabic or why?”

He was taciturn.

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Impassive.

“Do you own a car?”

Impassive.

“Do you know how to drive.”

“Yes.”

Now they were getting somewhere, she thought to herself.

“What was your favourite game as a child?”

He furrowed his brow but answered.

“Chess.”

Were you good?

“Yes.”

“Did you compete?

No answer.

Hmm. Retrograde amnesia, she pondered.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever killed someone?”

A tilt of the head. Possible, but can’t confirm.

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

“I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Do you know what orange means?”

“The color or the fruit?”

Good. “The fruit, what does it remind you of? 

“Winter. Christmas.”

Excellent. “Do you remember a Christmas from your past?”

Blank stare.

“Do you think you’re attractive? Good looking.”

He huffed, amused. 

“It’s not a trick question.”

“Not to seem chuffed, but I’ve never had any complaints in that regard.”

“Can you remember any specific compliments that you’ve received in the past?”

Thwarted.

Good. “So you know that other people think you are attractive and desirable. But is that how you see yourself?”

 “I was attempting to be modest.” 

She waited for his response.

Reluctantly, “Yes.” He admitted. “I know that I am attractive, handsome, good looking. However you would like to call it.” 

He continued even though he had already answered the question. It was his first moment of revealing information on his own.

“I would go out with myself if I were able, but unfortunately, that is not an option. I am not a narcissist. However, I would say that I regard myself with a healthy and acceptable amount of vanity. “ 

Did Ginger just discern a bit of sarcasm?

His good looks have been a point of contention in the past. Not that she could blame him. She was curious to know how his appearance either hindered him or helped him. She did note that there was no wedding ring when they found him. She couldn’t complain. It didn’t hurt her daily check ups that he was extremely easy on the eyes. Even his hospital issue gown made him look handsome.

Ok. Time to move on. She switched her line of questioning. 

“Where are you right now?” She asked.

His expression was doubtful. Of her, not of his answer. His face asked the question. “Didn’t we just discuss this?” Nevertheless, he answered her with a bemused sigh.

“Kentucky, United States. Apparently 10 miles away from a church where I was shot in the head.”

Ginger nodded. She was encouraged. 

He didn’t see why. It wasn’t difficult to recall. She had only just told him.

“Do you remember our names and what we do?”

He found the helpfulness of these questions debatable, but if it would accelerate his process, he was willing to comply. And participate, if it made this whole interaction a tad more interesting.

“Your name is Ginger Ale. After the beverage, I can only assume. Your colleague, here, is called Tequilla, after the alcohol. I am under the the impression that these are code names that are assigned by the intelligence agency that employs you. Statesman. With a distillery as a backstop. Hence the libation themed code names. 

“Ginger Ale, I gather from your code name’s slight variation, you are in an essential, but supportive role. Whereas Tequila, a right tipple, would be classified as an agent. Of your independent organisation. I would believe, comparable to the CIA, but without the restrictions that often hinder government run spy organisations. And with more interesting code names.”

There was just the slightest hint of cockiness in his tone and in his expression. She found it equally amusing and charming at the same time. Now they were making progress. More than she could have hoped for.

He was obviously intelligent, well mannered, well spoken, though taciturn. Understandable upon waking up with no memory of where he was and why he was there. It was a very promising discovery. He seemed to accept his situation without resistance. He was alert. No hint of confusion. Just a desire to understand the circumstances he found himself in. 

He was emotionally stable, if not a little irritated, by his current state. He took the loss of his eye as a matter of fact. Overall, his ability to acclimate was nothing short of remarkable. 

He folded his hands on his lap, one over the other, tilted his chin in her direction. His posture said. “I’m waiting patiently..” He was throwing shades of a personality she was already warming toward. 

There was a momentary pause. They regarded each other with interest. 

 Finally Harry spoke. “I have amnesia.” He wasn’t asking a question. He was stating it as a fact.

She confirmed. Nodding. 

“I would like to perform some additional CT and MRI scans, and EEG, but judging from the traumatic brain injury you’ve suffered, you most likely have retrograde amnesia. Just based on this conversation alone. To be more specific. Focal retrograde amnesia. 

She continued to explain. “Focal retrograde amnesia, also known as isolated or pure retrograde amnesia, is when someone only experiences the loss of memories that have already been made. Anterograde amnesia, on the other hand, is being unable to form new memories.

He listened to her with a new interest. 

She continued. “So, it appears you have retrograde amnesia, but no anterograde. This means that the ability to form new memories is left intact. You easily recalled information from a short time ago. That is very good news.” She paused, looking for his understanding.

“Please, go on.” He said.

“This kind of isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence or ability to learn new skills, like playing the piano or affect previously learned skills, like driving a car, speaking different languages. Most likely, if we sat you at a piano, you would be able to play, based on your response to my question.”

“What is the prognosis?”

Ginger, equivocated, a little hesitant “With amnesia, it’s difficult to predict. Retrograde amnesia can result from damage to different parts of the brain responsible for controlling emotions and memories. These include the thalamus, which is deep in the center of the brain, and the hippocampus, which is in the temporal lobe and the cerebellum. There are many variables involved.”

“Thats is all very interesting, but doesn’t quite give me any predictions for my future.” 

“To be completely honest, for the injury you sustained, the amnesia is surprisingly less severe than I would have predicted. Most traumatic brain injuries are mild, resulting in concussion. But a severe injury, like a serious blow to the head, or a bullet for that matter, can damage the memory-storing areas of the brain and lead to anterograde amnesia as well. Depending on the level of damage, the amnesia could be temporary or permanent. I know that’s not very helpful.”

“Ginger, there is no need to “hedge your bets” as they would say. I am quite prepared to accept any answer you provide.”

“The fact that you can remember new information is promising. Your cognitive and behavioural skills are, as far as I can tell, excellent. I would be interested to test your knowledge further. You may have skills that you don’t know you have until you have a need for them.”

“If I were to summarise… “ Ginger concluded. “And please let me know if I go too far off the beaten path as I find this area of research very intriguing.”

She stole a glance at Tequila. “Many would find it boring.” 

Tequila gestured with a shrug of his shoulders..”So what? I think it’s boring.”

Ginger turned back toward Harry.

“Are you comfortable?”

“As much as one could hope.”

“Please understand that I’m generalising here. Just the fact that you are interested in this subject and can process information is extremely promising. The questions I asked you, though random, I asked for very specific reasons.” 

“Our memories” she explained, “can be separated into two groups: Explicit and Implicit. Each of these categories can then be further broken down. If I can use your case as an example?”

Harry nodded.

In the clear and assured tones of a professor, she explained. 

“Explicit memories, or declarative memories, are those we consciously try to remember and recall. When I ask you a question, such as, “Where were you born?” to answer, you would navigate through your explicit memory.

“Explicit memory stores events and facts. This is your conscious memory. You know that you have them and can remember them when you need to. In your case, I asked you to recall a derivative of Pi. You did that easily. That would be an explicit memory. Your knowledge of different languages also taps into your explicit memory.” 

Harry was still, but receptive.

Encouraged by his attentiveness, she broke the concept down further.

“Of these explicit memories, there are three different types. The first two are episodic and semantic memories. Do you know what semantic means?” She asked him.

“Of course. That which is related to language.”  replied Harry.

Ginger was pleased.

“Exactly. Our semantic memory stores knowledge about words, concepts and language-based knowledge and facts. Knowing the definition of “Semantic” is, in fact, a semantic memory. So is your knowledge of Pi in relation to the numerical expression, and the ability to speak different languages. This part of your memory seems to be unaffected.”

She checked in with Harry. She had the tendency to explain way beyond the interest of the listener. He confirmed. Go on.

“The second kind of explicit memory is called episodic memory. This is information about events that you have personally experienced. For example, if something looks or feels familiar, you’re probably trying to pull from your episodic memory. Times in your life, people, places, emotions and context that make up the events in your life. The what, when, where, how and why of your memory.”

“This seems to be a large part of your memory that has been affected and it seems to go back for a very long time. Typically, when you see lapses in episodic memory, it’s usually the more recent memories that can’t be accessed. Memories of childhood are still there.  In your case, your entire past seems to be wiped.

He asked his first question. Well, other than the first two, but that was at gunpoint, so they didn’t really count.“Then how is it that I still have all of this knowledge.”

“Yes, just getting to that. Now we move over to your implicit memories. These memories are not part of your consciousness.”

She took a breath. “These memories are based on behaviours and movements. Memories that are retained through practice and repetition. A learned skill would be part of this memory.”

She had vast knowledge of memory loss due to brain trauma and she welcomed the opportunity to share. “There are two types of implicit memories. Procedural and emotional conditioning.”

“Procedural stores information about how to do things. Why you are able to perform actions without consciously monitoring the sub procedures that need to be pieced together in order to perform the task. Or, more simply, it’s the reason you can brush your teeth without a second thought. It is the memory for skilled actions.”

“This part of the memory is why you can do things without thinking about them. You know how to drive a car. But you don’t know if you own one. You can play chess, but you don’t know if you played competitively. Same with the piano. You can shoot a gun, but you don’t know if you’ve ever killed someone. Even something as simple as brushing your teeth is part of this. You don’t have to consciously think about every sub action you have to make, or the motor skills involved. Probably the same way with a gun. If I asked to take apart and reassemble Tequila’s gun, you could probably do so without knowing how or why you possess that skill.”

“Lastly is Emotional Conditioning.  This can be a little trickier to identify. I would have to ask you more questions to see how this part of your memory was affected. These memories are made through classical conditioning, associations made through stimuli. You know what an orange is. You know what they smell like. It reminds you of Christmas. This is emotional conditioning. But you can’t remember any Christmas that you’ve had. That is your episodic memory.”

Harry looked openly thoughtful. He was no longer guarding his expression. The softness took years off his face. It was hard not to just stare at him. 

“There’s one more category of explicit memories that is important. Autobiographical. This memory system is made up of both episodic and semantic aspects of your memory. It’s a collection of memories specifically related to the self. This could be how you look, your height, specific meaningful points in your life, or the general idea of your concept of self. Which is why I asked you questions not just on how you look, but how you, yourself, viewed your looks.”  

“You know what a gun is. Semantic. You know how to shoot a gun. Procedural. You don’t know if you’ve ever killed anyone. Episodic. Killing someone is only acceptable under certain circumstances. Emotional conditioning. But without knowing whether or not you’ve ever killed anyone, you believe you are a good person. Autobiographical.”

“In regards to the actual landscape of your brain, your cerebellum and prefrontal cortex seem to be the least affected.  In addition to contributions to implicit memory, conditioned responses, fine motor movements, posture and coordination, the cerebellum also maintains internal representations of the external world, which allow you to move in darkness as long as the room or space is familiar to you, and how you would need to position your self to aim a gun and hit a moving target.”

Harry was still engaged, so she went on. 

“It seems the hippocampus was the most affected by your injury. This would make sense based on the entry point of the bullet. This part of the brain processes declarative and episodic memory, people, places, and things as well as recognition memory.” 

“I know that’s a lot to take in. I’d like you to rest in the meantime. You’ve only just woken up, in well, less than ideal circumstances. Even though you say you feel “acceptable” you are still recovering from a major injury.  We’ll follow up with you more frequently, now that you are awake.” She wasn’t asking.

Harry, for the first time, addressed Tequila. “I take it that she is always the voice of reason.”

“Without fail.”

“And I assume there is no sense in arguing.”

“None at all.”

——

For simplicity’s sake, they assumed that he was from the UK as many of his mannerism and idiosyncrasies were quintessentially British. Tequila had gotten into the habit of calling him Hart, or The Brit for short. Harry, who was not one for such informalities, was amused. He did, however, recognise that Americans, as well as Statesman, were more easy going and relaxed in their word, dress and interactions with each other, overall. 

——

“Was there anything, physically, or possessions that I had on my body when you found me, that would offer any clues to my identity.”

Ginger paused. “Well, Harry, we found you in quite a unique state.”

They had already been over the event numerous times. But Harry knew that little details were often overlooked the first time around and could surface after a spell.  Ironic, since his own memory wouldn’t be surfacing in any amount of time. He would have rather used a more elegant metaphor, but he was like a top notch computer with nothing to process. All of his files were wiped. Who knew if they were recoverable. No use in wondering. 

When Ginger Ale and Agent Tequila found Harry, he had made quite the impression. As the helicopter descended, Ginger and Tequila saw him closely for the first time. He was splayed out, flat on his back, unconscious, with a bullet through his eye, wearing of all things, an impeccably tailored, navy pinstripe double breasted suit. He was fully decked out with all the details. Spread collar, tie with a Windsor knot, suspenders, oxfords, even a tie pin, cufflinks, a pocket square, and a signet ring. It was a sight not often seen in their part of Kentucky.

While Ginger attended to the man, Tequila checked the church. It was the site of a bloodbath. This was no mass shooting. A mass shooting would be clean and simple compared to what he found inside.  These people had been slaughtered. Creatively. Luckily, whatever or whoever the threat was that had massacred the congregation, had departed. 

Harry had definitely been involved in the bloodshed, but to what extent, they did not know. The tell tale signs were on his suit. It hard to see the bloodstains against the dark wool, but there were unmistakable splashes of red on the crisp whiteness of his cuffs and collar. It was torn in places, whether from a weapon or some other object, one couldn’t tell. But mostly, the proof was on his hands. They were stained with blood and gunpowder residue up to his wrists. He did not have any weapons on his person when they found him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one inside. Nevertheless, a person doesn’t get that much blood on themselves from using a gun. Even at close range, the blood spatter would spray backward. 

Whatever he had been involved in, it was up close and personal. Rage sound waves plus the expert skill and killer instinct of a veteran assassin could definitely equal the carnage that was left behind. He was fitted with a shoulder holster, but no weapon. They didn’t have enough time to search for identifying evidence in the church. The object that they found the most interesting were his glasses. Handsome, squared off, dark tortoiseshell horn rimmed frames. But it was the lenses that revealed the most about him. The glasses told them he was intelligence. They just didn’t know whose.

Intelligence agents, as a rule, never carry anything that can identify them. Harry was no exception. His clothing, even his shoes, though exceptionally well made and no doubt very expensive, bore no labels. It was all bespoke, custom made to fit him, and him alone and as a result, no identifying markers.

They tried to reverse engineer the communications transmitter from the remaining lens. They also attempted to disassemble his watch, but both were designed to withstand and prevent external tampering. Whoever designed them was talented and had the foresight to put anti-tampering mechanisms in place. 

Of course, they had run a facial recognition and prints through their international database, but as they expected, there were no matches to be found. They couldn’t investigate thoroughly without compromising his safety. Obviously someone wanted him dead. It could even be his own agency. More than once, had an agent been removed by their own employer. The threat might still exist. Nor could they risk the anonymity of their own agency. 

They scanned news for anything surrounding the Kentucky event, who was involved, any unusual occurrences that happened at the same time, but they only found information on Valentine and his cohorts. They even kept their ears open on the secret spy wire, to see if a fellow agency was looking for an operative, or had an agent who had gone rogue, or had one go dark. They didn’t have any luck. It’s not like they could put out an “if missing an agent, please call” flyer. While Harry was recovering, they also put out feelers for possible missing persons that matched his description in the civilian world. Even if he was an intelligence agent, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a cover in place, a backstop that could possible lead to his identity.

His accent immediately suggested he was from the UK. However, his lack of a specific regional dialect, made it difficult to narrow their search criteria. Harry’s accent was that of the Queens English, or RP Received Pronunciation. Which might mean he was from Great Britain, or any of the commonwealth countries. Their contacts at MI6 and MI5 received a little exchange of information to see if they had any leads, of which there were none. Whatever agency that he was with, was not government funded. Of course there was the brotherhood of clandestine intelligence agencies across the globe. But in this circumstance, they did not want to broadcast that they were potentially sheltering an agent that could have possibly blown his cover, been burned, or been compromised in any fashion. The safest avenue for both Statesman and Harry was to remain inconspicuous until a tangible lead was discovered.

