#and missing cpr/first aid training which I was actually looking forward to this year

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

The last day at work when you won’t be back for two weeks is stressfullllllllllll.

[ms-demeanor]

You are the one who reblogged a post with a bunch of resources about treating wounds and foraging and using a rifle. You, other anarchists, are where I’m getting the sense of the “life” I’m supposed to look forward to. Not movies.

You know how I know you’re not talking about me?

Because I’m actually really, really fucking cautious about not reblogging information about foraging because I literally know someone who poisoned his dumb ass foraging and died and I would not share that kind of resource with someone who I’m not 100% sure is excellent at woodcraft and has a shitload of outdoor experience. I actually pretty stridently recommend that you DON’T learn how to forage from online resources.

Juuuuuust in case I double checked my blog back through august.

What are you talking about? No forage resources or rifle resources here, at least not for the last 22 days. The one wound treatment thing I’ve reblogged this month is a link to CERT classes, which are community emergency response classes.

I don’t make a secret of the fact that I am pro gun ownership but I also don’t make a secret of the fact that I think if people are pro gun they also need to be pro gun safety education - there are way too many firearms in the US for us to *not* teach kids how to handle them safely. But I sure do NOT talk about having gun battles on this blog because I think that’s glorifying a fantasy version of a fast, easy revolution that I don’t believe in.

(however, as always, if you’re in my general area, don’t know how to use guns, and would like to learn I am available to teach you the basics, as much as social distancing and global pandemics allow anyway)

But. Also.

Buddy, let’s pretend it’s four years ago, or nine years ago, or twenty years ago. Let’s pretend that whatever party is in office doesn’t matter and is totally unrelated to everything.

Have you ever lived through a large earthquake?

A tornado?

A hurricane?

Sometimes infrastructure fails and knowing how to treat wounds is a very, very, very good idea.

Everyone should take a first aid class. I think first aid classes should be a requirement for graduating high school. I first got CPR certified with my girl scout troop when I was 12 and my mom took me to a mobile morgue class when I was 7 because my mom was the department safety coordinator for the DWP in Los Angeles and she was in charge of earthquake drills and first aid training and disaster preparedness and the Northridge quake had just happened.

I grew up taking first aid incredibly seriously, reading “Hatchet,” and my idea of fun is getting a vehicle stuck in an inland sea or going backpacking and encountering a bear. Learning woundcare and treatment for heatstroke and hypothermia is. Like. It’s a pretty big part of making sure I’m doing stupid bullshit as safely as possible.

Also, yeah, I’ve totally superglued my finger closed and used fishing finger wraps to seal a cut and used coffee stir sticks and electrical tape to make finger splint. Even with insurance it still costs me a couple hundred dollars to go to the ER or several hours to go to an urgent care, and that’s when I’ve HAD insurance. Knowing how to safely treat non-life-threatening injuries is just something you should know how to do if you’re broke in America; I’m lucky that I can afford to go to the ER now; that has not always been the case for me.

You ever hung out with really drunk friends? Do you know how to check eye tracking? Do you know how to put someone in the recovery position?

You ever had a friend get clocked with a boot in the pit? Do you know how to check pupil dilation to see if you need to get to a hospital ASAP?

Buddy, you don’t have to be worried about the end of the world to want to get prepared to handle an injury while camping and you don’t have to be an anarchist to think it’s a good idea to know how to treat heatstroke.

ANYWAY there’s this flaw in the human brain called negativity bias, which is where we remember negative, scary stuff more than we remember good, positive stuff.

I’m generally a pretty positive blogger, the resource lists I reblog tend to be things like “here are mutual aid groups” and “learn how to be a hacker” and “here’s how to support people who lose access to abortion.” If you’re getting primarily negativity out of the stuff that I’m reblogging I believe you’re missing the forest for the trees, bud.

The way to handle and cope with negativity bias is to be aware of it! If you’re sitting there going “everything is terrible!” ask yourself “is everything actually really terrible or am I only remembering terrible things?”

2020 is actually a fucking FANTASTIC example of that because there has been a lot of bad shit going on but there have also been really great examples of humans helping each other and people working to take care of each other and apparently Venus might have aliens and that’s just really fucking cool. There is a BUNCH of negative shit out there and we do hear about it all the time but don’t let that bury the positive shit.

You know what I want people to take away from that resource post? That you can and should protect your community from speed traps by reporting cops on traffic apps, and that by reporting cops on traffic apps you are doing a tangibly good thing to prevent marginalized groups from being targeted by police.

That’s a real, simple, easy thing that you can do to actually help people - speed traps don’t work if people don’t know about them and it’s why cops have tried to make it illegal for drivers to warn each other about them.

The idea that the government of the United States is going to collapse tomorrow and things will devolve into gun battles in the streets and foraging to keep from starving seems fairly farfetched but even if that does happen you know that mutual aid helped people survive the great depression, right?

And I don’t want to do the “you should feel #blessed that you’re better off than those people in POOR, UNDEVELOPED countries” thing but people get up and live their lives every day in conditions that require them to forage and navigate violent areas.

It’s shitty that people have to live like that, I wish they didn’t have to and I don’t want more people to have to live in extreme poverty in places that are violent, but it seems kind of. I don’t know. Arrogant? To decide you’re better than that so you might as well lay down and die.

“What do I have to look forward to” - buddy, the world doesn’t owe you a happy ending. You have the rest of your life to look forward to. You have friendships and laughter and cool projects and the people you’ll help someday and the people who will help you someday and sunsets and ripe fruit and meteor showers to look forward to.