Because, at the very least, he was intelligence, and so were they, they were curious as to his specialty, his area of expertise. Handling a gun was part of every agents training, no matter where their loyalties lie. It was no surprise that he was comfortable shooting a weapon. All agents were. It was possible that he could be a clandestine officer, or focus on espionage, recruiting assets. He could be an interrogator. He was intelligent, well spoken, articulate. Psych-ops, psychological warfare or diplomacy could be just as likely.  His fastidious appearance, polite manner and gentlemanly demeanour would certainly lend itself to international relations. Certainly a man with his physical attributes wouldn’t be secluded to a desk in analysis. With his charming personality he could possibly be a raven, a male agent employed to seduce people for intelligence purposes. That would be effortless on his part. He would just have to show up. There were many ladies that had taken notice of the handsome figure who was a mysterious presence at Statesman’s HQ.

 It was also feasible that he had cross specialties. Some of the specialties would be more challenging than others to assess. Weapons were straightforward. You were either good or you weren’t. Once he felt both physically and mentally up to task, they brought him to their version of Hogan’s Ally or the Farm, the FBI and the CIA’s, respectively, tactical training facilities. 

When Harry’s health improved, they discovered the true extent of his abilities. They were far greater than Statesman expected.  As Harry’s strength and coordination returned, complex tasks became second nature again. His body began to respond to the stimulus and he gravitated toward the physical challenges that Statesman tested him with. What they learned on the shooting range, then in the Statesman tactical training facility and Special Operations Division, they did not expect and were not prepared for.

Harry found the whole process amusing. If not outright entertaining. Losing ones memory had its advantages. One need not worry about expectations, preconceived notions or judgement. He would either be good, or he would not be. Either outcome would be acceptable to him. No one, not even he, would know the outcome until after the fact. And he knew how useless it was to wish for one scenario or the other when anything was possible.

What did happen, was that the challenges of their tactical installation were not capable of quantifying his ability. His skills far surpassed the most advanced exercise they had.

He proceeded to excel at every exercise, drill, and challenge they placed in front of him. He performed without thought, without hesitation, with the grace and composure they had come to equate him with. First, on the shooting range and then finally on their full scale replicated “warehouse” where they would simulate real life combat situations, including the use of live rounds.

The first test was for speed and accuracy and his knowledge of different firearms.  At the shooting range, they laid out a variety of weapons in front of him. The guns were unloaded. He was tasked with loading the ammunition in to the proper clip or magazine and then loading the weapon. He was to discharge the all the rounds at the target at the end of the range. Aiming for a kill shot either at the head or chest, release the clip and return the weapon and then move onto the next weapon he was familiar with. 

Statesman didn’t know what to expect, but the certainly didn’t anticipate what they witnessed. 

Harry had insisted on wearing his full suit as he did every day. The Brit was calm, cool and composed. He was neither excited nor concerned regarding the proceedings. More than anything, he seemed relaxed, but slightly more interested in the tactical challenges than the cognitive behavioural tests that they had him perform. They explained to him what the task was. One by one, load the clip, load the matching weapon, discharge all the rounds, release and repeat. 

Without any visible effort on his part, Harry loaded the first clip, loaded the weapon, and then seemingly without aiming, pulled the trigger.  The first several shots landed off mark. He adjusted and then fired the entire clip, alternating between two chest shots, followed by one round to the head of the target at the end of the range, chambering each bullet between shots if there was a slide. It did not go unnoticed that his method was the one used by assassins. They all knew, when eliminating a target, it was without fail, two to the chest, one to the head. He was still completing his follow through on the previous round, while reaching for the next clip, before releasing the clip of the weapon in his hand and switching to the next. He did this smoothly, with ease, dexterity and without hesitation with the entire set of weapons. One after the other, shot after shot, hitting mark after mark without effort. No fancy moves, no showy stance, just incredibly efficient, accurate, skill and technique. With the reverb of gunshots echoing through their ears, Harry laid down the last gun in line with the rest, turned toward the observing Statesman. His precision was astounding. 

 There was no perceptible change in his demeanour. He could have been doing a crossword puzzle for all the exertion that was evident on his face. 

“Does this suffice?” His face was pleasant. There could have also been the tiniest hint of amusement. 

It was Ginger that spoke up first. “I do believe, yes, that will suffice.”

Tequila regarded him not only like he was from a different country, but a different species of man all together.

 “How the hell ’dya do that?”

Harry gave him a good natured smile. 

“Knowledge of the weapons.” He continued plainly while smoothing out the front of his suit and adjusting his cuffs to their proper length.

“One must possess an understanding of the moving variables involved when discharging handguns, especially for a significant number of rounds. One must focus on accuracy, which involves trigger pull pressure and control, proper stance, a secure but consistent grip, taking in to account grip tension and fatigue. Excessive trigger pull weight will cause muscle fatigue of the index finger and can ultimately lead to task failure during pistol marksmanship.”  

While opening and closing his shooting hand, he massaged the base of his trigger finger. 

“With the variety of weapons that were included in this drill, one must locate the front site alignment based on the make and model and identify the site picture, either combat, center, 6 o’clock hold, if adopting a classic stance. However, front site becomes irrelevant in situations where the target is not in front of you.”

The Statesman were surreptitiously glancing at one anther. Was this man for real?

“And then one must consider breath control, trigger press and reset, and naturally, follow through.  Of course, one must account for situational awareness. Needless to say, it is far less complicated aiming at a static bullseye in a controlled environment,” He gestured to the range. “rather than at a moving target under enemy fire.”       

He spoke with an easy nonchalance, as if he were describing how to serve tea. Incidentally, last week, Harry had already instructed them on the official rules of how to prepare a proper cup of tea. He had looked vaguely insulted when he inquired about tea and Tequila handed him a cold bottle of sweet tea from a nearby cooler. Following this incident he educated them on the finer points of afternoon tea.

“First and most importantly,” he informed them.” Select the appropriate English tea.”

Harry recommended Earl Grey, Breakfast Blend, or Traditional 100’s black teas. Slightly more bitter than American teas, he informed them.

“Always use freshwater for individual steeping. Boil water between 180-200 degrees.”

Harry stated that it was imperative that the water is at boiling point to properly release the flavours of the tea.

“Slowly pour into a teapot over a single tea bag or loose leaf diffuser. Let it steep for six minutes. Remove the tea bag. Do not squeeze the tea bag. Pour the tea into a proper tea cup, not a coffee mug. At this time, one can add milk, not sugar, unless you want to disrupt the flavour of the tea.” 

He was firm on the following point. “Only milk, if you are looking to make a proper cup. The color of the tea with milk should have a dark orange-brown hue, similar to American coffee. Once the milk is stirred, the tea should be at the perfect temperature to enjoy. If feeling especially British, one can pair with scones and clotted cream.” 

With the same casual, relaxed ease, he continued. “Naturally, it helps if one is familiar with muzzle velocity, air resistance, barometric pressure, humidity, air temperature and wind speed. The quantity and quality of propellant used in the firearm as well as projectile mass and length of the barrel.”

He saw the blank stares of the Statesman agents. He equivocated, “Or in more simple terms, front site, trigger press, and follow through.”

If he was this level on the shooting range, they were eager to see what surprises he had in store for the simulation. If his performance on the shooting rage was any indication of his abilities, his proficiency on the full scale replica could very possibly be stupefying. 

Word traveled with the wind on Statesman grounds. The following day, allowing his shooting hand appropriate time to recover, Harry prepared for the real life simulation.  A variety of curious onlookers, from fellow agents, handlers and operations support began to gather in small, inconspicuous groups at the control center where anyone watching would have full audio and visual of Harry the entire time. 

The immersive course was situated in two enormous warehouses with an open courtyard area in between.  It was devised to test Harry’s technical and tactical skill. So far, he had shown exemplary marksmanship. But like he had mentioned, it was much less complicated to shoot with accuracy in a range under a controlled environment. The ability to perform with the same accuracy and precision under pressure is what separated a good agent from an exceptional one. They were going to find out which category Harry fell into.

Harry, as an operator, would have to perform under the following conditions; unknown target distances that vary from close to extended ranges, identifying threats and non-threats prior to engagement, making decisions under pressure, speed vs. precision shots, tactical movements, utilising different types of cover and tactical shooting positions to accomplish the mission, which was to come out clean on the other side. Firearms ranged from pistol, rifle, shotgun, carbine rifle, AK -47, as well as improvised munitions. There could be an active shooter scenario. A hostage situation. Anything was possible.

The Statesman insisted that he didn’t have to wear his suit during the engagement and offered him combat gear. His suit was certain to interfere with his maneuverability. He showed up to the course, fully attired in his classic pinstripes, down to the cuff links. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt completely natural and at ease. 

“One should always be able to engage in life threatening situations while properly attired.”  He explained. 

 Call it vanity, call it pride, but he only felt comfortable in suits when he was in a professional role. Wearing anything else seemed sacrilegious. He wasn’t going to wear any less for an evaluation, no matter what the evaluation entailed. And he was very particular. About his suit specifically. He had several suits tailor made by a firm of Statesman’s recommendation. 

The one concession that he did make regarding his attire was to replace his Oxfords with the Statesman issue cowboy boots. Cowboy boots, of all things. But he had to confess, they felt good on his feet. It was easier to cover the unfamiliar terrain of the Statesman property, which included dirt, gravel, hay, barns, and stables and various other interesting outbuildings. At least the boots still made a familiar sound on hard surfaces. He particularly enjoyed the hollow, rounded quality his footsteps made when he crossed Statesman’s many hardwood floors. Particularly in the large storage areas the housed the enormous barrels of whiskey while they aged. 

He was also pragmatic. The boots were definitely more appropriate on the occasions they went horse riding, or other “outdoor activities” that his new keepers might engage in. While he might be fastidious in regards to his appearance, he still valued practicality.  For the landscape of Kentucky, the boots were more appropriate. And they did indeed, have a satisfying click that was comfortingly familiar. 

While the course was being finalised, he tested his right hand by creating a fist and then opening his palm wide. He repeated this several times. There was residual soreness from the prior days drill, but nothing that caused him concern. In the simulation, there would be a wide variety of firearms and weapons available in the course. Not every weapon would be a handgun. A shotgun or a riffle could be braced on the shoulder. Different weapons would require a different set of muscle and therefore prevent repetitive fatigue.

His shooting hand didn’t concern him, he was fairly certain he could fire from his weak hand as well. He was curious to find out. He decided to try even if the opportunity didn’t present itself. 

As he entered the course, the Statesman gathered around the monitors.

Even in a suit, he manoeuvred like an elite operator. His movement was refined, graceful, efficient. He held himself tall when he needed to check and clear areas, keeping his spine in alignment. His footing was sure and stable as he maintained a mid-foot drive with every step he took, balancing his weight between the ball of his foot and the heel.

He was not one to peacock. His skills and technique always had a specific goal and end result in mind. Ego had no place in life and death scenarios. But on the course, after he completed a task successfully, he could’t help but push the level of his abilities. Explore his edge. He began following up his kill shots with a second maneuver from a trickier vantage point, or with a more demanding technique, adopting more and more challenging strategies and unlikely scenarios. Each time, giving a little bit more than was necessary. He wanted to discover the full capacity of his skill. 

On the course, he felt a new vitality. Whether it be due to the physical exertion of being in the field, or the mental challenges that sharpened the edges of his mind, he did not question. He simply allowed it to flow.

He attempted to fire from his non-dominant hand when the weapon and the cover required it. He adopted a canted shooting stance, firing the gun from a 45 degree angle, aiming for a target that would be impossible in his position with a right hand grip. Well, that was confirmation he could shoot with both hands. When he needed to reload, he also did so with one hand, just to see if he could. He could. With the slide locked to the rear, he placed the gun between his knees with the grip facing upwards. He slid the magazine and then locked it into place and removed the gun from between his knees. His hand hit the slide release and he got back into the fight in a matter of seconds. Some of those watching hadn’t been noticed. His technique and execution was flawless.

He fired on the run at a moving target who was using a “civilian” as cover and hit his mark.

He shot two weapons at a time.

He shot from behind his back. 

He could shoot through things and still hit his target on the other side. 

He could shoot away from a target, knowing that the force and angle of the ricochet would hit its intended target.

He used bullets as a tool, shooting items into place, to remove barriers, open doors.

He used bullets to adjust a reflective surface so he could see around a blind corner.

It was as if he was mapping the entire course and picturing it in his head while he moved. Once he scanned an area, he was immediately able to place the location in relation to his position and the rest of the course. 

Not only was he expert at weaponry, a top notch marksman, his physical capabilities far exceeded their expectations. He was physically fit, but it was beyond that. He was evolved. He had a body awareness, not only in control of his physical actions, but the awareness of his own body moving through space. (He would be one hell of a lover) At times his movements were economical, not wasting a single iota of energy on a motion that was unnecessary.

But the movements that he did come up with were impressive. One motion would seamlessly flow into the next like a dance. A dance with bullets and weapons, but a dance nonetheless. 

He could shoulder roll while aiming and discharging a weapon.

He could knee slide to dodge obstacles.

He could position himself to make a defensive position into an offensive one. 

He could use a target as a cover, while taking out the target at the same time.

He could practice hand to hand combat for close quarter contact, simultaneously hit targets on the periphery with his weapon. 

At one point he threw his gun forward in the air, while on the move, used both hands to catapult himself over a low wall while the gun was still traveling through space. He caught the gun, landed and then swung it around in his hand and used it as a cudgel to incapacitate a target before he had a chance to reload. 

Agent Tequila leaned in.

“Holy shit.”

“Mmm Hmm.” Ginger replied.

If they hadn’t witnessed it on the monitors, they would not have believed it. 

It seemed like the further he got into the course, the better he performed.

He moved faster, with more precision, solved problems more quickly, took out more targets.

His most valuable asset, even more than his marksmanship and his physical and tactical expertise, would be his sheer creativity and his ability to improvise on the fly. It was as if, when faced with a problem, there was always a solution. You could almost hear him say, “Well, let’s find out.” The methodology that he used could be seen as unorthodox. It often purposely put him in harms way, but that same method enabled him to open a door to a solution that previously had not been possible. It wasn’t that the proposed solution was not feasible. The solution did not even exist until he created it.  He was confident enough to trust his own judgement and took risks in only the most challenging situations.

Agent Tequila, “If there was a soundtrack to go with this, that would be some kickass music”. 

Ginger nodded. She had to agree. Watching Harry move the way he did in his suit? It might seem silly or old fashioned or traditional to think what she did. He looked noble, gallant, honourable even.

Harry Hart was never one to disappoint. When he was expected to deliver, he delivered and then some. He completed the course while beating Statesman’s record time. To the observers, it felt like he had been in the warehouse for a lifetime. Hadn’t he been moving in slow motion? Some of them even forgot to breathe. 

He burst through the exit on the other side. The doors opened to the sound of cheers and applause. The breeze was cool on his skin, while the sun provided an inviting warmth. The air was fresh and crisp. It was a beautiful day to feel accomplished. He left any residual stress or tension behind. He felt light.

This was not a sight that Statesman was accustomed to seeing after a course was completed. More often than not, the agent would appear dazed, distressed, a little shell-shocked, a little traumatised, perhaps even rethinking his chosen career. Not many were cut out for this kind of work. Rarely did you ever see one, not just capable of the work, but made for it, thrive on it. Harry Hart was the latter.

Harry was exhilarated in a way that he hadn’t felt since he regained consciousness. The calm, cool, collected, focused, deadly Harry Hart from the warehouse gave way and a new man took his place. His expression opened up with a vibrant laugh that changed the very structure of his face. Hell, it changed him into a different person. Whatever, walls, barriers he built had fallen aside, revealing his true authentic nature. He was a man who enjoyed being alive. When he grinned, it was easy to imagine that he would have no problem winning hearts. Certainly most of the females that had watched him take the course were left a little breathless, a little enchanted. And actually, the men didn’t look that much different. 

Why did he seem so attractive at that moment?  

Why did he look so charismatic as he stood, tall and confident in his pinstripe suit, outside the warehouse with an easy smile and warm brown eyes? What had changed from the time he entered the course on the other side? 