Nearly everywhere in the world, through all of history, even peasants danced.

You’ve got the world to look forward to.

And if everything does go to hell in a handbasket and there are gun battles in the streets and you’re trying to make sure you’re gathering morels and not deathcaps then you’ve STILL got the world to look forward to and how you go into it is going to be up to you no matter how a fucking election turns out.

[scathecraw]

BBRae Week 2021 - Day 1: Unconventional Kiss

Raven had been dancing around the issue for weeks now, and both she and Gar knew it. There had been a few near misses after a date gone well, a few breathless close calls during training, and one precipitous moment in the kitchen that fell apart when the smoke detector signaled their distraction.

They had been good dates. Very good dates, to be quite honest. Raven had expected that they would go nearly that well, and that had been why she had held off for so long. With all the emotional vulnerability and insightful talks and fantastic company and so many other things that came with dating someone you had been attracted to for years, she knew that the other shoe would drop, and she would have to just plunge in headfirst. And Gar had been patient – he wasn’t one to rush, especially with her. But he wanted it. And, god help her, she wanted it, too.

A perfect first kiss. The First Kiss, for both of them, hung up on each other for so long that they had never made any real attempts to find anyone else. Kori’s magazines had promised that the first kiss was always awkward and had to be refined by, hrm,repeated practice, but that was only a small part of the fear that gripped Raven when she thought of actually, really putting lips to lips.

It wasn’t Gar. She fully expected him to be just as bad as she was for a while (and likely longer given how quick she could pick things up). It wasn’t even what might… come after. Not as such. It was just… just… it was Important. Capital “I” Important – that things go well. Despite the promise of a bad first kiss by seemingly everyone who had ever kissed, it had to go right. Too wet or too dry, wrong head tilt, wrong duration, whatever – but she wanted to kiss him and do it over and over again and what if he didn’t want to or what if there was no chemistry or what if she sneezed or got so nervous she vomited or any number of things that would, according to all her latest nightmares, put him off wanting her the way she wanted him.

And he seemed so damn blithe about it. Like he couldn’t be less worried, even though she had felt his pulse race and could practically hear his internal monologue turning into a full blown soliloquy. He had that placid smile and those sparkling eyes and smelled like warmth and pine and it was so stupid how he wouldn’t just admit how nervous he was so they could be nervous together.

No, she had to be the mature one and feel all the butterflies for them both. She could practically hear his corny joke about never getting butterflies because he was vegetarian. Stupid Gar and stupid kissing.

It would happen. She would make it happen. And it wouldn’t be perfect, or probably even a very good kiss, but it would be right. Eventually.

____

There was an awful lot of noise and fleeing civilians for an evening out, even at the pier.

Nightwing sighed from atop his favorite ride at the boardwalk, the Ferris Wheel, as he retrieved his communicator and alerted the team. “Titans, we’ve got work to do. Something big is causing trouble at the east entrance. Star and I are on our way and will meet you there.” With that, he stood up in the precariously rocking carriage and Starfire lifted him by the arms, taking off in the direction of the disturbance. Cyborg, heretofore incognito on a date, immediately excused himself and waded through the crowds, shedding his holo-disguise. He was alerted to his passing teammates by a green blur, and called out to Raven as she passed, asking for a ride on one of her ink-black levitating discs. She obliged and they took off after Changeling’s racing avian form.

Gar was the fastest one to respond in these situations. Superhuman reactions and mobility got him to the trouble faster than any of his teammates, and he was proud of it. It meant that he was the first one to  engage the enemy, which was a dangerous gambit when he didn’t know what the enemy was, but someone had to be first on the line when every second was a danger to innocent people. In this case, it was more an annoyance than any real threat. Kitten was throwing a very public and destructive temper tantrum, as she tended to do within a few weeks of release/escape.

Her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Fang, was nearby and suffering the brunt of the auditory assault while a swarm of mutated grubs ate their way through stalls and prizes alike. Kitten was waving the control device as she gesticulated wildly, and the chance to end the whole debacle in one fell swoop was too tempting.

Without waiting for backup or giving away his presence, Changeling darted forward as a seagull, beak agape as he neared the remote. He had timed it perfectly, if not for Fang’s suddenly outstretched spiderleg. The blow sent him tumbling into a pile of cheap stuffed animals and he transformed back into himself. The arguing couple immediately turned their ire on him without ever stopping their argument.

“And now look what you’ve done! Your stupidity got this idiot involved! Why couldn’t you just win me a stupid teddy bear like a normal boyfriend?” Kitten raged as she hammered at the controller, causing the grubs to turn their attention towards the dazed and prone Changeling. Fang launched webbing at him, working at cross purposes as the grubs and giving Changeling just enough time to roll out of the way.

“This is not my fault. You know these games are rigged! Why would I give the money I stole to these scam artists?”

“Because you are supposed to! It’s what boyfriends do! They do stupid stuff because I want you TO!” Kitten screamed and threw her remote onto the ground where it cracked and fizzled. Instead of the expected de-metamorphosis from vicious gnawing grubs to harmless caterpillars, there was a rumbling from deep inside the snack stall and a mass exodus of larvae from the vicinity. Gar had just gotten to his feet when a much larger, toothier, and more armored wriggler burst from the shoddy wooden confines, writhing and shrieking even more shrilly than Kitten, and headed directly towards her and Fang in a headlong charge.

Apparently Kitten’s shouting was enough to distract both of them from their imminent death by squirming tank, and Changeling had to make a tough split-second decision – let them suffer the consequences of their own stupidity, or put himself in harm’s way to save them.