The man who started the course had been handsome. The man that came out at the end? It would be easy to fall in love with him. That man was beautiful.

They were seeing a man in his element.  

They were witnessing a man finding his identity.

He seemed more present, more there, more alive. 

He finally felt like he had a place and a purpose. 

When he woke up in the medical ward, his first thought had been:  “My name is Harry Hart.” 

It was different now. There was a connection, a new realization. 

Now he was awakening outside the warehouse.

This time around, he thought to himself.

“I am Harry Hart.”

His brown eyes appeared even more golden in the sunlight. They were warm and inviting. No longer cold. No longer closed off. The light wind tossed a lock over his forehead. In a rare gesture he ran his hand through his hair.

He slung the communication headset around his neck, but not before jesting.

“All right.” He said definitively.   He paused for a moment.

He grinned. “Would you like to see that again?” 

——

What they discovered when Harry completed the course. …Whatever past Harry had come from, he had advanced tactical and technical skills that had muscle memory and strategy so ingrained into every fiber of his being that he didn’t need to think–he simply acted. In the face of immediate life threatening danger, he didn’t merely react to a situation. He took charge. He didn’t make decisions to survive. He made decisions to win.

They had to assume an agent of his caliber would be missed by his organisation. His talent, skill and expertise, if found in an agent, you very well make sure that agent stays in your employ. It was even likely that he was a senior agent or a director. They could certainly imagine him in a leadership role. A complicating factor could be that he was presumed deceased, and therefore, there was no chatter on the wire where you could find information, if only you knew what to look for. 

——

After Harry had literally triumphed over the course, there was a new aura about him. Before the trials, though he was always the perfect gentleman, he was reticent, distant, not quite aloof, but definitely keeping himself an arms length away. Both physically and metaphorically.

He wasn’t one to participate in any activities that weren’t directly related to him. He certainly didn’t spend time in the lounge, conversing with the others or stopping in for a cocktail. He didn’t socialise with any of the others. He would politely participate in conversations that happened around him. Could be quite engaging when immersed in a topic he was intrigued with. There was an unspoken invitation that he was always welcome. In addition, one of the Statesman usually asked him to join directly. Harry would always politely decline. Not offering a reason or excuse, but simply turning down the offer in his quiet, but firm way.

He answered questions that were directed to him, but when the conversation took a turn away from work and into more personal areas, he would offer his apologies and depart for a quiet location. He could often be seen a little aways from campus, sitting in the sun, an open book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. 

He never spoke of his past unless he was questioning Ginger or Tequila for any information that they may have overlooked when they initially found him. By all appearances, he seemed to be handling himself well. Especially under the circumstances. But since they didn’t have a frame of reference, they didn’t know if he was usually so reserved, or if this was a result of the situation he found himself in. 

They found that he could horse ride. Once he brushed up on tacking and the most basic fundamentals of horsemanship, he was able to recall the rest on his own. He only rode alone. He never left the campus unless it was required by Statesman. He wouldn’t have anywhere to go besides. The only time he was away, was when he was on horseback. 

He did make an exception regarding his attire when it came to this activity. The Statesman all rode western style. A suit wasn’t the most appropriate. If they rode English, he would have requested a riding habit. His compromise? A pair of trousers, and a button down shirt. No suit, no jacket, no tie. Regardless, he did make a striking figure on horseback. Once he was, quite literally, back in the saddle, he handled himself gracefully. He was both firm and gentle with the animals and they responded to him in turn. He seemed more at ease and communicate more with the horses than with people. It was auspicious, though, seeing a cowboy hat perched on this head. 

They kept an eye on him, at least from a distance. Making sure that they caught any signs of undue stress, mental or emotional problems, disassociation, anhedonia, or displacement. The side effects of amnesia were hard to predict. If a person is unable to reclaim their lost memories, they would have to start rebuilding their history from scratch. This was easier for some than others. The older the person was when they suffered memory loss, the more difficult it became to let go of a past they no longer remembered.

With Harry being older than most of the Statesman, he may be having a harder time assimilating. Even though upon waking, he was coherent, intelligent, adaptive, accepting of his situation, once the realisation sets in that their condition is permanent, there may be a later period of denial that was similar to grief. Suffering the loss of their identity. 

Looking at the person that he was before the physical trials was like looking through a window that was covered with a thick film of dust. You might be able to discern that there was something significant, meaningful, worthwhile on other side of the glass, but it would always be a shadowy, vague, dim suggestion of what it actually was.

The tests had cleared away the dust and debris until the glass was clear, crystalline, perfectly see-through. And what had been behind the glass suddenly shone through. That person was the real Harry. Not the shadow form that you would occasionally see, always crossing from one place to the next. Hardly ever still. Never comfortable to remain in one place for long.

After the trials, he was more open, quicker to smile and engage in conversation. Though he would still refuse invitations on occasion, he would be more willing to accept with equal frequency. They discovered he could be quite the conversationalist. His dry wit and biting sense of humour was a welcome change to the often crass or juvenile comments from the male agents. 

If he wanted to, he could easily hold court. His accent and his deep voice were as captivating as his words. But never did he dominate a conversation. He always made a conscious effort to include everyone’s remarks and would even ask the opinion of those who looked like they wanted to say something, but were hesitant for one reason or another. He was more than willing to have someone else take the lead in a conversation, but if the conversation veered in an uncomfortable or inappropriate direction, he always managed to guide it back to civility. Not that he was opposed to a healthy debate, but he did believe that some words should be either said in private or not at all.

He was just as expert at navigating social situations as he was the field. This was a surprise to them since he was so withdrawn at first. They discovered that he was just someone who never wasted words. 

Not only did he become an increasing part of the fabric of Statesman’s front, he also participated more in the intelligence side of the agency. His insight was valuable, his strategies were sometimes unexpected but always effective, and his analysis sharp and concise. He didn’t go out into the field on operations, but he often assisted handlers and their agents with more demanding, complicated missions. Many times he was able to foresee an obstacle that they could avoid, or lead them out of an operation that had gone sideways. At first, the teams were hesitant to request his assistance, whether they were averse, intimidated or just nervous to approach him. But as he led teams into more successful missions, with less loss, less injury, less risk, he was often sought out, his time claimed in advance.

If he missed the field, it didn’t show. They still didn’t feel comfortable sending Harry out on assignment and he never requested a mission. They feared that the lack of direct action, the kind that he had participated in during his test course, would revert him back to the state where he was listless, closed off, removed. But he did not regress. If anything, he become more. It was difficult to explain to someone who didn’t know him during his transition. But with every passing day, with every new interaction, with every mission that he assisted, with every training session he held for advanced weapon and tactical skills, which he did have to admit, he particularly enjoyed, he just become more himself. 

By the end of the year, he was The Brit. Everyone knew him. Everyone adored him. He was free with his smile, his laughter, with a kind or encouraging word. His pinstripe suit was now a common site on campus. He had his own group of women that would pine after him, though he remained firmly unattached. His opinion was respected, his advice valued, his critiques, though sometimes harsh, were always considered constructive. 

He was not exactly gregarious, but he was a very skilled conversationalist. He could exchange witty repartee, as well as engage in topics with depth and you could trust that there was always something interesting on his mind. When he excused himself for any reason, you were left knowing more, feeling more, thinking more. However, by nature, they learned, he was a reserved and private person. But whatever walls or fences that he had constructed at the beginning of his stay, had slowly but consistently been deconstructed. On that bedrock, he wasn’t rebuilding his history. Without even thinking about it, he was fashioning a completely new one. 

The last year had been spent laying down the foundation for his new life, accumulating building blocks, each experience a new row of brick and mortar. He had let go, completely, of who he might have been in the past. The exercises that he and Ginger went through to try to recover his memory, from hypnosis, light therapy, trauma induced memory retrieval, did not work. After not even a modicum of success, felt that he spent an appropriate amount of time trying to regain his memory. He accepted the fact that his memory was gone. That he would be best to move forward. Not to look back. It was simple really. There wasn’t anything to look back on. So he began his life at Statesman.

—-

His awareness circled back to Statesman HQ, to their stateroom and fully to the present moment.  Ginger was explaining the last of the progress he had made during his year at Statesman.  He had finally reached a point of satisfaction with what was his life. Was he looking for more? Perhaps. Contentment wasn’t a natural state for him. There was always room for growth, for learning new things, and having new experiences.

However, ironically, not just because of the amnesia, he was not one for looking back. He felt that he had always been this way. Now, here were three individuals who were asking him to do just that. Asking him very earnestly, sincerely, and genuinely. 

Like the girl had said, his instincts would be triggered if they were being dishonest or withholding information.  He believed they were telling the truth and had nothing to hide. But for once, he was at a loss.  What was he to do with this information?  Was it even possible to be the person they wanted him to be? He was looking for an answer, but could find none.

He tested the weight of his questions. Was this a burden that he wanted to carry? Does a past that you can’t remember even matter? Should it even? Perhaps the only reason would be to recognise the relationships with those who still remembered you. Where was the honesty in that situation? Wouldn’t faking a past that you can’t remember be just as bad as pretending that you are the person that you used to be. While organising these questions in the folders of his mind, he kept his face calm and neutral. He didn’t have to decide anything at this moment. But he did need to establish boundaries.

He couldn’t give an answer to these three individuals. But what he could do was help them in their current situation. Help them find out who had destroyed their agency, what they were planning and how to stop them. At least, that he could offer. That, he could do. The rest would still be there. Problems, if ignored, only became more vexing. He would look at them later. Perhaps the answer would come to him.

“My sincere apologies.” He started. 

“Ginger is correct. I suffer from amnesia and I recall nothing about my history. Nothing prior to my time recovering here at Statesman. While I retain the skills and knowledge that I possessed in the past, I do not have any memory as to how or why I have them.

“We have tried every means available to recover my memories, with no success.” 

“But we are here now.” Merlin interrupted, encouraged. “We can remind you. Perhaps trigger something that makes you remember.”

“We can help. He’s right. “ Eggsy added. “Who knows more about you, than Merlin?”

Roxy nodded in agreement.

It was probably the first time the group looked somewhat enthusiastic.

Ginger interrupted. She was worried about this. She would have to be the one to grab their hopes and tether them back to reality. 

“Not to discredit your suggestion. If this were a different case, then yes, there is the possibility that it would work. But when someone is suffering from retrograde amnesia, unfortunately, their memory cannot be recovered by simply being informed about their personal experiences and their identity. What you are referring to is called the reminder effect. This would consist of re-exposing the patient to past personal information. This can work for other types of amnesia, but simply giving Harry details of his life won’t help him retrieve memories.”

Eggsy eyes narrowed. He was dubious. He was convinced something they said or told him could surely open up the gates to Harry’s memory. They just needed to try.  They just needed a chance. They hadn’t even had the opportunity to say anything to him at all. They looked toward Harry, imploringly.

Harry was his usual respectful, attentive self. But his expression was guarded and he was quiet.

Their frustration limped across the table in his direction. Ginger needed to redirect.

These people had been through hell and back. But Harry was her patient. And he was Statesman now, regardless of his pinstripe suit, his accent, or his British mannerisms. As much as she sympathised with their situation, there was the risk that Harry’s progress would stall or that he could relapse. The worst thing they could do would be to insist Harry be someone he no longer was under the misguided notion that they were helping him. Harry would be trapped, defeated and they would only face disappointment.  Ginger arranged the words carefully before she spoke.

“Memories are exceedingly intricate. But to simplify, making a memory involves storing information in the brain as a specific pattern of electrical activity.” she explained.

While avoiding excess jargon, she wanted to emphasise the complexity of Harry’s memory loss. If only it were as simple as forgetting something and not being able to remember.

“When we recall a memory, we recreate the pattern of electrical activity that formed it in the first place. This information is then distributed across different regions in the brain to retrieve the memory.  Injury in any part of this circuit can fracture memory function.  It’s not that the synapses, the path, necessary to make these connections, is blocked. It’s much more than that. There’s nothing at the end of the path. There’s nothing to retrieve. It is as if the memory was never made. It’s not hidden. It’s not in the subconscious. It’s not filed somewhere deep in his psyche. It simply does not exist.”

Disheartened. Dejected. Depressed. The three of them were the dictionary definitions. Ginger sighed. Being the bearer of bad news was never a party, but this was less than enjoyable.  However, she wanted to explain as much as she could so Harry wouldn’t have to. He had made so much progress in the past year. It had to be unsettling to face an unknown past, when you had made so much effort to be in the present.

Getting to her point. “Unfortunately, there is no established cure for retrograde amnesia memory loss. There’s no magic drug or deep-brain stimulation that jolts memories back into the mind. I wish there were. If recovery does happen, it largely occurs on its own.  With amnesia as a result of brain trauma, If you're really lucky, new pathways form among the remaining brain cells, like in stroke victims, or other parts of the brain take over from the damaged areas in what we call neural plasticity. But that is very rare.”

“Sometimes, the reminder treatment is more than ineffective, it can also be harmful. Too often, the stories people tell amnesiacs sound like someone else's life and it can be unsettling to them. Witnessing the disappointment of past friends, colleagues, and family when they can’t remember, or be the person who they used to to be, can be emotionally damaging. Having people tell you how to think and feel, or that you’re not who you are supposed to be can be distressing.”  

 “I don’t mean to be discouraging or unsympathetic. It’s crucial for us, for our own sakes, but most of all, for Harry’s,” she placed her hand on his forearm for emphasis, “ that we are realistic.” She wanted to be very clear as she drew her hand back and made her final, essential point “Do not make expectations that can only result in disappointment.”

As Eggsy, Merlin and Roxy discussed Harry’s future with the other Statesmen, Harry claimed this time to examine the three faces across the table. He set aside any of their mannerisms, agitations, conflicts that were due to the current circumstance and concentrated on what he believed to be their true and natural state. He didn’t try to analyse them, judge them or question what he saw. He tried to feel them. To feel the look in their eyes, to feel the expressions on their faces, to feel the quality of their movements.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just listened, not to their words, but to hear the sound of their voices. He felt their vibration.  Not only to see if anything sparked in his mind, but viscerally. A reflex, an intuition, a sensation that stirred something deep rooted in his bones. 

But his mind and his body were quiet and still.

It was time for him to speak up. Before he addressed them directly, sat up even straighter. Tall and silent. He did not make any of the usual gestures he did when preparing to take over a conversation. Familiar movements of brushing something non-existent off his suit, adjusting his cuffs, running his hand along the back of his hair, adjusting his glasses. He was still. His hands were clasped and rested on the table. 

Only seconds ticked by until everyone quieted along with him. Their heads all turned in the same direction. Harry could always pull attention to him without saying a word. 

He was also not one to hold back words that needed to be said. Time would be lost and nothing would be gained.  He did not want them to get their hopes up. He did not want to them to expect something from him that he could not deliver. 

For the second time, he opened with an apology. “I’m very sorry.” His eyes were sympathetic. 

They had the feeling he was preparing them for bad news.

His words were sure and resolute. There was no hesitation. No wavering. When Harry made a decision, he was firm.

“I do not remember Kingsman.” 

He shifted his weight forward in his chair, resting his elbows and forearms on the table and folded his hands together. It was a gesture of familiarity. He spoke directly to them, as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t just reciting a statement. He knew, full well, they would be affected by his words. He knew that they would not be the words they wanted to hear. He knew it would be painful for them to be on the receiving end of his words, not matter how gently and honestly he delivered them. He would serve them by being unguarded, unreserved and up front.

He paused so they could process what he was telling them. 

“Prior to your arrival, I was not even aware of its existence.” He added frankly.

“I do not recall any relationships I may have had currently or in the past.” He spoke plainly.

“As much as you may want me to, and I recognise that you do, and I understand where that need comes from, I cannot say, in all honesty, that I know you.” 

Harry was nothing if not direct. 

His eyes held each of theirs. He saw the dejection in their faces. He could not help but feel empathetic. It was obvious that, whoever he was in the past, these people cared for him very deeply. Perhaps even loved. But for Harry, he was never this person and he was never one to fake an emotion he didn’t feel. 