It wasn’t much of a choice. Leaping forward, he transformed into a rhino, a fast moving locomotive of heavy armor and muscle and slammed headfirst into the tank sized larva, diverting it and being whipped aside by the unexpected followthrough of the tail end of the grub.

Raven’s disk touched down just in time to see his head collide with a thick support post that held up the boardwalk, and the sounds of argument fell silent as Kitten and Fang wordlessly assessed the situation and fled. Cyborg called out “Get B. I’ll get the worm,” and launched after the creature.

Raven raced to Garfield’s side, seeing the heavy gash and road rash from sliding across the wood. She assessed him as quickly as possible, noting the broken ribs, bleeding, and, most concerning, the lack of breathing. She channeled her power, reaching her soulself into the unmoving shapeshifter on the ground, and urgently repaired his most vital injuries.

The head wound would wait, they always bled more and looked worse than they were. First the broken ribs, eased out and stabilized enough to hold for a little while. Then the badly punctured lung. As the trapped air was removed and the hole patched, she expected him to cough, sit up, and make a dumb joke. Instead he just lay there, silent. His pulse was fine, and there was no reason for him to be so still.

She did all the steps that the Titans’ first aid training laid out for her, making sure his airway was clear, no pressure preventing his breathing or hidden wounds that would cause more damage, then started mouth to mouth.

It only took a few breaths, as if his body had simply not realized for some seconds that he was able to breathe normally again, before the first unassisted rasps began. Raven let out a sob of relief, feeling like his breath resuming was directly connected to her own oxygen. She continued healing him, clearing his head of blood and strengthening the broken ribs before his eyes opened with a groan.

“Did ya get the license of that truck that hit me?” he said, weakly.

Raven nearly hit him. “That was by far the stupidest thing I have ever seen you do. What were you thinking, charging in like that?”

“Aww c’mon, Rae. I had ta’. And I’m sure you’ve seen me do stupider things.”

“None of them had you puncture a lung and stop breathing, you fool. You didn’t need emergency resuscitation when you tried to do a standing backflip.” A jolt of power zapped him with an icicle of cold to the chest, and he coughed.

“At least I stuck the landing this time, heh. I think I can sit up. Thanks for fixing me up, Doctor Rae.”

She glared, and kept glaring as Nightwing checked in. Fang and Kitten had been apprehended almost peacefully by him and Starfire, and Cyborg had incapacitated the grub easily. She reported the situation, not once taking her eyes off her idiot of a boyfriend.

He rolled to his feet, only a little gingerly, and retrieved the broken pieces of the remote control for Cyborg to repair and reverse the changes to the swarm.

As he stooped down to pick up the last pieces, he stopped, and a look of realization dawned on him.

“Wait, you gave me CPR? Like, mouth-to-mouth?”

“Of course. You weren’t breathing and you needed oxygen before any working brain cells died.”

“Y’know,” he said, sitting back down beside her, “I think that counts as our first kiss.”

Raven went still. It couldn’t. It wasn’t even a kiss, it was legitimate medical treatment. But then again, it wasn’t very good, it was at a weird angle, and there was even the terrible fear that she’d vomit out of worry. It checked all the boxes for the perfect terrible first kiss.

He interrupted her musing, “Too bad I don’t remember it. Maybe we could see if trying again might jog some memories.” He reached his arm across her shoulders, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh shut up,” she said, and pulled him in for a completely butterfly-free second first kiss.

AO3 FF.net

[incendiaryplottwist-blog]

Other People’s Children

Speeding through the subway station at five-thirty on a Tuesday, the wheels of Corey’s power wheelchair whirred under them while their best friend, Bailey, talked their ear off, the words a welcome balm.  This was an early evening ritual continued as always, recounting the ridiculous bullshit that laced every work day--

“He swore he’d seen me there before. He wouldn’t leave me alone all night. Swore up and down I was his cousin’s friend in a wheelchair. Maybe I just forgot,” Bailey said.

Corey listened and smiled the smile the two of them knew as the reflex one kept at hand for the times it was needed badly enough.

Together they considered the facts. A strange man insisting he knew Corey’s very closest friend and took it all a step further by refusing to listen when he was told this was not the case. Horrible and invasive, but still not the weirdest gripe of the day, week or even this year alone. This was fairly standard in either of their lives, actually.

“Fuck him,” Corey said with false cheer. “May his teeth fall out.  My train’s here, I’ll call you back.”                 “Seeya!” the reply was a relieved sing-song. The call had done what it was meant to do, for now. Corey and Bailey each knew who the other was and what they’d need at any given time. The smile on Corey’s face softened and brightened as the line clicked off. They took a deep breath, then moved forward and drove onto the train, a maneuver which required concentration, and another fake look, one of patience and gratitude that able bodied people felt was required for the slightest acknowledgment of a disabled person’s presence.

This was not horror.  This was every single day. This was an okay day. Maybe even a good one. On this day, Corey felt human.

*~*~* The walk home had been pleasant as Corey swept through the fall air. There was always more wind resistance in a speeding chair, meaning it was best to travel bundled up a bit more than the average bear but the weather wasn’t something Corey minded one bit. This day was still counting as a good one when Corey arrived at the building and the warmth of home, definitely worth appreciating after the temperature outside. This was almost worth a real smile. For a little while, at least.

Corey had hired and paid a woman to work as a personal care assistant in the evenings. She was meant to assist with daily living tasks based on the level of help needed to mitigate disability. Her name was Beatrice and she was twenty minutes late. This was a common occurrence in the world of disability services and assistance, but not typical of this employee.

Dealing with many unreliable employees over the years meant the task of seeking their help came with a constant low thrum of anxiety. When someone was late, running through hypothetical scenarios of what might have happened was also typical. Things could go from standard and dependable to simply having no one available on zero notice with stunning regularity, an actual norm of needing this type of assistance, even with pay. Respect for employers was the exception and not the rule for so many people who looked at such work as charity done out of the good of their hearts, even if it came with a paycheck. This had never been a problem with Bea before. Corey thought about what may have happened to Bea. Maybe a hit and run, a sudden medical crisis, an emergency with her neighbor. Any of these and many other possible scenarios could easily take away reliable access to assistance, hope of a hot meal or a relatively clean house. Yet the reality of what was about to happen was something else entirely. Something mundane, a minute and predictable disaster that was nevertheless unexpected. Beatrice walked into work as if being late wasn’t even on her radar for the evening and Corey’s stomach was already growling when the door opened and Bea was finally there. There was a determined look on her face that made caused recognition to dawn for Corey. Beatrice was about to say something very uncharacteristic, at least for her. Dozens of other employees over a lifetime of workers, yes, but not Bea. “I’m leaving,” is all she said. Corey’s attention was suddenly taken up with trying not to panic. Getting out of bed, out of the house and to work were all still on the table. Hot meals and a sense of security less so. Corey started brainstorming about takeout food and badly-made sandwiches that barely tasted like anything but bread. “Tomorrow has to be my last day,” Bea said, and Corey’s stomach lurched, hunger evaporating in an instant. There was a dull feeling of betrayal, but this was not unfamiliar territory. Being seen as a person at all was a luxury often not afforded to Corey. The sting came only from the fact that it was Bea who proved this right yet again.

Corey thought about calling Bailey back but exhaustion seeped in and paused that plan. Waiting a little while to do it seemed the wiser course of action. Corey decided instead to eat a few Oreos and grab an iced coffee from the corner. They would be a consolation prize for suddenly losing the person who had once been the best personal care assistant in quite some time with no notice or consideration. Bea was not the literal best who had ever been, of course, but the best that was available then. Now there was no way to get around replacing her with someone whose reliability would remain to be seen.

When it was time to call Bailey at last, Corey leaned into this common hell for disabled people and let it seep into the first words of the conversation. “Bea’s gone,” Corey said, shaking slightly with emotion. It wasn’t usually hard to call Bailey. It was just the exhaustion. All reserves were gone. “I was wondering why you called back late,” Bailey said. “I’m sorry. I thought she was one of the good ones.” “So did I.” “Can’t believe she planned to just disappear on you.” “Me either,” Corey said, and admitted, “This one blindsided me,” and a fresh wave of frustration broke over the conversation. All the same, it had been worse before. Much worse. And Bailey had always been there. They would both remember that. It wasn’t worse. “Can I get a round of, ‘Fuck her?’ Kidding. Kidding.” Corey continued, then sighed. Time for bigger person mode, as always. “I’m sure she’s just going through something. So that’s that.” Bailey gave an answering sigh. “I’m sorry. You know what you need? Some wine.” “I’ve got Oreos.” “Sugar. Same thing? Nah. Not the same thing. But close enough, I guess.” “Wine tomorrow.” “I dunno how you do all this with so little social lubrication.” A soft laugh wound its way down the line. “Love you.” “I guess I just enjoy fulfilling the stereotype of the pure and virginal cripple,” Corey teased. “Love you too. Talk to you tomorrow?” “Yeah, unless no one shows up later and I really need a 3 AM shot in the arm.” “Good thing you’re not dealing with Bea.” Bailey’s sardonic smile was evident in her voice. “No kidding. Would the two of us have luck that bad on the same day?” “Let’s try not to find out.” “Indeed, let’s not.”

*~*~*

Being alone at home was sometimes better than the bustle of a work day, even after a string of nights like the ones following Beatrice’s departure. Sometimes things were worse. Sometimes there was employees around for errands and chores to get done and sometimes no one was available for three weeks or more. Sometimes getting to work was fine, but there were times it was impossible between PCA absences and all the side jobs given to disabled people (the job of going to doctors, the job of managing attendant staff) that are really each their own full-time commitment. Corey’s mother had said once between the beatings she doled out that storms were meant to be weathered, and storms were never that scary anyway.

These days there was Bailey, and sure, local contacts worth trusting half as much would be great too, but they were hard to find. Most of Corey’s social circle lived in outer Mongolia (okay, in various other states, but with travel being the pain it was, her people might as well have been on another continent) but they’ve all helped in the ways they could, especially Bailey. Nightly calls from people who knew exactly what to say were priceless. Corey treasured each time Bailey launched into another goofy story about Minx, the emotional support cat, and there was room to laugh together. In those moments the laughter held loneliness at bay, pushing back against the inability to tell who would be forced to be alone and stranded next. *~*~* Two weeks passed without much help at home. The ad Corey placed was garnering lackluster results on Craigslist. There had only been a few dead ends so far. The kitchen floor was sticky, and a light bulb that was unreachable from a seated position had blown out, but work at the office had continued at a steady and productive pace and a performance review came and went the previous week with positive results. All this despite stress from working behind the scenes to replace Miss Gone-Tomorrow.