He was compassionate, but firm. "I’m unable to say I even recognise you. I want to make it abundantly clear that I am not the man you used to know. I may look like him, I may sound like him, at times I may even act like him. But I am not him.” His voice was kind now. His face was gentle. His expression no longer guarded. 

“However meaningful your relationship was, no matter how strong the connection, I am unable to reciprocate in a way that would honor that bond.”

With an honesty and an openheartedness that touched all their raw wounds, he offered.

“It’s not that I can’t remember the Harry I used to be. Or that I do not care. It’s obvious that your relationship with this man was very important, very meaningful, to all of you.” 

He softened both his voice and his manner.  

“It is, that this person you used to know, in my eyes, he never existed.” His face gentled. Became grave and solemn, almost tender. 

“Do you understand?” 

And for Roxy, Eggsy and Merlin, that perhaps was the most painful moment of all. Because with the kindness they heard in his voice, and the softness they saw in his eyes, the way he held his concern for them, on his sleeve where they could see it, he was in that moment, everything that they knew and loved. He was their Harry Hart. He was their Galahad. 

-----

Whew! If you got this far thanks for reading. Let me know what you think, good, bad, funny, dumb, sad, WTF? Whatever.  

Always feel free to reblog, share with someone else who thought TGC had sooo much more potential. Or was pissed that they killed off Roxy. And don’t even get me started on Merlin....

[thiswasinevitableid]

7. Leshen Indruck your choice of rating!

Here you go! I went with SFW

It’s old wisdom that humans fear that which they do not understand. 

Indrid really hoped he would never learn the truth of that wisdom the hard way, but here he is. One misplaced attempt at aiding someone using his foresight and he’s been caught, blindfolded, and dumped in the middle of the vast Monongahela Forest. 

He just wanted to help. 

His foresight renders him less fearful than he’d otherwise be; he’ll be able to see threats coming and locate the resources he needs. If he takes his time, he might be able to use his visions to locate the nearest (friendly) village. And, like anyone who grew up near the woods, he knows how to hunt, fish, and forage. For someone who’s been left to die, he’s rather confident. 

Still, it sting a little.

After a few moments of rightfully-earned self-pity, he buttons up his coat and starts the slow, halting journey towards safety. 

Two days later, he’s pushing his way through branches and miserably pointing out to himself again and again that a town where everyone grew up with basic forest survival skills would exile one of their own somewhere that required high-level survival skills. 

The topography and scenery is so disorienting that he may have better luck if he covered his eyes, spun around ten times, and chose his path from there. It’s a dense landscape of deep greens and browns with splashes of bright color that he’d no doubt enjoy were he not constantly snagging on branches or catching his toes on roots. 

Worse, he’s had no luck catching food, and cannot for the life of him locate water. The fact it rained last night is the only reason he’s not dangerously dehydrated.

A sharp, high chirp draws his eye to the foot of a tree. Flapping sparsely feathered wings, a baby bird hops through the mud, her nest visible but unreachable. A meager meal, but a meal nonetheless. 

Indrid scoops her into his palms, clambers into the lowest crook of the tree, and sets her back among her siblings. 

His stomach chastises him the rest of the day, though the rest of his body rejoices when he finds a hollow in the base of a tree large enough for him to shelter within. From within the trunk, he spies vine sprawling across the ground, berries glinting in the light rain. Deep purple, meaning they’re Brambleberries. 

The handful he shoves into his mouth brings tears to his eyes, even though they’re not the ripest. How else do you explain the bitterness chasing the sweetness down his throat. 

Wait. Brambleberries don’t go purple until mid-summer. This is early spring. Which means those were-

“Chokeberries.” He curses himself, darting outside the tree once more, finger down his throat until his meal comes back up. Maybe he was fast enough.

His throat tightens in a prelude to closing. Sinking to his knees, gasping for air, he swears the ground vibrates with heavy steps. His eyes flutter close as he falls forward. As darkness slips over his eyes, he thinks it’s taking him a long time to hit the ground. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Bitter metal on his tongue. 

“Nnnnf” Eyes still shut, he pushes at whatever is holding the spoon and it’s vile contents in his mouth. 

“None of that. You’re gonna need two more doses of this before that Chokeberry is outta your system, and they were hard enough to get into you when you were passed out. Swallow.”

He swallows.

A large hand pats his head, “There we go. I know, shit’s gross, but if you were fool enough to eat those berries, might stun some sense into you.”

Indrid sits up, rubbing his eyes, “I was delirious with hunger, forgive me for not remembering the exact seasons of fruits. Did you heal me only to insult me or-” his visions flicker back full force, revealing his host before he opens his eyes. He scrambles back, but instead of a wall or an edge he just finds a vast expanse of bed. 

Watching him with an amused set to his lips is a man three heads taller and much bulkier than Indrid, dark hair streaked with grey-green moss, eyes the dark green of pine needles, and nails like treebark. He crosses arms tattooed with green, gold, and bronze swirls, waiting for Indrid to collect himself. 

“A Leshen.”

“Yep.”

“Are...are you going to eat me?”

“What? No, I’m not gonna fuckin eat you. I don’t know which of my kind chowed down on humans but if I ever find out I’m gonna give ‘im a piece of my mind. Ain’t great to have people thinkin I’m a man-eater when the worst I done is throw a tree at someone.”

“That is still very alarming.”

The Leshen shrugs “I’m a forest guardian; I’m gonna guard.”

Indrid studies him, wary, drawing the covers up his chest without noticing. 

“Look” the Leshen sighs, “I ain’t tryin to scare you. Hell, made myself the smallest I can so I could be all comfortin. Noticed you in the woods earlier today and kept an eye on you, since humans-”

“Don’t often come here, yes, I am aware. I was extremely, forcibly exiled into your part of the woods.”

Green eyes blink, “Huh. Well, point is it didn’t seem right to leave you there to die, so I brought you here. Chokeberry is real easy to undo, assumin you got the right herbs.” 

“Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say. His foresight tells him the Leshens promise of no harm is true, but there are so many timelines for what he could say and how his host could respond that he freezes. 

“You’re welcome. You got a name?”

“Indrid.”

“You oughta rest up more, Indrid. I’ll be back with the next dose in a bit.” His host steps out to the hall.

“Wait, do I, ah, get to know your name?”

“Duck.”

He snickers, replies to the raised eyebrow with, “Apologies, I expected something tree-related.”

Duck smiles, “It’s a nickname.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What’s your plan?” Duck asks from across the breakfast table. The morning found Indrid well enough to walk and to eat without feeling ill, so he’s been perching awkwardly on a chair that’s too big for him as the Leshen makes plates of toast and eggs that don't come from any bird Indrid is familiar with. 

“I, ah, I don’t really have one other than ‘avoid going home’.”

“You were just gonna wander around until you found a village? I hate to tell you this, but there ain’t one for at least fifty miles, and I’m guessin that’s the one you came from. They must’ve used and enter to navigate here, because this part of the woods is hostile to travel by design.”

“Yours?” Indrid sips his tea, face to hide his distaste for its bitterness. 

“Yep.” Duck slides a jar over to him, it’s copper lid revealing sugar cubes within, “Don’t much feel like runnin into humans every damn day, and it means that even as y’all sprawl out more and more, there are parts of this wood that stay wild.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it does little to improve my situation. Unless…” he bites his lip. 

“Unless?”

“Unless I could stay here. I’m not bad company, and I have some skills which could-”

“No” Duck shakes his head, “savin you is one thing, takin you on as a roommate is all whole other kettle of fish.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.” He sips his tea, reflection crestfallen. Maybe he’ll just finish this and then go back to sleep. 

Duck sighs, expression one of someone who already regrets the offer he’s about to make, “You can stay here for a month. After that, I’ll get you as close to a safe village as I can, and you’re on your own. Deal?”

Indrid grins, appetite returning in full, “Deal.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Duck has a good guess as to what’s making all the scratching and clanging in his kitchen, but it’s still a surprise to see Indrid moving from counters to chairs doubling as stools to tend a pot that he can barely peer into.

The human’s gotten nimble over the last week and a half, thanks to his routine attempts to help Duck around the house. Everything is scaled to Duck’s smallest possible form, but that still leaves Indrid at a disadvantage. 

He’d be more inclined to help him if it wasn’t so obvious that his help is a ploy to convince Duck to let him stay. Look, he feels bad for the guy, but humans don’t have a great track record with his kind and he generally likes his peace and quiet out in the woods. He also notices that, left to his own devices, Indrid is messy. The area around the couch he uses as a bed is strewn drawings and unfolded clothes that Duck conjured up. Which means this is about Ducks favor, not a commitment to household cleanliness. 

That’s not to say having Indrid around has been unpleasant; the human is good company but also understands Ducks' need for space. He’s odd, and even though the foresight was the given reason, Duck suspects his fellow villagers would have found reason to exile him regardless. Indrid even said that living with Duck was the happiest he’d felt in some time. That wasn’t a ploy; Indrid is prone to saying unnerving statements without registering them. Thorns pricked Duck’s heart when he heard it and, that night, when Indrid fell asleep on the bed during their conversation about deer, he didn’t move him. Just brushed the white hair from his eyes and laid down a respectful distance away. 

“Oh! We’re in the timeline when you’re early.” Indrid waves distractedly as he wrestles open a jar, “I checked on you during the day through my visions and it looked as though you got drenched, so I thought something warm was in order.”

He’s smiling, and Duck’s gaze lingers long enough to see there’s no trickery in it. Yeah, being a forest spirit means storms are refreshing more than freezing, but the one today was so relentless he felt like it was eroding him away. 

“Thanks, Indrid. I’ll join you in a sec.”

The next morning, before he leaves he forms some nearby stumps into a proper step-stool, and transmogrifies the minerals of the earth into a solid set of human sized pots and pans. 

-------------------------------------------

“I know you’re there, Duck. I may not have eyes in the trees, but I do have visions that tell me when someone is dithering about coming to speak with me.” Indrid smiles, checking the fishing pole he’s dug into the shore. He feels rather than hears Duck approach; in spite of his size, the Leshen moves through the woods more softly than a butterfly. 

“Guess those visions do make you harder to spy on than the average human.”

“A not at all creepy statement.” Indrid teases, then tips over when Duck playfully shoves him. 

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s alright” he brushes off his arm, “the sand is nice and warm.” He picks up his sketchbook (stray pieces of paper sewn together) and pens (Duck turned flowers, fruit, leaves, and wood into them until Indrid had every color) and continues drawing. Half the reason he likes fishing is that he can draw futures (and for his own pleasure) while he does it. The other half is that he doesn’t want Duck to view him as a parasite in his home. Yes, for the first week, he did everything he could to demonstrate that he would make an excellent addition to the house made of twisting trunks and mossy floors. 

Now, though, he just wants to enjoy his time with Duck, even if that means not tidying constantly or cooking every meal. He hopes Duck enjoys it too, regardless of whether he lets Indrid stay. The Leshen is lonely, even if it only comes through on those days when his voice is like the wind through a weather-beaten log. Indrid wishes he knew how to assuage it, but a month is not long enough to learn such things. 

He’s slept in Duck’s bed these last three nights. It’s not purposeful, Duck is just so interesting to talk with and Indrid will lose sight of the time, will slump sideways and mumble that he ought to turn in, and then wake up in the early hours atop his host. It didn’t occur to him until this morning that Duck does that to keep Indrid from being uncomfortably squashed by his larger bedmate. And that Duck chooses to do that rather than carry Indrid to his own bed. 

“Hey, uh, ‘Drid?” Duck’s voice brings him back to the riverside, “would you, uh, wanna come with me on my rounds sometimes? Might be some nice things to draw, and that foresight of yours could be real helpful with some of the stuff I need to keep an eye on.”

His host looks nervous until Indrid nods, “I would be honored.”

--------------------------------------------

Never has the folding of clothes made him so miserable. Yet still he tucks the garments into the large-but-manageable rucksack Duck gave him, placing his sketchpad safely between the layers of fabric.

“Weather oughta be good tomorrow.” His visions show Duck behind him, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s going to miss that voice, the way leaves rustle underneath the drawl. 

“That’s good.” He pulls the ties on his rucksack, sets at the end of the couch but doesn’t turn around. 

“I’d, uh, say you’re welcome to visit but, uh, well, you know how fuckin hard this place is to find.”

“Mmmm.” Indrid wants him to go, wants him to be brusque or happy, not awkwardly fond in a way that gives false hope of shared affection. 

“‘Drid there’s, there’s somethin I wanna, that is I’m thinkin...aw, fuck it.”

Indrid yelps as arms nearly as big around as he is scoop him up. Duck’s lifted him to examine flowers or see over trees, but the hugging is new. 

“Duck?” Carefully, he drapes his arms over his shoulders.

“Don’t go.”

“I don’t want to.” Duck always smells faintly of pine needles and green wood, and Indrid buries his face in his neck, inhaling in hopes of remembering it forever. 

“Then stay. I changed my mind, ‘Drid, life is so much better with you around.” 

“Okay” Indrid can’t get his voice above a whisper; this wasn’t in the timelines, which means Duck changed his mind at the literal last moment. 

“Really? You wanna stay?” Duck shifts him back, Indrid functionally sitting on his forearm with his legs half wrapped around his chest. 

The seer summons his courage, finds it lacking, and so closes his eyes before going in for a kiss. His lips find Duck’s cheek until a firm hand cups the back of his head, guiding their mouths together. At this size, their mouths are compatible even as Indrid remains pleasantly dwarfed. Duck breaks the kiss first but Indrid, hell-bent on making up for lost time, continues kissing his face until they’re both laughing.

Duck kisses his forehead, “I’m gonna take that as a yes.” 

[iacon-stargazer]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE: MUN & MUSE

fill out & repost ♥ this meme definitely favors canons more, but i hope oc’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. multimuses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm.

tagged by: stolen from @oneshallfall like.... months ago. im a slow gremlin hjksd. it's been in my drafts and i finally decided to finish the last few sections while working on clearing them out

tagging: steal it

MY MUSE IS.   canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless

is your character popular in the fandom?  YES / NO.

is your character considered hot™ in the fandom?  Well.../ NO / IDK. (i know optimus is but i don’t really... know about orion? i have seen a handful of fanartists who turn him into a very sexualized moe baby but i’m not sure about the fandom at large)

is your character considered strong in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK.

are they underrated?  YES / NO. (lmao there’s like no fan content with him unless it’s with megatronus) 

were they relevant to the main story?  YES / NO.

were they relevant to the main character?  YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG.

are they widely known in their world?  YES / NO. (not yet.... lol)

how’s their reputation?  GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL.

HOW STRICTLY DO YOU FOLLOW CANON?

This... this is a trick question in this goddamn mess of a continuity. That said, I try my absolute best to make my portrayal coherent with the TFP show... even if said show contradicts itself at times. I take inspiration from the earlier parts (the thirteen primes section) of the Covenant of Primus for his origin backstory, but ignore the rest of the Covenant since it makes absolutely no sense with his characterization in... literally anything else. I’ve peeked at Exodus and it utterly sucks, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces of concepts that originated there just from spending time in the fandom. Aside from that... I spend a ton of time thinking about how to weave everything together in a way that both makes sense and makes for a character development arc.

SELL YOUR MUSE! (aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals.)

Orion is genuinely kind, thoughtful, and introspective, very loving of the world around him.

He’s also a more complex character than is initially obvious - despite mostly being good sweet pure baby nerd he’s still flawed, with many of those flaws being his strengths put into the wrong situation. His strong morals can lead to dogmatism, and he’s only slightly less likely to deliver lectures than Optimus. His determination to be kind and help everyone can come off as unintentionally patronizing at times; he has a very “well-intentioned semi-privileged middle class” perspective that he’s not always self-aware of. However, he’s also willing to look at himself critically and learn/adapt. 

Essentially, he has many of the same traits as Optimus... just more or less apparent and/or developed. He's less confident than he eventually becomes through his future experience with leadership, wanting to change the world for the better but sometimes struggling to ground his plans in reality—something that continues to apply, but with reduced intensity and frequency over time. Idealistic cinnamon roll will eventually develop some realism, though never really quite enough. His selflessness remains a strength for now, but we know that eventually it will dip into martyristic tendencies.