Pickings were remaining slim, with nothing arriving since the application from someone who gave a number that didn’t work. Corey had run the ad multiple times with no results, but was considering sending an answer to the applicant whose resume arrived that morning. The applicant’s name was Gigi and her qualifications looked decent. CPR and first aid, while not necessary for daily practice on shift, indicated she had been prepping for this sort of job, and nothing about her work experience set off immediate red flags that she wouldn’t be open to suggestions during on-the-job training. That alone was an amazing sign.

Over lunch Corey decided to give Gigi a chance and prepared mentally for another phone interview. They had always been done in the hours after work, offering an idea of the applicant’s demeanor and commitment to the work they are about to be asked to do.  A five-minute phone check-in routinely answered a few lingering questions about the applicant as easily as it offered them a platform to ask directions and firm up the timing. Corey had tried to engage with one other applicant this way in the early days of running the ad without any success. Honestly, things are so often this way that none of it had come as a surprise.

“Sure,” someone named Vanessa had said in her phone interview, seeming bubbly and engaged, signs that the check-in might come to fruition. “I’ll see you then,” when they had scheduled a sit-down for two days later. When time had come for the interview, though, she hadn’t come, nor answered her phone or called to offer an excuse.

Corey pulled up Gigi’s email.  Her phone number, with a local cell phone area code, was on her resume.  It was easy to begin to dial. Rain began overhead and Corey’s head filled with a dull ache.  With three digits dialed, the phone was suddenly very heavy and fell back down onto the table. Corey thought about calling later, when the headache had passed. Later. Later. Days passed since the failed attempt to call Gigi. Another light had burnt out, this one in the bathroom. Corey rolled to work all week with a migraine that hadn’t let up since the night of the failed call. The freezer was coming up on empty but it hasn’t mattered much with the migraine stomach from hell. At least there was a small blessing in only being able to handle the lightest of meals. Having more food in the house was not going amiss. The last thing Corey wanted to do was make that call.  So an email went out instead.  It would have to do.

Gigi arrived on time for her interview, wearing sensible but stylish clothing, and her smile--her smile was the first sign she was happy to be here.

Her smile.

She was happy. Corey smiled back.

It was infectious, that was all, and Corey wanted to give an impression: appreciative that she came, but not desperate.

"Thank you for coming," Corey said. The gratitude was mostly genuine. After all, out of this batch of applicants, Gigi was the first to come to her interview. Corey would never understand job applicants who gave non-working numbers or people who refused to show up to interviews without so much as a single call.

"You're welcome," Gigi said, and when "honey," didn’t follow, nor "sweetie," nor any other false term of endearment, Corey’s smile widened a little bit. One test had just been passed. It would be all right to relax just a fraction and maybe to consider what it would be like to see Gigi Gates’ face most evenings of the week after work.

"It's good to be here," Gigi said, turning that same smile directly toward Corey.  “I’d like to see what I can do for you.”

Something, something was gnawing at the back of Corey’s mind as the headache returned, dull but present once more. Gigi’s smile didn’t move. It hadn’t moved once.

Thunk.

Corey kept a tool called a reacher on the hallway table, a long metal tube with a handle and squeezy button on one end which controlled a pincer tool on the other. It was there to offer Corey the option of reaching high enough to throw the chain on the front door. It had not moved.

The chain thudded home on its own. Corey knew because Gigi hadn’t moved either and no one had the reacher in their hand. “It’s good to be here,” she repeated. She dropped a bag in the front hall. It fell with a rather impressive sound, like it was full of bricks. “Don’t you worry,” she said from behind the smile that didn’t move. “I can sleep on the couch. We’re going to have a lot of fun. It’s so good here. I bet you need a lightbulb changed, don’t you.” All the lights in this room were working fine. Bile rose in Corey’s throat.

“Yes.” “Do you have any in the house?” “I’m not sure,” came the answer, something objectively true and yet horrible to admit--except-- “Well, dear, you’ll definitely have to get some. I saw the pharmacy on the corner. Why don’t you go and get some and I’ll be right here when you get back.”

Corey watched the chain on the door slide itself free once more and had to hold back a bout of oh shit I’m fucked uncomfortable laughter. “Now go.”

*~*~* Corey did go and get the light bulbs. The nearby pharmacy was two blocks down and once outside of the apartment the almost-ever-present headache cleared quickly. Getting the bulbs took all of five minutes. Once back inside, all too soon, it was clear Gigi had been true to her word. She was still there. The same smile was still on her face, never moving. “Good job!” It was unclear if this was better or worse than sweetie or honey but given that this person showed no sign of leaving-- “Um. Thanks. So….” “I think we’re going to be a great team,” Gigi said. “You know, just visiting with you, I feel better. Let me change the lightbulbs.” Corey moved to start showing Gigi where the blown bulbs were before stopping to think, but the stranger moved ahead of the chair, cutting off Corey’s path, and found each of them easily. Of course, she has been in the apartment on her own now. Maybe she had already looked around while Corey was down the street. Maybe she had looked through all of Corey’s stuff. “I’ll be right back,” was all Corey said before opening the apartment door and heading into the outer hallway and closing Gigi inside. Once away from her, Corey whirred over to the elevator and headed down into the lobby, slowly thinking over what to do next. The next logical step, as always, was to dial Bailey. It would be fine to just leave a message. It would be fine.

When riding in the chair, Corey carried a bag safely slung across her body so as not to interfere with the joystick. Pulling the phone from the depths of the bag, it was clear that the screen was blank. A moment later it became equally clear that the device was unresponsive as if the battery had run down. It had been at seventy-five percent when Corey was waiting for Gigi before her interview, ready in case anything had come up or she had been lost. Now the phone was dead. There was no denying it. All of the spare chargers were inside the apartment. Inside the apartment with Gigi.

Corey had left a strange woman in her apartment alone. If she hadn’t gone through my stuff before-- The thought did not complete, but then again it didn’t have to. The headache redoubled in strength. Corey leaned forward and to the side and retched onto the linoleum floor of the apartment lobby. She had to get out of here. Into the air. Maybe her phone would work out there.

Corey, my dear. The thought pushed through her mind, escalating the pain in her head. When you’re done, come back upstairs, the thoughts that were not her own continued. We have so much more to do. No. No. She wouldn’t go upstairs. She drove haphazardly in her chair through the lobby doors and outside. The further she got from Gigi…. The safer she would be. Right? The air around her was refreshing, a slight breeze buffeting her as she drove away at top speed. When she could see better through the pain, she checked her phone again. Nothing. Bailey. There had to be a way to let Bailey know.

But there was no battery, let alone a signal. The street was completely empty, nothing but spare bits of dirty paper rustling along the sidewalk. Still, Corey kept going, and going, and going, and yet… It felt impossible to get anywhere. First it just seemed that was the panic talking, but then, looking down, Corey considered something else. All the knobs on the power chair were in the right places to be going top speed indeed, thank you very much. That was nowhere near the speed Corey was going, though. Everything was slowing down, like in a movie, and the cool breeze had stopped. No one was anywhere. Corey was alone. Jamming everything as far forward as possible did nothing. The chair was moving, yes, but slower and slower the harder Corey fought for speed. Then, finally, the air shivered and the world pushed back. Not hard enough to send Corey’s 300-pound power chair into a full spin, but enough to be unmistakable. Pushing backward.

Corey, Gigi’s voice called, clawing its way inside, an invading force. Corey, where are you going?

Corey couldn’t see. The sun was suddenly blinding, the pain too intense even to drive the wheelchair. It hardly mattered, though. There was nothing. Nothing else. There was no way forward at all. There was still no wind, no movement in the air, except something was toppling the awnings of the nearby buildings, ripping them down as if the only sign that anyone had been here was nothing more than butcher-paper-thin nothingness. There was only silence, empty concrete, the buildings ripping down, and Corey. Soon the space devoid of people would be devoid of anything else, either. Nothing would be left behind, nothing moving or alive. Just like Gigi’s smile. There was nowhere to go but back inside. Corey experimentally backed the chair a bit further toward the apartment building and the universe allowed it. Corey moved on auto-pilot. The lobby of the building was now completely empty.

A sardonic thought flitted through Corey’s mind. In this world rapidly emptying of color and form, maybe the elevator wouldn’t work. Maybe the button would fall off the wall when pressed. Moving toward the elevator, pushed along by the terrible, empty wind, Corey saw that the bank of elevators had the most structure out of anything visible inside or outside the building. The elevator button engaged and the usual soft ping sounded as it arrived. The doors opened smoothly. Maybe Corey could stay right here. The air shivered once more and pushed.

Come here, dear. I’m your friend. Nowhere else. There was nowhere else.

Corey’s chair whirred, the noise suddenly loud in the sea of no-sound no-form that was whooshing into nothing all around. The elevator engaged and rose to the correct floor, the carpet moving eerily under the wheelchair as Corey headed back to the one remaining apartment door. Once inside, the door shut itself and, of course, the latch slid home. The apartment was dark and getting darker, but Gigi was still there, positively luminous. The air in the tiny living space flowed around her as if she were pulling it in with her very presence. She had also changed her clothes, now wearing a billowing night-dress of sheer fabric Corey couldn’t place. Corey allowed hypervigilance to be a guide in surveying the rest of the apartment. It was dark inside, yes, but more than that, out one tiny window stars were visible, as if the apartment itself had become detached from time. Five minutes ago it had been day, a day losing all of its color but day nonetheless. Hadn’t it? The apartment was dark for another reason too. The relatively empty white walls were no longer white. Wood paneling, or something like it, covered the walls now.  This meant the few small pieces of art and photographs Corey had collected over the years were no longer visible. A ladder stood in one corner, alone. This was not something that Corey owned. How much time had passed? While Corey had been desperate to make a phone call to Bailey, it seemed the world had slipped out of time somehow and Gigi had completely redecorated what space there was left.

Corey surveyed the furniture--the same--but suddenly realized that it was strewn with objects.. The contents of the bag Gigi had left in the hall were all over every visible surface. Junk. Clothes. Garbage that had not been there before. Tools, including a claw hammer. A claw hammer? Gigi turned her face to Corey again, her face almost completely featureless except that smile that never moved but was still there. Everything else that had been Gigi--eyes, nose, ears, everything, had gone the way of the rest of the universe, disappeared. That damn smile was still there.

I see you found my hammer, the thing that had been Gigi Gates said in Corey’s mind, then bent and picked it up. Corey’s eyes stayed right on the hammer as darkness descended and less and less of the garbage and other detritus Gigi had brought was visible at all. Corey had to watch the hammer. It’s so good to be home. I feel wonderful here. We make a great team. Just you and me.

[catie-and-alle]

Your Story Matters Ch. 2

Chapter Two of “Your Story Matters” is now uploaded!

Authors: QueenofStarlight and A11e_Booklover Category: AU Series: “You Matter”

For all of Sugawara's kids, there is a life worth telling, one they all left behind when they became members of Karasuno. These are their stories- do proceed with caution.

==> Your name is Sawamura Daichi, and sometimes, your job really fucking sucks.