NOW THE OPPOSITE! (list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?)

He could be potentially ‘boring’ in some senses. he’s the polite, considerate ‘next door’ type, who has for most of his life has just lived as a very average middle caste nobody. He’s more laid-back than he eventually becomes as optimus, but where others might get into trouble and shenanigans he’s most likely to just express concern. And since I try to keep him at least mostly ic, even with non-serious posts, this can derail ‘fun’ stuff and I fear dissuade some interaction.

While I try my best to give him realistic flaws that work with his character, he could still be seen as a little too good. very kind, understanding, forgiving, patient, considerate... almost endlessly so. A lot of my “he’s so good and pure” interpretation comes from using his having been the thirteenth prime as backstory, where he was pretty much the epitome of that, but some might not like the “he was a literal deity in a past life” idea for its “super special chosen one protagonist” elements.

His responsiveness to his environment can also be a downside. He’s not the type to start things; he just reacts and responds, standing his ground and finding himself when things get crazy around him. without megatronus, he may have eventually attempted political campaigning, but it wouldn’t have gotten very far. He needs to have more intense characters or events around him for major plots to really go places. Without those nothing would ever happen besides slice of life fluff, because he’s content with that kind of life.

WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO RP YOUR MUSE?  

Honestly I just wanted to write op/ratch fhsjkdjsdh. But I also wanted to be able to interact with a variety of muses and so I chose Orion over Optimus because he’s not so emotionally closed off, which I figured would give more flexibility beyond the handful of characters op would reasonably have close personal and/or plot-important relationships with. Also, I can relate to him on a thought-process level which lets me get into his head easily, which additionally made him an appealing choice for my first real rp muse.

WHAT KEEPS YOUR INSPIRATION GOING?  

I just love him so much, especially with the layers of his character I've built up around him. I don't always have inspiration to write or rp, but I think about him a lot. When I do find motivation to write, it's generally out of wanting to continue to work on developing him and just having a chance to express his characterization.

SOME MORE PERSONAL QUESTIONS FOR THE MUN.

do you think you give your character justice?  YES / NO.

do you frequently write headcanons?  YES / NO.

do you sometimes write drabbles? YES / NO.  (i should do it more...)

do you think a lot about your muse during the day? YES / NO.

are you confident in your portrayal?   YES / NO. (at least most days fhsdhfskj)

are you confident in your writing?  YES / NO. (it waxes and wanes. I know I'm a good writer but I could still be better...)

are you a sensitive person?  YES / NO.

DO YOU ACCEPT CRITICISM WELL ABOUT YOUR PORTRAYAL?

I’ll be honest; I’ve never gotten criticism. I haven’t been here very long in comparison to some and I’ve never been that popular, so I figure I’m pretty easy to just ignore. I guess how I would feel about it would depend on what it was and how it was delivered, though I like to think I would be reasonable regardless

DO YOU LIKE QUESTIONS, WHICH HELP YOU EXPLORE YOUR CHARACTER?  

yes? yes absolutely?

IF SOMEONE DISAGREES TO A HEADCANON OF YOURS, DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY?  

I would be curious to hear their reasoning, but I think enough about how everything fits together that chances are I would agree to disagree

IF SOMEONE DISAGREES WITH YOUR PORTRAYAL, HOW WOULD YOU TAKE IT?

Depends on if their disagreement makes sense. Maybe I’ll give back my own reasoning for why I characterize the way I do. Maybe I’ll just agree to disagree, if their view is just totally different from mine. If they have valid points I’ll probably overthink it and spiral into self doubt. In all cases I’ll spill my thoughts to friends on discord.

IF SOMEONE REALLY HATES YOUR CHARACTER, HOW DO YOU TAKE IT?

......Orion in general or? ... fhsjkdhf...... Well if it was mine specifically that might hurt lol. But at the same time.... I doubt i’d agree with their takes either so... fair enough.

ARE YOU OKAY WITH PEOPLE POINTING OUT YOUR GRAMMATICAL ERRORS?  

Sure. I’m good at grammar so if something glaring is there it’s probably a typo I missed and I’ll be grateful for the chance to edit it out before more people see it lol

DO YOU THINK YOU ARE EASY GOING AS A MUN?  

Yeah. I’m pretty quiet most of the time because I just don’t have energy to talk to a lot of people, and I never want to get caught in drama. I honestly wouldn’t know what to do in a situation like that. I tend to avoid conflict, I’m quick to apologize, and polite with anyone I don’t know very well.

[vanityloves]

oak and stars for slick! :0

ah yes... this was sent last year...apologies for the last reply...happy 2021 mfs ♡ and thank you sm for the ask!

Word count: 1.6k i guess wtf.

cw: idk? homestuck ajsjdj. kinda mushy towards the end but dw im Me ♡ there's a joke somewhere in here

oak - who’s the more emotional one? how do you balance each other out in this aspect?

Defining 'emotional' is a bit difficult since it's often seen as 'whos the crybaby' but techinally, both parties are emotionally driven. The sole factor is one usually works solo (when working with a group, usually takes a supporting role) and takes things personally. The other can put those feelings aside and work with a group even if they're holding a personal grudge against them. 

I'd have to say Ivory is more emotional in the sense of "who cried over (insert characters) death". But of course I'm going to elaborate. 

I've always had issues placing Ivory in one 'category' and describe them as "a bit all over the place". At first, they're very jumpy and put off by Slick's demeanor (fairly so). They aren't rude or cold though, rather they're defensive and almost always on guard when around others. Despite this, they're quick to come to someone's aid to act as a protector, since they easily sympathize with others that show fear, sadness or hurt, even if it's an act. (Rightfully) Protraying themselves as naive. They've always been the type to comfort and protect - having a very 'motherly' presence (Ivory is a whole ass mother so I don't blame them)

Ivory is known to display sporadic bursts of emotions that range from enthusiasm and joy or angst and rage before returning to their calmed state in minutes. They're an odd case of slow to anger but quick to put out. The Knight finds the entire thing tiring but don't try to stop said outburts. Things that upset them before, suddenly changes with the seasons. 

The type to appear cool, calm and collected and tries incredibly hard to maintain that when faced w/ dangerous situations. Inside though, they're probably ready to cry and once the ordeal is over, they probably do just that.

Ivory tries their best to think logically before jumping into any situation but find that things like 'promises' and plans hold them captive. They're easily swayed when things like this are brought up bc credibility and trust are incredibly important to them. Unfortunately, they're the type to beat themselves up over loses like that, even if it was for the greater good/nothing else could be done. They run off of the more positive emotions like hopefulness and joy (the 'happy feeling' after helping others). This isn't to say they're not petty or bitter, its very much the opposite - its too emotionally taxing to focus on themselves though. 

♤

I think Slick is emotional in the sense of he'll experience certain things and if it's something he's not used to, his first reaction is to respond with anger or aggression. He has a pretty bad temper and described to have a nasty attitude and very black and white with his thoughts and decision making. He's the embodiment of 'I won't hesitate, bitch.', if he says something, he will follow through. He's the type to keep promises and wants the upheld on both ends, if the other party does not follow through, he's not the type to feel hurt, rather resorting to anger and cutting off ties - physically and emotionally, he's never been attached.

The man is a mobster so he's used to seeing blood and gore. He's definitely hardened over the years of that rough and tumble lifestyle, so it really isn't personal for him. He's never had it easy and doesn't rely on others (besides the crew) but he's willing to work with others if push comes to shove.

He's not very emotional in the crying and sniffling way. He keeps to himself most of the time and doesn't feel the need to help or seek out others. However, that's countered when he finds himself helping others that are defenseless but become enraged that someone would pick on someone that was 'obviously weaker'. He has a definite soft spot for the gentle, kinder things he runs across but I wouldn't say he gets super emotional about it. Slick runs off of negative emotions such as anger, pettiness, (such as Ivory does with guilt).

♤

They balance each other out with their different outlook/approach on each situation. Some things need to be done immediately and spontaneously, just as some things need to be done with patience or methodically. This isn't to call Slick a dumbass or whatever - the man works best without overthinking the situation and making calls on the spot. Ivory has their fair share of improvised plans but tend to work better with a loose plan (even if it's "don't die"). Their anxiety and lack of confidence ultimately puts them at greater risk.

One thing that's great ab Slick is, he's very sure about himself, his actions, and his feelings so it's reassuring for Ivory. Ivory lends Slick a lot of patience, understanding, but with a firm hand. They don't expect him to take their advice all the time but they expect him to hear them out. There are plenty of close calls that stress Ivory out to no end but on the flipside, Slick doesn't expect Ivory to be so rash and promptly follows them when they do rush into things - he's protective by nature and there's a bit of a curiosity involved.

♤

Overall, their relationship tends to tilt towards the negative aspects of being emotionally driven - pettiness, guilt, spite, etc. But they reassure/calm the other when things get more serious. Slick is incredibly protective and will put himself in danger for them. It's not a matter of not trusting Ivory, rather, it is a sign of loyalty and commitment hebhas towards them.

Ivory is confident in Slick and knows he can fair well on his own or with a team - they still worry but they often rely on hope and luck that things will eventually work in their favor (that's not to say they won't work for their future/goals).  

♤

stars - what kind of a date would your f/o take you on?

Ivory was never one for big, flashy dates even in their previous relationships (much to their dismay, they went on many). Dressing up every so often is fun but loses its novelty if it's constant. Slick doesn't seem too flashy either, preferring to lay low and enjoy the time he has alone - sure he broods but he's having his noir film moment. He doesn't mind spending money, he's got plenty to spare which he usually uses on booze and cigarettes anyways. There's no harm in spoiling Ivory on occasion and probably enjoys taking them someplace nice. He hates dressing up in stuffy, 3 piece suits and avoids them at all costs, but if Ivory's dressed to the nines, he's not gonna be shown up.

I've said it as a joke but truthfully, the couple could start off at a 5 star and end up at the diner down the street. Sharing fries all done up in heels and makeup, cufflinks and polished shoes. 

That being said, they're both more casual! The duo is more than content driving around the city listening to the radio and enjoying the others company, regardless of the silence.*** Truthfully, dinner and a nice drive or walk around the city is ideal. Ivory's more of a window shopping type and enjoys peeking into windows to watch people bustle around. Slick tends to walk a few steps behind to keep them in view, admire from afar type. He's not a very chatty individual and tends to rely on looks and physical touch when talking to Ivory. He's got a permanent scowl on his face but he's truly content when he's with them.

♤

Slick enjoys his privacy but he's not against going out for drinks and enjoying a nice performance here and there. But if it's shit, he won't be sticking around (if he goes alone), with Ivory he can distract himself and leads them somewhere quiet and he snidely comments on the performances while Ivory tries to find the good and bad in it.

Since that's more of a hit or miss type of date, he tends to do things that are sure to be more relaxing. He's a hotblooded guy, while Ivory's more mellow so he figures getting them riled up isn't something that's 'fun' for them; makes him settle his ass down before he breaks a hip He'll pop in a few of his cherished noir films and let them get as close as they like - he's not as picky ab touch when they're alone.

If not that, he has Ivory randomly choose a record to play and sits back with them. If he was generous and feeling sweet, he'll help them to their feet and hold them near and sway together. He's an awkward romantic but a romantic nonetheless, so he's willing to push through it for the sake of having them against him and teasing them if they look a bit flushed (but reading the atmosphere).

***Extra thing:

Slick really said 'I know a place' and drives out of the city that scares shit out of Ivory- purely because this is unknown territory. Of course they trust him but their nerves often get the best of them as they sit up, a bit stiffly as they look at the scenery passing by.

Very smooth conversation:

"this is where I get rid of 'things'"

"really?"

"yeah"

"oh...at least the view is nice. guess that's why you drove this far."

*met w/ silence*

What 'things', you may ask? Take a wild guess! Maybe it's emotional baggage, sometimes is Physical Baggage!

[candygothjester]

AAAA idk if my other ask went in but I think it was for your oc Jax w 7 and 21 from that as game ?? But if my other one DID go in then dont worry abt this one if u dont wanna alsjdkhfg

IT DID IM JUST so slow at responding to asks omg kjsdhkjsfd

I shan’t complain though because I love rambling about my OCs to no end, though apologies if this lacks coherency it is like 3 AM right now? But thank you sm for the ask!

3. What does your oc’s voice sound like? (Or, if you have one, what’s their voiceclaim?) Can they sing, whistle, or roll their rs? Do they have any speech impediments or notable dialects/accents?

Honestly!! This is something that I’ve struggled for the longest time with! I keep trying to think of a voice for Jax and I’ve yet to settle on anything? I’ve figured his voice would be on the higher end, generally being heavily emotive unless he absolutely wants/needs to mute out his feelings... which, either way, is a good tell to get a grasp on his state of mind in that moment, same with the pitch of it that well follows suit. Jax definitely has an awful singing voice, but I’d imagine him being able to whistle, roll his r’s, and he is (canonically to my campaign!) able to do other accents very well. Otherwise, he has an extremely strong Elvish accent, though I’m not sure what accent in the real world it’d be reflective of (one of my friends suggested Australian, which I can see for better or worse,).

7. What song reminds you of this oc? Does this match up with the type of music your oc likes to listen to?

yes /j

Realistically? An absolute fuckton of songs, though I’d have to say Grand Finale (matches his general personality and what I want his character growth to be like!) by Studio Killers; Nightlife, Music People, Welcome Kingdom of Addiction, and Ghosts of Utopia (all discuss very corruptive influences on his life and thus how those then reflect on his own actions and ultimately drag him down, making him suffer more and more) by IAMX; The World Does Not Revolve Around You and Irresistible (this man’s awful ego) by Temposhark; and The Prince (his present self more-or-less being reflected upon by him when he’s older) by Madeon! I can’t say this without including songs about his pairings, so I particularly associate Achilles, Come Down (if there’s any song that I could dedicate to their dynamic as a whole, it would be this) by Gang of Youths with Jax and Dekida (where I find that the singer’s voice would match Kida’s, to reflect on the previous question), then world.search(you); (again, another close descriptor of Jax and Hazel’s dynamic, particularly while they both think the other is dead) by Mili with Jax and Hazel! None of these match his music taste, I’d imagine at most he might listen to a FEW songs from IAMX, but regularly I think he’d listen to rap..?

21. What’s a fact you haven’t shared about this oc?

THERE’S SO MUCH... this man has an incredible amount of lore and things to his personality, I couldn’t even begin to start with just one... but I think I’ll go with the most recent development of him since it’s fun? So, to give context, Jax’s forearms and hands are completely black, their surface looking a lot like charred wood with many, many lacerations thanks to corruption from The Tower (and to give even more context, this whole world has a singular set of very magical tarot cards called the Dwelling Cards that all come with their own unique properties, abilities, intuitions, and corruptions, generally being held by a person that matches their stereotypical traits within divination. Only one Card can be held at once by a person, unless that person holds The Fool like Jax), as upon killing his father who held it, Jax took the card and it completely corrupted his hands which now burn with absolute hell levels of pain. From this, his mother created gloves for him which numb the pain of the corruption, though it still hurts plenty and tends to spike at random moments regardless; their edges are magically sewn into his skin to ensure that they will never accidentally come off. Eight levels of context aside and completely disregarding that I’ve mentioned this nowhere before besides TH, the one thing that I really wanted to talk about was the solution since I really haven’t put that anywhere before! I was thinking that when this whole situation gets sorted out and dealt with, since my campaign has an odd focus on elemental creatures (the Bronze Dragon, Mary, & a stone/construct hawk goddess, Uvetta, are like. two major characters), I’d make his blood turn golden in response (I think Uvetta would partake in his healing..? This would take more context, but for basic knowledge she is something of a healer and is also the essential creator of the Dwelling Cards) to match, in a sense, his ego and status, reflective of how much he sees himself as something wonderful and how others do too, but also how he’s not only a “null” prince but an idol, regarded by, looked up to, and favoured by many to the point where he makes his own self conform to these visions much like a trophy. He’s a god in his own right to some extent, the golden blood only reflecting that. On its own, the properties of the blood can be healing at first in regards to a person’s mental state, though if enough of it consumed it quickly becomes addicting and intoxicating whilst not once quenching thirst, only drawing people in to drink more and more. It is cool, kind of like water that’s been sitting out for a while in a colder location, and it solidifies into a metal outside of Jax’s body after some time passes. Since I think it’s cute, his own blush becomes very much golden, though I think at the same time his tears would turn black for... no true reason really, it just sounds kind of fun and ultimately reflects his contrast from the self he presents to others to who he actually is. Bodily fluids aside, I feel as though his hands and forearms would be permanently covered in tinted skin, like thick lines of blue kind of like bandages running over them.