The job in question is being a police officer. You have been a police officer for the past two years, having graduated from the police academy the year previous and spent a couple months working as a security guard at your favorite history museum. It was a nice job, and you’d enjoyed it fully, but at the time you’d been quite bored and eventually decided to pursue a more active position.

At times you come to miss the peace and quiet of the museum.

Protecting museum artifacts from too-grabby teenagers and thieves in the night is nothing like working in the field. You’ve had your fair share of hard times as a police officer - you’ve been injured many times, had to deal with more than a few reckless people and care for more than a few unstable victims. There are times where you can't save anyone. During those times, you lie awake at night, thinking of the crime scenes and wondering what mistake had been made that prevented you from saving the people involved. But there are good times too, like when you get to watch an abused mother be reunited with her child, or witness the love of people protecting each other from harm.

Right now, however, is not one of the good times, and is by far the worst call you’ve ever been part of during your career as a first responder.

The Toyota in front of you is a broken wreck. It's upside down, the roof crumpled inwards and the front of the car crushed beyond repair. The doors are bent and twisted like abstract sculptures, pieces of glass and stray metal scattered all across the asphalt. A few meters to the side is a semi in similar condition, laying on its side with its rear doors thrown open and unidentified cargo laying haphazardly in the road. Smoke billows out from the engines of both cars, the semi having already caught fire. The ear-splitting of a horn is cutting through the stale air like an air-raid siren, but you can't tell which car its coming from.

There's a small crowd of passers-by standing around the scene, and its one of them that informs you how the accident happened - the Toyota slowly drifting out of its own lane and into the path of a semi going far past the speed limit. When dispatch had gotten the 911 call, the caller had been told not to let anyone try and get close to the scene without an officer present, so no one's done anything yet. You're here now, though, and already there are a couple of men who run up to you and offer to help if they can.

You survey the scene in front of you once more, eyes zeroing in on the hood of both cars.

 ‘As a first responder, your first step is to assess the situation to ensure the scene is safe. The second step is to assess the victim’s airway, breathing, and vascular circulation. If the victim is not breathing, you should have someone else call 911 while you start CPR. Even if the victim is breathing, you should still have someone call 911 in the event of an emergency situation.’

Your mind races at a hundred miles per hour, going through the routine instructions that have been drilled into your memory throughout your time in the police academy and as a working officer.

 First, check that the scene is safe.

You survey the scene in front of you once more, eyes zeroing in on the cars and discerning the situation within a few seconds. The faint stench of gasoline (fire) and blood (severe injury) mingles with the smell of fresh rain in the air, but the bystanders are far enough to be safe from an explosion, sheltered from the drizzle with their colorful umbrellas as they chatter amongst themselves anxiously, ignoring the screeching in the air. The victims of the road accident have yet to be found, you find out when you ask one of the two in quick tones as you run towards the accident site - that must mean they are still inside the car, whoever they are. Bystanders are safe, the rest of the responding squad are on their way, brave civilians are offering aid. You assume the second step - assist the victims.

Running towards the two cars, you head for the less wrecked car first, ignoring how the smell of gasoline and blood grows stronger with each step you take. Carefully avoiding the glass on the road, both you and the men peek past the door of the truck to see if there is anyone still alive inside. It is dark, but your eyes quickly adjust to match the lighting.

Your stomach roils at the sight. Near the driver's seat, you can hear one of the men mutter ‘Jesus Christ’ in a horrified tone, as if trying not to vomit.

You catch sight of a red-haired young man lying limply against the seat, blinking slowly back at you, eyes hazy and unfocused. One of his arms is lying oddly at his side. 'It must be dislocated.' You think, swallowing hard as you realise that the driver's hair is not actually red, but black, dyed with blood. It seems to be coming from a large gash on the back of his head, dripping down his face. You can’t be sure until you get him out into better lighting, but you know that with a head injury so pronounced, the chance of the victim having a concussion is more than likely.

This man needs medical assistance that you are unable to provide with the limited tools at your disposal. The civilian helper nearest to the driver’s seat is already pulling the door open with a horrified but determined look on his face.

“Holy crap.” You hear him babbling as you give strict instructions to the others not to touch anything, and you dash over to the other side of the semi to help pry open the door, which is bent out of shape, crushed backwards as the front of the semi was pushed further into it. While the two of you work on the door, you instruct the victim not to move, doing your best to remember what had been drilled into you during the first aid classes you'd attended during your training. The victim obeys, obviously still in shock, and once the door is open you set to work unbuckling the seatbelt from the driver’s lap.

“Does anything hurt?” You ask him, your fingers shaking as you fiddle with the seatbelt. Up close the metallic stench of blood is almost overwhelming, coating the back of your throat as if you were bleeding on the inside, and you swallow, forcing yourself to stay calm. You remind yourself that people are depending on you, and your fingers shake a little bit less. A sense of triumph fills you as you finally unbuckle the seatbelt, and you reach inwards. “Can you move your legs? Do you understand me?”

“Y…Yes.” The driver says, blinking slowly. His head has been resting limply against his chest as if he were in a daze, but now he begins to move for the first time, turning to face you with increasing awareness before you can tell him not to move again. “Yes, I can-”

There is a small, indecipherable crack, and suddenly the man's body goes limp. His mouth is still hanging open, his expression showing surprise, as if he hadn't expected anything to happen. The light in his eyes slowly fades away, his chest no longer rising with each breath he takes. You press your fingers to the side of his neck to search for a pulse. You don't find one.

Your own heart seems to stop beating for a moment, but you know you can’t afford to get hung up on this man’s death when you have another car to inspect. You hear horrified gasps behind you, and when you rise back to your full height outside the truck, one of the men has his hands over his mouth while another is vomiting off to the side. Both of them are ashen, eyes wide in horror and disbelief over the scene that had just played. Outwardly, you don’t react other than a small, sad sigh. You don’t have time to do much else before you’re already making your way toward the Toyota.

Your heart's still beating like a hummingbird, bumping up against your ribcage in a useless attempt at escape. You can still see the sight at the back of your mind, and the smells of gasoline and blood make you want to throw up what little you have in your stomach. Later, when they tell you that the man died from internal decapitation brought on by whiplash from the crash, you will feel indescribable grief. But there are people here who are just as shocked as you are. You can deal with your emotions later after you’ve rescued all the people that can be rescued. For now, people are depending on you to do your job.

With renewed determination you step toward the Toyota, which has been flipped over and is currently a crumpled mess. You carefully avoid pieces of metal and glass lying on the road and crouch, peering in through one of the broken windows and having to physically hold back the bile that rises in your throat. A man is the first thing you see, body slumped forwards over the wheel. His head is cracked open and the pink flesh of his brain out for all to see. You know he’s dead even before you check for a pulse and find none.

Behind you, the sound of an ambulance reaches your ears, the loud shrieking siren cutting through the air like the bells of salvation.

Beside him is a woman, severely injured but apparently still breathing, though it sounds labored and difficult. Her eyes are just barely open, blinking furiously at the blood that pours down her face from a cut on her forehead, but when she speaks she sounds completely alert, her voice husky with pain. “What’s going on?” She asks, sounding confused. Your heart skips a beat as she tilts her head, your mind flashing back to the man in the semi truck, but unlike him she continues to move without much issue, and you let out the breath you've been holding as she tries to look around, wincing in pain at the movement. “Asahi...Hikaru?” Your heart sinks as her gaze falls upon the man at the wheel, and you can see the recognition flash in her eyes.

Grief spreads from her like ink in water. You can see the tears welling up in her eyes, and you’re surprised she isn’t going straight into denial like most victims would in a situation like this. She simply cries for a moment before her head whips around as she tries to see behind her, quietly choking back sobs. “A-Asahi, is he alright? Please! Please help my son!”

“Ma’am, please calm down.” You try to soothe the woman as you do your best to free her, comforting her the best you can and promising to get her son out after you've helped her. It isn’t easy - her legs are crushed below the dashboard, which by now is a scrap pile of metal. You hesitate to move her, as her legs are completely out of sight, and the blood pooling out from where they should be is starting to worry you. Taking a few seconds, you spare a glance behind you. The white uniforms of the rescue workers are a welcome sight to your sore eyes.

Reassuring the panicked woman that help is on the way, you turn toward the backseat, and your eyes fall upon a small boy who is crushed between the father’s seat and his own, unconscious but still breathing.

“You’ll be okay.” You tell the unconscious child - more to reassure yourself than anything - and maneuver him carefully. Steeling yourself, you grab hold of the bloodied seat and use the bulk of your weight to push it forwards. There is a squelching sound as the dead father’s face falls against the window and you wince, but the seat moves and you manage to free the boy’s legs. You feel yourself blanch at the sight. The smell of blood and gore is almost overpowering when mixed with the increasing stench of gasoline and cerebrospinal fluid, but you hold your breath and pull through anyway, ignoring the bloody, pulpy mess that is the boy’s legs. White bone catches in your peripheral vision but you refuse to think about it. You can freak out later.

While you are freeing his legs, the hospital workers run up to you frantically - they must have already freed the mother. 'Now only the son is left.' You think to yourself. You hold the seat up as the paramedics quickly remove the boy from the site, their movements quick and efficient, if a bit too odd. You sigh in relief as they get him out, placing him on a gurney to be pushed back to the ambulance. You take a moment to rest and get your breath back, but then one of them is grabbing your arm and pulling you along, fast and hurried. You stumble at first but keep up, confusion and annoyance overtaking your awareness. 'What’s going on?'

Before you can ask, however, you catch a glimpse of their faces. A chill goes down your spine at the expression of fear they’re wearing, and without pause you look backwards. Your eyes widen at what you see.

You see smoke, thick and black, spiraling up and around the car as if it were a fog machine on max. As you watch you see signs of fire, small bright flames flickering underneath the crumpled hood of the Toyota. Your mind flashes back to the increasingly pungent smell of gasoline as you had worked to pull the victims out of the car, and in a flash you put two and two together - leaking gasoline, the motor of the car still running, sparks and heat igniting the fuel on the ground to create fire, or more accurately, an explosion.

You need no warning, you're already moving as fast as you can, helping the paramedics push the gurney to the ambulance. Your heart pounds against your ribcage and your hands are clammy with sweat, but despite the urge to sprint hellbound out of the blast radius, you remain at the back, urging the workers to move forwards as fast as they can. However, they're moving a delicate injured boy weighing over a hundred pounds on a gurney, which is to say their speed is not as fast as you, or they, would prefer.

The car explodes, and even though you’re a pretty decent distance away from it, you can still feel the intense heat on your back, hot smoke singing your uniform and knocking you gracelessly onto the asphalt. You can feel pieces of shattered glass cutting into your skin when you fall, and a shrill ringing sound reverberates in your ears and you know its not going to go away for a while. Turning around, you observe as the Toyota is consumed by flames, the father’s body long gone.