[borderlineteacher]

When you get the time, give us a life update! Im dying to hear about this boy! And how therapy is going!! Glad youre doing well, you DESERVE this!

Oh boy. Firstly, thank you so much for those kind words. This was a nice message to wake up to this morning and I’ve been thinking of how to respond for the last few hours.

I’m gonna try to write this out. It might not make sense, it might be confusing, it might be pointless. I don’t really know, but it’ll be the best I can do. I am going to split this update up into sections so it is easier on my brain…

WorkI love my job. It is hectic, it is exhausting, it is overwhelming. But I love it. The whole nature of being an educator is knowing that you will come in contact with some nasty colleagues, you will have to deal with annoying administration. But at the end of the day, we love what we do or we would not be doing it. My co-teacher is such a chiller, we have a great dynamic, and my kids are the best. It was definitely a massive adjustment for me in September – I have a crazy commute, a different workplace is always daunting, and I had never worked in a public school before. But, as I said, I love it and my students make me so happy regardless of how wacky they are. Watching them learn and grow and succeed is so rewarding, seeing the lightbulb go off in their minds when they finally understand something is worth more than any paycheck.

SchoolThis semester was difficult, not in terms of the difficulty of the classes but rather the toll my insane schedule took on me. I got home late a lot of nights and was just so exhausted every single day because my alarm went off at 5am. In the end, as always, I got my shit done. I’m confident about one of my classes, not so much with the other one because I kinda just BS’d my way through it. No one has posted any grades yet so we shall see. I have one semester of classes left and then next fall it’ll just be me being observed and taking certification tests, etc. One step at a time.

Social LifeI have none. Whatever form of social circle I thought I had a few months ago is 100% gone. I will not go into it publicly, so please do not ask. But basically my life consists of work and school and work and school with some physical therapy stuck in there when I can fit it in. I love the people I directly work with. Honestly I’ve come to terms with it, I need to focus on me and my education and my job and my overall wellbeing. I feel like I’ve been crashing and burning things along my way to accepting this but I cannot harp on whatever has happened. This is my life. I need to go with it and get my shit done. 

DatingSurprise – I’ve been dating a guy since November 2nd. It’s kinda funny how we met, but yeah he’s great. We both love music, he is a DJ, and the time we spend in the car is pretty much me harmonizing to the radio while he beatboxes. Two weeks ago we had a real talk about where we both hold, and we both agreed it’s going well. He said that he totally understands that I’m super busy, he is busy as well. He said he’s cool with the “going slow” thing, it fits both of our lives perfectly right now. We’ve had in-depth conversations about religion, we are both on the same page with a lot of things. It’s just good. He even once pulled “the move” on me while we stood on a dock and looked out at the water. You know, the slick “I’ll put my arm around you” thing. It was cute. I’m just gonna enjoy this now and not jump to any conclusions, but I feel comforted in the fact that right now, this is stable. This is good. 

TherapyMy therapist is practically jumping out of her seat at the fact that I’m dating, it’s hysterical. It’s like she’s more excited than me. In general, therapy is…intense. Meaning it’s difficult because we are really getting into some deep stuff, but it’s also good because it means work is being done. Our relationship is also getting stronger, in such a good and therapeutic way. As of December 1st my family switched insurances to one that my therapist does not accept but right now they are covering three months of sessions as if she is in-network and my therapist is in the process of getting a single-case agreement for the insurance to cover it all going forward due to medical necessity. She is really working at it, as am I with all the phone calls, and I’m confident it’ll work out. 

PHEW. This was a lot to think about and write, but this is basically where I’m at right now. Nowhere near perfect, because everything is always up and down. Some days I don’t see any progress within myself, and other days I feel on top of the world. Some days I cry and panic and dissociate, some days I get through it all without a slip. 

Not to sound all corny, but life is one wild fucking ride.

[themadvigilantist]

things about time lords that was new to me and/or i forgot about that i’m now going to consider canon for basically every time lord in a fight:

Time Lords' physical forms are only fragments of much vaster multi-dimensional ones existing in a realm invisible to humans; this aspect is able to create coincidences around a Time Lord. (and everyone is so surprised by how strong they are. gallifreyans are (possibly) stronger than the hulk and captain marvel full force. k bye)

While the human eye was just a dish of light-sensitive cells, leaving the brain to do all of the processing, the Time Lord retina was capable of thinking on its own. As a result, on Gallifrey, the retina replaced fingers as the main method of communicating with machines. (a brain for the skull and a brain for each eye and just holy shit. they can feel people with their eyesssssss.) Gallifreyan eyes were better at seeing in general, as well as in the dark, as they could gather and enhance available light. They could notice incredible amount of detail from distances of at least one hundred yards away, as well as people that were well beyond the human line of sight. Gallifreyans had incredibly precise control of their eyes (which explains a shit ton on why the doctor’s eyes just get bigger when they can’t find a companion and have to resort to yelling their name. it’s like that meme about yelling something to get them to respond but extreme sports edition. like extreme marco polo or waldo like holy shit).

Gallifreyans could survive some falls which would shatter the bones of humans.

If pushed from a height into a liquid, a Time Lord body was capable of protecting them, sealing up the lungs to conserve air for a short period (see Hell Bent and 12′s constant diving)

Gallifreyans could survive extreme cold, due to having a "souped-up metabolism"; they could even withstand exposure to a vacuum for a few minutes with the only consequence being blindness rather than death. They could also survive extreme heat. They could even survive the subzero temperatures and extremely low pressure of vacuum for around six minutes, and survive electric shocks that would be fatal to humans. 

Röntgen radiation affected Gallifreyans so minimally that Gallifreyan children were routinely given radioactive toys in the nursery. They could, at will, absorb very high doses of Röntgen radiation, transform it into a form harmless to humans, and expel it from their bodies. Radiation of other kinds could be fatal, but even then a Gallifreyan could handle much higher doses than a normal human could, and could hold out much longer than even most terrestrial life-forms, although a unique form of radiation around the Lakertyan System was only fatal to Time Lords while being harmless to humans.

Gallifreyans needed less sleep than humans, and could make do with as little as an hour.

A Gallifreyan who was severely injured without actually needing to regenerate to heal the damage would generally slip into a healing coma, and devote all his or her energy to healing the injury. While in the coma, they would appear to be dead.

Time Lords also seem to have an increased resilience to higher frequencies of sound.

Gallifreyans could be disabled by a blow to the left shoulder, which possessed a vulnerable nerve cluster.

Gallifreyans were capable of resisting attempts to disintegrate their bodies, despite being shown capable of disintegrating other organisms.

Early Gallifreyans deliberately infected themselves with the Yssgaroth taint to give themselves a biological advantage.

Time Lords occasionally displayed, or referred to, the ability to fly. (cough cough mary poppins, saxon, missy, that time lord messenger, tenth doctor when he got back to normal and cradled the master and cried after lucy shot him cough cough)

Even without regeneration, Gallifreyans had considerable lifespans. Within one regeneration, Gallifreyans could live for hundreds of years, yet look much younger than a human of equivalent age. (which means the curator in the 50th Anniversary of Doctor Who is 500 yrs old in that face so like imagine young tom baker but with just the short curly cut like wow)

Physical stress could cause Gallifreyans to age.

the Time Destructor may have contributed to ageing

Gallifreyan children grew at about the same rate as humans of the same age. After this point, ageing would slow, with the Gallifreyan looking like a teenager for decades. ( @girl-in-the-tardis @gallifreylegacy so basically those kids end up being like twilight minus the disco ball vampirism when they graduate college and get the highest occupation of their job. like they could be considered both the youngest president but also the oldest being visually a teenager but actually 90 yrs old. like No. 5 from Umbrella Academy)

90 is teens, 750 is middle-aged and senility age when one time lord gets over 12,000 years old (depending on the regeneration i guess???)

Gallifreyans had all the senses possessed by humans, and to generally superior degrees. Gallifreyans also had extraordinary reflexes and precision timing, literally superhuman.

In the space of four nanoseconds, a Time Lord can move fast enough to dodge shots fired at them whilst devising a plan to escape. (so that trailer where 13 is like a speedster? fucking canon y’all)

Gallifreyans showed great hand-eye coordination and dexterity with a wide variety of tool and weapons.

Gallifreyans (in "younger" bodies) were, consequently, very physically able and highly athletic

A time lord perceived sounds from the TARDIS, while located several sections away in a larger spacecraft or planet.

Gallifreyans were capable of identification by taste. (see all of tenth doctor) The Gallifreyan sense of smell was equal to their sense of taste. They could do a chemical analysis of the air using their sense of smell. On some occasions Time Lords were also able to judge what time period and location they were in by the smell of the air. (this explains that comic where rose was possessed by the ninth doctor and she basically became the ninth doctor for that strip while also talking to him out loud as he responded in her head: basically 9 was remy the rat and rose was linguini the hair-controlled human k thanks. so that’s a thing)

Gallifreyans were better at coping with sudden changes in position than humans and were harder to disorient. 

As well as the senses shared with humans, Gallifreyans had further senses, with at least a sixth sense. Gallifreyans had time- and spatial-related senses and physical attributes; they were able to resist fields of slow time, notice distortions and jumps in time, retain perception of local time flow, including a secondary "backwards" consciousness during jumps back in time that could overwrite the one prescribed by forward time, directly perceive the interstellar motions of cosmological bodies or their inhabitants — including sensing the "shape" of the world to the extent that they were aware when trapped in pocket dimensions — and perceive all possible timelines. Due to their time sensitive nature, Gallifreyans could retain memories of negate or alternative timelines. (so basically the whole ‘i won’t remember this’ schtick from 50th was a sham. which explains why tenth doctor was looking for rose the second he heard bad wolf but he was on gallifrey and not earth. this boy was looking for the moment but like she just didn’t appear and then the button changed into a rose shaped one like wow ok bye) The form of eidetic short-term memory, able to recall every insignificant detail of even the most moments in time (holy shit there’s no way you can win an argument with them. that’s fucking sad...for any human anYWAY). on a quantum level, their brain could receive information from possible futures, possibly without even realising it consciously. (ahaha do you mean that the tenth doctor saw different futures where he saw all outcomes of doomsday which makes all those edits where he’s living life with rose and donna as his sister fucking true but it’s also true that canonically he went, ‘nah, have tentoo im gonna skidaddle’ and left THEM OKAY BYE AGAIN). Time Lords shared a special mental connection to the structure of history. The chakras of the Time Lord nervous system could detect contours in the Time Vortex and also felt an instinctive gut revulsion towards fixed points in time.

The Time Lord brain was much larger and more complex than the human brain. The size differences effectively ruled out brain transplants from a Gallifreyan to a human, having one, two or three brainstems (so basically that whole plot in Get Out would have backfired so fucking hard. now that would have been a wild movie.) Time Lords could also separate the hemispheres of their brain, allowing them to multitask easily. Records on some planets indicated isolated cerebral hemispheres as a characteristic of Time Lords. Time Lords had an additional brain lobe dedicated to mechanical and other bodily functions, freeing the other lobes for intellectual endeavours. The autonomic functions could be artificially supplanted with a special device, allowing the Gallifreyan to think with their autonomic brain.

Gallifreyans could sense the presence of others of their own species, with the sense being specific enough to allow identification of one another just by sight, regardless of potential recent regeneration. (v and vin tend to turn this off because they like being surprised. surprises are fun.)

Body temperature of Gallifreyans are fucking Arctic or near Pluto levels, hence the layered clothing in the most hottest climate possible like what the fuck. it explains so much on why tenth doctor still donned that luau necklace thing because that was just a nice warm spring to him okay. which means if they get sick, you need oven gloves and a heat resistant suit. that’s what im gonna assume. like holy shit. no wonder that ice didn’t do shit for 10 in the 42 ep. good to know

Time Lords displayed the ability of touch-enabled mental manipulation; this manifested itself in a number of different ways, including hypnosis, mind-reading, thought sharing, the ability to relieve dementia, putting others to sleep, influence on others' dreams, memory erasure and could also transfer knowledge quickly to another person by headbutting them. In addition, they were telepathically linked to one another and could join the entire Time Lord intelligence as one. They could hold telepathic conversations over distances, but this was more difficult. They could converse with each over the astral plane, although this ability required intense concentration, and an interruption might have fatal consequences for the Time Lord. Their telepathy extended to less intelligent animals. Perhaps because of this, they had an innate ability to understand any language. In ancient times, Gallifreyans who were capable of blocking out the telepathic thoughts of other Gallifreyans were called Individuals. They usually had red-gold hair and often went on to become Young Heroes. (THAT’S 👏🏾WHY 👏🏾THE 👏🏾DOCTOR 👏🏾WANTS RED 👏🏾HAIR 👏🏾👏🏾 THEY 👏🏾 WANT 👏🏾 TO 👏🏾BE 👏🏾A 👏🏾INDIVIDUAL 👏🏾👏🏾) They were highly resistant against, if not immune to, other forms of mind control. However, they were vulnerable to more powerful forms of mind control. (so basically Jessica Jones episodes 1 thru whatever episode Kilgrave doesn’t find out about Hogarth trying to inject herself with his DNA, they are immune but, episode where kilgrave injects himself with it and becomes powerful might be vulnerable to it if that same kilgrave did what cartoon kilgrave did with tony stark and used the stark tower to boost and spread his control over everyone...or you know, maybe can withstand wanda vision’s control. maybe. i have to consider pythia and the karn so, it’s a good 50 - 50 chance on kilgrave and wanda being able to mind control a time lord. like properly. so jot that down)

Gallifreyans (Time Lords) don’t have prostates.

[adeadgodcandream]

regulations

Welcome to the RP blog for Kathryn J. Shepard! THIS IS A SIDEBLOG OF @ghilannainguideme​. The ask box is always open, and I love meeting new people. <3

General guidelines:

I am open to RPing with most characters from the Mass Effect universe, including other original characters, or other characters with Mass Effect AUs.

I am in my thirties, and Shepard is of legal age in all her established ‘verses. I ask that my RP partners are also 18 or older.

We do not need to be mutuals if you want to interact! Memes and banter make great ice-breakers and are typically open to anyone. Likewise, my inbox and IMs are always open if you want to chat OOC, and I will give out additional contact info (email, Discord) on request.

Be fucking kind. I don’t tolerate queerphobia of any sort, nor do I have patience for racism, ableism, classism, et cetera. I will not participate in censorship/callouts unless there is a material threat to a real person.

Tagging, trigger warnings, and NSFW content:

If we are mutuals, please tag the following for me: drunken behavior or heavy alcohol use, addiction (any kind), pregnancy/childbirth. Please also refrain from using this content in our RP interactions.

Some possible triggers you may encounter on this blog are blood and gore, food and eating, mentions of alcohol consumption (but not drunkenness, addiction, or drinking to excess), PTSD, mental illness and sexual content.

A list of this blog’s commonly-used tags is in progress...

Sexual content will always be tagged as #not safe for spectres. Any text that is particularly explicit will also be under a Read More.

I am willing to write sexually explicit content with a partner who is of legal age, but I may not necessarily be comfortable writing smut for every pairing I ship, or interested in doing so all the time. If you’re interested in this, ask me so we can discuss it!

I will not write sexual assault, non-consensual sex, or sexual content involving minors. However, other characters I write with may have these or related themes in their backstories, and I can’t promise they will never be mentioned here. Any such references will be tagged as clearly as possible.

On writing/RPing:

The usual: don’t godmod, and don’t force actions or thoughts on Shepard. If you’re unsure whether you might be crossing a line, please ask!

This post is a great summary of the extent of minor godmodding that I’m OK with.

I do not expect my writing partners to strictly match length as long as there is enough content for me to respond to. Sometimes I get carried away, particularly with starters; sometimes I can’t find very much to say.

I don’t use any special formatting, and I rarely use icons. I just care about writing! I would prefer that my partners not use small text, a lot of fancy characters/font changes, or extra spaces.

I’m open to RPing via Discord or email, pending discussion.

I’m a very slow writer and my mental health isn’t great, so I may take a long time to reply. Feel free to check in if you think I’ve missed a thread or message, but don’t pester me repeatedly. If I need to drop a thread, I’ll let you know.

Liking & reblogging:

Please do not reblog:

in-character threads from me if you are not a participant in them.

my personal OOC posts, including repost memes, even if they seem ~relatable~. I will block blogs for this.

Please do feel free to reblog:

ask memes, prompt lists, and so on! Please just send me something from them if you do.

drabbles/prompt fills/meme responses to you. (If you would like to reblog fic that was written for someone else, check with them first, but it is generally OK with me.)

Hit that ‘like’ button or leave comments on whatever you want. It’s really nice to know if you enjoyed reading something I wrote, even if it wasn’t written specifically for you or about your muse.

On shipping:

If you know my other blog, you know I am a Certified Ship Goblin, and I  consider threads with different ships to be set in separate ‘verses. Shepard is generally monogamous, but open to threesomes or consensual polyamory.

Shepard is pansexual, so don’t hesitate to approach me with same-sex or otherwise non-het ships (trans/nonbinary inclusive).

Please do not force-ship or begin an interaction assuming a romantic relationship if we haven’t established one, regardless of who your character is. Ask me first if you are interested in shipping.

That said, I typically don’t mind if you send shippy memes or prompts once our characters have interacted a little.

If I ever discuss or write a ship between our muses in a way that makes you uncomfortable, let me know! Respecting your level of comfort is important to me.

[steinfeldofrph]

SURVEY RESULTS!

so! a week or so ago, i annoyed you all by constantly reblogging a link to a survey to help improve my blog? 53 of you guys responded which was really cool so thanks to those who take time out of their day to do so! below the cut, i’ve responses and next steps to the things you guys said as well as responses to things you’ve said so if you said something and you wanna see if i responded, click read more. or if you’re just curious:

My queue is currently set at 8 posts a day. This means a post every three hours. Is this too little, too less or okay?

that was question one and these were the results:

18.86% said “too little”

81.14% said “alright”

nobody said too little

next steps: the queue will stay as it is since its an overwhelming majority!

Do you think I reblog too many of the same people in terms of fc pictures/resources/etc to the point it becomes annoying?

that was question number two and these were the results:

90.6% said no

3.8% said yes

the rest said that things among the lines, “i follow you because you reblog those fcs”, “some more age and gender diversity” and “you’re fine”

next steps: no next steps really since no one said anything of concern. i’ll try and keep it up!

then i asked people if there was any they didn’t like and most of you guys said n/a accept for hailee steinfeld, olivia holt and dylan sprayberry. i tag every celebrity as “firstname lastname” so hailee is always tagged as “hailee steinfeld” pls feel free to blacklist but i will be slowing down on all three! hailee posts will most likely be limited to three posts a week maybe 4

then there was this dude:

first of all nobody has said anything before this survey so clearly i wasn’t annoying people that much so a) those people are blocked and b) you’re just a whiny bitch. anyways

I currently have a tag called "poc" where i put all non-white resources, psds etc. Would tags such as "poc psd" and "poc gif pack" be more suitable?

that was question number four i think? a lot of you pressed other so i can’t give decent percentages but thank you for your replies

next steps: i will be creating new tags for poc and tagging gif packs etc featuring people of colour as a separate thing. i will make a post when this is in effect. i will also create a whole poc section in my navi. thanks again to everybody!

What types of themes would you like me to reblog more of? Can select multiple options.

most of you guys picked all of them so it was pretty even tbh. some selected the other option and said pages and more accessible themes

next steps: i will do my very best to reblog more of each of those things. please don’t be mad if you don’t see immediate change because im busy these days and all!

What resources would you like me to reblog more of in general? Can select multiple options.

im gonna go for top two because they were in the lead:

77.4% said underused fcs

73.6& said gif packs

next steps: i will try and reblog both! i’ve found a few blogs that post exclusively underused fcs and i will regularly check tags such as “gif pack” to reblog from. 

the next question was about trigger warnings and i won’t post them now but i am gonna make a list and a post announcing the list when it’s ready. 

next was literally a free for all so im gonna answer things that i will are a concern:

well i sometimes try to request you something but it takes a lot before i gets answers and there is no rush but maybe make a todo list of requests you've accepted out of the messages you haven't replied to yet, so us requesters know if you got it/accepted it sofia says: i do have a tag. it’s stated on my faq too! im rlly busy these days so i don’t sometimes see something? you’re more than welcome to hit my ims up since im on mobile most of the time. sorry about the delays but please send a message confirming whether or not i got something. if i accept something, it’s replied to as well as denied stuff

more resources for graphic makers maybe?? a tag for all resources would be cool too. dont know if u have a mobile WID but that would also be nice imo. unsure tbh? but i tried!! sofia says: i’ll aim to reblog more textures but since im not a graphics maker myself idk what to reblog lmao. i do have a mobile wid! log onto my blog on mobile and you’ll see a link under my description. u did good bb thank u!

Christmas header!!! Girl, change it. But in terms of your actual theme, I adore it and it's gorgeous! sofia says: honey i kno!!!! i haven’t had the time to log into ps these days but it will be changed... before christmas :D

I think your blog is pretty swell as it is and it kind of makes me wanna become a rph??? so if you've got any tips please share tysm  sofia says: dsbjgjbs thank u! um as for tips: stay in ur lane, reblog a lot of things and make things aswell. don’t be afraid to send yourself anons requesting things to get yourself out there!

i love your blog, i think you are one of the best rph's still going. you seem to stay out of most drama and just focus on helping people which is amazing. the one suggestion i have would be to stop reblogging gif icons if they weren't made by scratch from the op? sofia says: yeah i don’t do that anymore unless they are made from gif packs but i’ll keept that in mind???? sometimes ppl don’t have a choice and have to use gif hunts bc they can’t gif themselves/they don’t have the time

i do wish you posted less disney/nick fcs and maybe considered posting more mature actors but i wouldn't complain about which fcs you liked on your blog!! you're doing great and i love you and would love to be in a group with you if you ever want to post rp recs :) sofia speaks: yeah i will agree on that! my next season long project is most likely going to focus on an actor 30+ so look out! and i only make them because im tired of y’all using 30+ fcs as early 20s so i offer more variety????? but like i said i get what you mean! as for groups im in sidekickhq so hmu ! im also down for 1x1s

Less "REMINDER THAT..." "JUST SO YOU KNOW" "CALL OUT POST" "OMG THEY ARE SO PROBLEMATIC" posts? I know the tea is good™ but I don't want to open a rph blog and only find drama, you know? Also, what is the point of doing an honest survey if you are going to complain when someone says something about your blog that you don't like? The "too many resources of one fc that annoys you" question was there with Hailee in mind and she was the first one to come to everyone's mind, regardless of your URL. Everytime there is a "Sofia Speaks"post it's more of Sofia Complains and it didn't use to be like that? I miss your positive vibes and posts. sofia says: alright honey take a fucking seat because i have shit to say to your and your whiny ass. first of y’all you’re the one who sounds hella drama filled tbh. and i don’t really reblog those and when i do it’s got proof and it’s me saying don’t play rapists guys! sorry if you’re so offended by that and call it drama???? and like 2 people said hailee out of 53???? so uhhhhh where are you getting everyone from buddy? where’s your proof????????? and im allowed to use my tag for when i want????? it’s tagged so people can blacklist it? why do your think i tag it lmao??????????? and im not even here these days tbh? anyways i really want your to unfollow me if you haven’t and there is a line between constructive criticism and just bitching. you’re just bitching. and not in a good kinda stranger things way.

talk to us more 😤 sofia says: literally hit me up in my ims! and im sorry i seem distant im just so busy rip! but please come to me i will love you down!

and we’re done! thanks guys for your responses! see you around!

[calamitysshatteredson]

((Ha ha, wow.  There are... more nsfw meme asks.  Which will be answered!  ...Next Sunday/Sinday night at the latest, but we’ll see what happens.  I’d also kind of like to.  Write.  In general.  Bouncing around between work (epic long project is go and screaming already), muses, chronic BS, and ridiculous adulting, so there is some shrugging as to time frames here.  I’ll also need to not even touch FFXV Windows Edition until the weekend dammit.

Still, be ludicrously unafraid to plot-/idea-prod via IMs if you've been waiting for my casually slow self to invite just that.  I will probably take forever to respond regardless because that’s my gimmick or something.))

[oumakokichi]

getting the glimpse of pre-game ouma and how he was a bit more timid than in-game ouma, do you think this is where we see him with his guards down the most, besides when he revealed how much he hated the killing game while on his deathbed in chapter 5? or just another facade? its all up to speculation of course, but im just curious on what you think.

It’s hard to say considering we really do only get just abrief, brief glimpse of pre-game Ouma (which I suppose is still at least morethan we get of other pre-game characters like Kiibo, who doesn’t get even asingle speaking line), but in my opinion at least I don’t think it was another façade!

I don’t know if I’d say he had his guard down completelyeither considering they were all in a pretty terrifying situation, but I dothink he didn’t think of the other students per se as potential enemies orpeople he shouldn’t trust. One thing about pre-game Ouma that stuck out to mein particular is the fact that despite his timidity, at his core he still cameacross as a deeply empathetic person even in that brief little glimpse—and that’sreally the gist of Ouma’s character even in-game, when you get down to it.

One of the things that stuck out to me the most is that whenKaede and Saihara enter the room, Ouma has another brief line (he’s unnamedwhen he says it but you can still tell it’s him because it’s voiced). Whileeveryone begins getting pretty scared and worked up about the Exisals, he askstimidly if he should go out by himself and take a look around to see what thesituation is like. And Tenko immediately responds with a line like “I’ve told you, you can’t just go out there, it’sdangerous!”

This stood out to me for a few reasons. The first of courseis the fact that despite how obviously terrified and timid he looked, pre-gameOuma was still so obviously curious. Snooping around, going to check things outby himself, putting only himself in the line of fire, these are all things Oumadoes repeatedly even in-game. The behavior he puts on around his fellowstudents is completely different, but his course of action is largely the same.Ouma loves to snoop and check things out—it’s a huge part of his character, andit’s one of the reasons Saihara keeps running into him everywhere whenever newareas of exploration open up. So the fact that even pre-game Ouma retained thisinclination is pretty telling.

The other thing that stood out to me was the fact that Tenkoseemed pretty emphatic about the fact that she’d been trying to talk him out ofdoing this for a while. Where in-game Ouma would probably have been out thedoor and snooping before anyone could stop him, pre-game Ouma at least seemedto stick around and want to discuss things with the group. His offer to go andcheck on the situation with the Exisals was clearly something he was trying todo for the whole group’s benefit, even though it was highly dangerous and riskyto himself, and Tenko had apparently been trying to keep him from doing it forat least a little while before Kaede and Saihara walked in.

Putting these things together means we can assume that Oumais: 1.) highly inquisitive and willing to investigate things alone, and 2.)someone who likes to try keeping other people out of harm’s way in order to dothe first point. And these two points are things that are very much central tohis character even in-game, when you get past all the facades and look objectivelyat what he’s doing rather than how he’stalking or behaving in order to try and get people to hate him.

If we assume in a sense that the entire killing game is a “lie”and a façade meant for all the characters to participate in, because fictionitself is (from Tsumugi’s perspective especially) “one big lie,” then we wouldhave to take the glimpses of the characters we saw in the prologue as some kindof guideline for what to expect from their “real” personalities. Consideringhow much emphasis Kodaka himself has put both in the epilogue and on hisTwitter about wanting people to go back and replay the prologue, I’d say thatthe characters as we see them then are supposed to give us hints andindications of what to look for.

So while it’s entirely possible that pre-game Ouma could beanother façade of sorts, I rather doubt it. Ouma in-game is fairly quick tojump onto tactics like crocodile tears, pretending to sweat bullets one instantand then acting totally fine the next, and generally plays his actual fears oranxiety about things very close to the chest. But he seldom (never, really)plays any kind of “act” where he stands around looking noticeably terrified andsmall and quiet and asks if there’s anything he can do to help the group.

Pre-game Ouma feels fairly genuine to me because of allthese things, and because I think that when you strip away Ouma’s five millionfacades and look at the core of his character, this is ultimately who he’strying to hide: this very scared, well-intentioned kid who values other peopleabove himself precisely because he’s also very fun-loving and enjoys having agood time and hates seeing people get hurt or suffer or die.

Ouma in Chapter 5 just before his death, meanwhile, feelsgenuine for a different reason. These things are still very core parts of hisentire character, but there is also an element of anger there—very real angerand frustration that was caused by the entire killing game itself. Ouma actsthe way he does in-game for a variety of reasons, and most of them boil down tothe situation being horrible and god-awful in every sense of the word. Betweenthe paranoia and having no one he knows or trusts, the fact that people areactually dying, and the fact that the ringleader is watching their every step,Ouma put on his cryptic act and chose to play the part of the villain in orderto play out his schemes, feeling there was no one he could trust but himself.

But when push came to shove, there was no way for him tojust ignore that part of himself that clearly values human life, the part thatvalues other people even above himself. Regardless of whether DICE existed inreal life or not, just the fact that in Ouma’s in-game motive video alone theywere described as “his everything, his most important people in the entireworld” who were “closer than family” to him means that he is very capable offeeling deeply and caring so much for others around him.

As much as I think he would like, to some degree, to be someone who could just throw hisemotions away and not feel or care for people around him (because it wouldcertainly make it easier to face off against the ringleader), there are so manyindications that he couldn’t. Not caring at all about Maki or Momota’s lives,even about Saihara’s life, would’ve made the situation so much easier for himin Chapter 5. And still he chose the self-sacrificing route, dying a horrible,slow, painful death, because he really couldn’t be the sort of cold, ruthless gamemasterthat he built himself up to be.

Ouma in Chapter 5 is so genuine before dying because we knowin hindsight from his motive video and other clues that he absolutely did hatemurders and killing, and that his words to Momota were heartfelt. The anger anddisgust he felt for the fact that he and his classmates were toyed with likepuppets on a string was absolutely genuine—a real, genuine emotion born oftheir “fictional” experiences which were just being broadcast for other people’sentertainment. As Saihara claims in the Chapter 6 trial, even if they’re allsupposed to be “fictional characters,” the pain in their chest is very realafter all the things they’ve been through.

And that’s why Ouma in-game still feels genuine just beforehe dies, but in a different way. He’s the same as pre-game Ouma, but has livedthrough very different experiences by this point, and even with his façadelowered, there’s no way for him to ever really go back to who he was beforeliving those experiences. And he’s angry and hates everything about the wholekilling game and the people who put them through all of this.

This is just my take on it, of course. As you pointed out,it’s all still speculation for now! I really am curious to know if we’ll everget any more clarification on the ndrv3 cast pre-game, and on Ouma inparticular, since there’s so much interesting material there. Thank you forasking, anon!

[redlemonz]

Day #9

Nothingness again. I furthermore am reaching the conclusive clarity that she's already moving on with her life away from me. And once again, that's great, but when it seems as though it's so easy for the other party - I'm not sure where it leaves me at all in everything, let alone her life. Who am I to her at this very point & what does she feel? It's not something I can question or have any right to for that matter, because it's not my business at all. The reality keeps sinking in that we're not together regardless of how we act towards each other - even if there are aspects of our relationship that feel so unchanged, familiar and comfortable as if we were still best friends, as well as more. But we're not, and the distance continues to inch her away from me which each day that passes. I want nothing more than to see her and be in her presence, even as a friend right now, but that's just one of us at this stage because she's made it clear that I can't come to see her at this point. Meaning, don't interrupt her period of healing and moving on from any leftover thoughts about me in that way, because well, even though she joked about giving it a couple weeks of distance - could it actually be coming to fruition? Am I just another meaningless soul all of a sudden? Well is exactly how I feel unfortunately. Either way, my mind is the culprit of doing this to myself once again - the overthinking & drawing of conclusions that would hurt my heart, and accordingly punish myself in preparation for the potential correctness of my perception upon us. All of our friendly banter and conversation - I've just overly romanticised a bit in my head due to the fact that it makes me so uniquely happy, when really it's just nothing more than as stated - friendly banter and conversation. And the snaps she sends me are unlikely special for just me - I'm probably just part of a generic group who receives them all. Because I'm not actually special.. at all. Not anymore. I smirk at myself, as this dawning revelation (which should've obviously been common, logical sense right?) reminds me yet again, that I'm an idiot. Day 9 - fear of being forgotten At work, mid week - it's gonna be the second social soccer tonight without her. Sucky. She's been a soccer star since she was very young after all (and was of course my shining star also). Still reflecting upon my craziness and stupidity to even think about looking for an alternative job in her town. Dropping everything for a girl who doesn't even want me anymore, after we've fallen apart. What in the world was I even expecting would change? Nothing. She probably still wouldn't even wish to see me even if I were down there, and would ultimately and ironically distance herself even further away from her overly attached past. It's not even about utilising that last hurrah mentality of "what more do I have to lose?". Because there is still much to lose. It would undermine my affection and care for her a friend, and our current after- relationship circumstances, as it implies that is not enough. I've been more than graced and lucky to even still have her in my life the way I do, and part of my mind is telling me to ruin that by taking inevitably non-positive leaps in the wrong direction. Because there's always underlying, yet absolute minuscule hope that we as human beings create for ourselves - fake as it may be. To help us get through. If only I could find a balance between this craziness and leaving things completely into this nothingness I feel. What kind of loser just steps back and watches it all fall apart, even when all the odds are stacked against him? It's not very superhero, or vigilante like, for that matter, of me. It's just not me at all to give up like this so soon. But I'm learning that not being me is a good thing, especially in this case. The fact of the matter is that she wants me to step back and give up, though knowing my otherwise nature. And even it kills me and my principles, I at least have to try.. for her. So I'm the kind of loser who has to keeping reminding himself that this is the best methodology to ensure I'm putting her first, above my own selfish desires. Being human is truly fucked up. Never having the knowledge upon what's right and wrong for certain, with the exception of what your own brain and accordingly, perception, dictates it to be. Just a constant, damned life of learning until it's too late, and you've already missed out on what really matters. What I can visibly identify is wrong is the fist fight that me and one of the three just witnessed outside the mall in our break. Up to 10 teenagers of mixed gender just swinging away at each other - just another fucked up representation upon our society today, and how we devalue each other as human beings. Even more messed up, back in the office, the first question we received upon explaining what just happened, is whether we video recorded it. No - didn't even cross my mind, because it's absolutely stupid and even more messed up. We called the police straightaway and stuck around in a reasonable vicinity, so not to put our own lives in harms way, but to also ensure there was no fatal results. This all just conveys how incredibly mindless people can be - which doesn't rule me out as an exception. Just because I'm not violent in the physical sense to others, doesn't mean I haven't been emotionally or mentally. Which I have been to her and others in the past I suppose, due to my own inability to think and function as a better human being. Because look at me even now - pondering the selfish ways in which I could ultimately screw up her life even more. Though it would never be my purposeful intention ever, acting upon the possibility and risk of that knowledge is just as criminal, maybe even worse when you can grasp an understanding of it. All I know is that I'm not a good person, no matter what I do. Because I either can't do anything right, or can't ever do enough. Just like how I'll probably be a liability in soccer tonight too - not looking forth to the social surroundings, and having to speak to people once more. I don't wish to answer any questions directed me about how I'm doing, and how I'm handling everything that's going on. Which is why I'm probably being an asshole and I'm not responding to a few concerned friends who keep messaging me. I don't want their pity, I have enough an endless supply for myself already in this bottomless pit I keep falling through. I just hate the amount of effort required these days to try and continue to function in every environment Im placed within. I'm not normal and I can't be, and never will be. I've been messed up since much before than I can even bother to remember, and though I've made it this far, my march is slowing down, and my feet are just tired of waking on this burning coal. Football went as expected, nothing much to say. Tried my best to be upbeat (probably too much - many occasions of utilising bad puns than usual - likely subconsciously also inspired by her) to hide any light or visible display of feeling like an outcast from society. The pack still felt empty without her presence. These occasions just continually make me miss her more. Perhaps we wouldn't have gotten smashed either in tonight's game if her goal scoring feet of fire were present. Anyway, so I went home alone after soccer again and got some takeout on the way - reminiscing yet again, and promoting the lonely soul even further. A part of me really has been lost.. it remains with her. Can't put your heart into things as much as you'd like when it's still damaged I suppose. So she snapped me a picture - received my little package in which I sent her some pieces of our city. I can now reveal the very anticlimactic truth that they were simply shells from various different beaches around the City. Also a small pack of chocolate shells to make up for the disappointment and well, feed her addiction (that has been emphasised upon in a previous day). She took it well I guess, because she didn't get mad about it - visibly to me anyway. Hopefully she didn't mind the gesture. Yes I'm still potentially thinking too much about it, and even more so, as a negatively conclusive thought. But hey, pessimism is key right? I mean I've said countless times now that I can never do the right thing, or enough for that matter. Nothing makes a difference in the end - my fate has already been sealed. I'd rather just time hurried up & let me die alone already. It's what I deserve for not being enough, and not being able to live up to anyone's expectations. A constant disappointment who probably peaks at first impression, and then rapidly fades into an oblivion of insignificance and plain, boring, and empty personality with nothing to offer you. Seems as though time isn't necessarily always a healing factor for all, and for me it's certainly more of a time-bomb ticking away rather than a clock. Because as those hands continue to turn, day by day, my acceptance level of my own worthlessness continues to grow.. until the day that bomb finally explodes. Anyway, dark & suicidal themes and thoughts aside (I can assure you and trust that they will remain that way), she also is restarting soccer, or as she calls it, futsal tonight. Late game. You go, goal scorer - all the best. I miss you - and it's sucks that we're slipping away from each other.. but good for you, cutie. That team is lucky to have you on their side, like I once did. Speaking of this absolutely sucky situation of mine (I mean it's all I talk about after all), reflecting back to a work moment today where I conversed with my own previous (and favourite) team leader regarding this general subject. When I say conversed with her, I mean ranted to her and had a 12-year-old salt-spree about love and marriage, and everything I essentially wanted all being an absolute sham, and not being an existing reality for anyone in any situation (thankfully she understands my current circumstances and more importantly, my sense of humour - I'm not purposely a dick to other people, come on). Though I was having a light hearted kid-around about the subject, I started to detach a bit from the simple fairytale of love, and love as a concept at all - as when spoken aloud - you can't help but question the reality further. That maybe such a simple idea such as true love doesn't really exist at all. People just have temporary moments of ultra joy, and well, that's about it. It's just a stupid concept we made up to explain such non-lasting behaviour or feelings. Oh if only I could ever believe any of it - it'd make life so much simpler, wouldn't it? But I can't. She's a constant living proof and reminder to me that true love does exist. And furthermore, it's worth every bit of pain and suffering - before, during, and even after. Her smile is all that matters. Also, I have a wedding to officiate tomorrow evening, so I should probably stop having a tantrum about my own failed love life. At least I can continue to bind others together, even if I'm ultimately left behind on my own.

[madpicks]

New Post has been published on http://www.madpicks.com/sports-picks/coronapicks-questions-23/

CoronaPicks - Questions 2&3

Hi everyone.  I received a great question about a month ago over DM and rather than spend time responding to just one person I decided to post the Q+A for everyone.  The response was great and I happened to get 2 more great questions (from 2 different twitter cappers).   As always my answers are just my opinion.  I could be way wrong and leading you down the wrong path in a major way so as always do your own research until you are comfortable with the avenue you choose.  As far as the cappers who sent me the question. Know I am not writing back to you specifically (how I answer) but rather twitter cappers in general.

  QUESTION 1 – Hey Corona (thanks for sharing that write-up on BR management / level betting, 1-unit, etc). I have a couple of related questions: Assuming a 100-unit bankroll, what is the maximum number of units one should subject their bankroll to risk exposure at any given time? What I am trying to figure out is my personal threshold while taking into account my risk appetite & tolerance levels. I want to know if I should stick with my 5% (regardless of number of bets) or do you think I should up it to 10% so this way it gives me the flexibility to add more plays. Thanks bro.

  QUESTION 2 -Whats up brother before anything i want to thank you for sharing your wisdom with us on twitter love the info you share with us and the help you provide for us new to sports wagering.  Just wanted to ask any thoughts you might have for a guy like myself.  A rookie to sports wagering how can one start to learn how to cap games? Any guidance on where one would start or what to look for as far as stats or info? What would you consider the easiest sport to learn how to cap?

  Two great questions.  I am going to start with the first one.

Remember back about 10-15 years ago (for anyone over the age of 30) when the Poker scene was really taking off?  That’s when everyone, their dog, and their dog’s most recent shit felt they were the next Jackie Chan….ya now it’s jogging your memory right?

About 15 years ago I met up with a friend of a friend who happened to be deep into the poker scene and I developed a man crush on him almost immediately.  I loved poker (all forms) and having a seasoned vet showing me all the ropes was ideal.  There was one trip to the casino which really stood out (and I can remember it with amazing clarity to this day).  There was a player there and he just couldn’t win anything.  If he flopped kings there would no doubt be someone who called with an Ace and then hit on the flop.  After a few hours of this and many hands lost he went all in only to be called instantly.  This pour guy flopped a full house and got called by a guy with trips only to catch his 4 of a kind on the river.  This guy just could not win.

When this guy got up to hit the cashier for a 4th time my buddy actually said (in a private(ish) way so the whole table couldn’t hear) “Hey bro, today just isn’t your day, maybe you should look at calling it a night”.

This fucker lost his cool.  Started saying shit like “you think I can’t afford to buy in again, etc.”  My buddy said “Bro, all I am saying is you simply can’t win today and we have all been there.  Why not wait until a day when you’re running better”.

At the time I didn’t realize the significance of that conversation. After many years playing poker and many more betting on sports I now realize we have days, weeks, even months where we simply have ice in our veins (we can’t win).  You can talk to me about probability and statistics all you want and I don’t fucking care.  What we deal with as sports bettors defies all that shit.  There are times when if you bet both sides of a game it would still find a way to fuck you in the ass.  You all know what I’m talking about.

I’ve had times where it took me 2 months of painstaking day in and day out grinding to show a 20u profit.  Then in 2 fucking days of ice in my veins I lost it all and then some.  That feeling is sickening and it makes you want to throw your hands up and quit.  As a sports bettor our main focus always has to be protecting ourselves from those shitty (ice in your vein) runs.  Like a rival gang in prison you better know their coming, so have a plan!

2 things you need to do:

1 – You absolutely need a defined risk limit. This is an amount you are willing to have in play at any given time.  If you think of your BR as 100u I would say 10 is the stone cold fucking MAX!!  5-7 would probably be my advice.  I watch these guys lay out 3-4 units a day and then all of a sudden post 10u worth of plays.  The problem doesn’t come from them losing the 10u (or close too).  It comes from what’s about to happen the next day.   If the ice god has set up shop in their veins (which she probably has) that bettor’s going to chase that losing day all the way to $0.00 you mark my fucking words.

A lot of people would look at this question as just “How much should I allow myself to (potentially) loose in any given day.  Negative.  You need to also take into account the domino effect of that loss.  That’s the real killer here.  How much can you lose in one day which will have ZERO effect on your next day’s bets?  That’s your answer on how much you should put into play each day.  Now when I say zero effect I mean in a chase kind of way.  Lowering your bets should always been an option after a big losing day.

2- Know how to recognize it. How you’re running at any given time is very important.  “How you’re running” simply refers to how are your bets lining up?  Are they coming in easy, are you getting the breaks, are you seeing things clearly or the inverse to these.  Knowing how your “running” this week/month is huge.  How much you bet and how many plays you make should be largely influenced by this.  I’m not saying you should ever go above that 5-7 unit mark but how your running might influence how many bets you place and how close you get to that limit.

I generally will only bet NBA for one unit plays if I have 3 or less plays.  Usually If I jump up to 5 plays (or certainly above) I will roll back to half unit plays.  If the ice queen strikes on that day I really don’t feel comfortable losing $500+.  This is where I should say “But you have to do what’s comfortable for you” but that’s not really true.  If you want to win money at this you need to treat it like a business.  Feelings and what’s “comfortable” to you shouldn’t really come into play (that much).  Your goal is to make sound business decisions and often those can be defined.  The smart and proven play here is don’t risk too much at any one time & know exactly what your plan is when you feel ice in your veins.

Here’s something you never see.  A tout saying “You know what guys, I’m cold as fucking ice right now, I’m taking a week off or I might just have one play a day until this passes”.  We’ve all heard of the “going tout” curse.  This refers to the idea that when a successful free capper goes tout they struggle.  I believe this is a direct result of what I am talking about.  A tout has to keep the train moving ice in their veins or not and that would kill anyone.  I don’t care if you’re the best capper in the world when the ice queen comes knocking your only option is run full damage control until she leaves.  That’s it guys.  I have done this too many years and watched too many cappers who thought they could out persist the ice queen…..and no fucker ever did.  Use the time she’s hold up to learn new ideas, strategies, etc. but know there’s nothing you can do to help her leave.  She will leave when she’s good and ready.   Limit your bets during this time and wait until your running well again to raise them.

“The best defense is a great fucking defense”

On to question 2

The best way to start capping sports is to pick something that interests you (and makes sense to you) about a sport.  For example where I started was NHL (many years ago) and I would chart the probability of a team losing after so many losses/wins.  So if the Flames lost 2 games in a row they were 64% to win the next game.  Add this to the probability of the team they were facing and over time you could find “favorable” situations.  The trick is to not make it too complicated when you start.  Pick one or two trends/stats and follow them for a season placing your bets on largely just that information.  Over time you will naturally branch out into other stats and trends (idea’s) as you move forward.  It’s like anything, you have to learn to walk before you can run.

A very popular one is if an MLB team loses the first 2 games of a 3 game home series it’s a smart play to bet them the 3rd game.  I’m not saying do this blind but look at those situations and see which ones make sense to you.  It won’t take long before more and more ideas start coming into your field of view.  The trick is to take it slow and have a plan.  The old saying, if you try to chase 2 rabbits you will lose them both holds exactly true here.  There might come a day when you can chase (and catch) both but not when you’re starting out.  Pick one rabbit and you will know when it’s time to start looking in the other’s direction.

There is one key piece of advice I will give you.  You have to do it every day!! Not most days or when the mood strikes you.  Sports betting is like a dance, there’s a flow to it and once you get out of rhythm (take a week or so off) you will be out of sync.  Not to say you have to bet every day (see question 1) but you do have to follow it every day and simulate bet.  Even days when I only bet one play because I feel like I’m running cold, I still record what my full card would have been.

You also have to debrief at the end of every day.  This doesn’t have to take long but you should dedicate 5-10 minutes to go over your bets.  Why did they win, why did they lose, did you miss something, etc.  The amount you will advance your betting knowledge during a 10 minute debrief each night/early morning in immeasurable.

As for what sport is easiest this could be argued for hours but in my opinion MLB is the easiest to start out in.  Because teams play almost every day there is a rhythm you will start to feel.  My advice is take the top 30 starters in the league and throw out (don’t bet) any game they are playing in.  Betting those games takes a lot more experience but the rest are fairly equal (even if they seem like they’re not) so have fun.  Jump in the dance of MLB and see how you do.  What you learn in one year of everyday MLB betting (and daily debriefs) will give you a great base for betting other sports.

Hope that makes sense.

Thanks again for the questions

Corona