#and not have to field navigating the world - THE 90s AT THAT - as a Mentally Ill Woman TM

[femmefae2005]

thinking a lot about lottie and feeling so much empathy for her after that last episode that I might burst. I'm at work so I'm not sure this will come out right, but I just keep thinking about the episode being literally called "A Normal, Boring Life" and I know this is because that's what melissa wants (and to some degree seeks and achieves) upon return. but in so many ways this is also what Lottie wants and why Lottie feels she has to stay! "Home" with her family is constant self monitoring, external pressure to tamp down any sign of her symptoms or delusions, therapy and medication and shock treatment and constantly being spoken about as if she's not even in the room. In the wilderness though? Lottie can be her uninfluenced self, can exist without constant moderation, without feeling misunderstood by absolutely everyone in her life and having every single statement and sensation she expresses be characterized (fairly or unfairly!) as "a delusion". To Lottie a normal, boring life is one where she can exist in an uninfluenced state and not have her agency stripped from her, repeatedly and violently, because of it. if I were in her position and that was my first taste of freedom and self governance, I would probably want to stay, too.

[thepringlesofblood]

hot tip: if you’re an incredibly hyperempathetic hoe like i am, be careful about getting into archaeology. you wouldn’t think it, but im in 2 archaeology classes (intro and ethics) this semester, and half of the classes I’ve been to have left me just fucking exhausted.

the history of archaeology: 90% racism and cultural genocide, in increasingly specific and horrifying ways, so much graverobbing, pompeii

current day archaeology: the fight to repatriate indigenous remains and artifacts back to indigenous people, the harsh reality of how many dead human bodies are taken out of their funerary context and displayed around the world not only without the consent of the deceased, but against the express wishes of the deceased, pompeii

like. all of the conversations are very important and valid and need to happen for this field to maintain its ethical standing.

and some days I’m so glad we went back to remote classes so i can turn off camera and mic and just cry. and it does not get easier the second or third or fifth time we talk about the subject, it still hurts just as much. worse, in “academic discussion” being obviously “emotional” is looked down on. 

like. I do really love this field of study. but I am realizing that continuing to participate in it is not going to be feasible for my mental state. and it sucks. because I was lowkey looking into this as a career path and oops uh oh that aint happening

like. i love my authentic autistic self and I am trying to create a positive environment but i am realizing by looking around the classroom that oh, not everyone is getting this upset about things every time and that its me

fuck.

tl;dr archaeology is a field with a lot of complicated and depressing subjects and as a hyperempathetic autistic person, navigating it is really hard

[cecilspeaks]

159 - Cat Show

Be the annoying goose you want to see in the world. Welcome to Night Vale. 

This day was foretold and now it is here. Some doubted it would come, but the signs were clear. And I could not be more excited! It’s the annual Night Vale cat show. [laughs] I know, I rarely report on this event, but this year, I finally entered my own cat, Khoshekh, into the contest. Many of you remember that I found Khoshekh 7 years ago. He was floating 4 feet off the ground in the men’s restroom here at the radio station, and he’s still in that exact same spot, cute as ever with his furry little white paws! And elegant little black tail, and just the floofiest tentacles you could ever see.

My husband and I adore cats! We’re always ranking them, because love is above all else a competition. So we figured we should put Koshekh out there for an objective ruling on our own beliefs that he is the best cat in the world! It should be an easy win for our little boy, especially with the home field advantage. Koshekh is stuck in a fixed point in space, and the cat show is being held here at the radio station to accommodate his condition. Station Management is a bit unhappy about this, because they’re terribly allergic to cats. All morning, as the cat show organizers and competing cats have arrived, I have felt the sneezes of Station Management from deep below the surface of the Earth where they have burrowed into the warm, molten core of our dying planet.

I sent our new intern Simon Peterson out to pick up some Benadryl for the bosses, and he did, but now he’s having trouble navigating the 16 inch wide rocky tunnel Station Management dug into the break room, and Simon keeps saying he’s claustrophobic and that his greatest fear is to be stuck in a dark place where the long spindly arms touch and prod his feet, but he cannot see them. And even if he could, he would not comprehend them. Ad n the prickly limbs grab at him with increasing desperation and he does not scream, because he knows no one will hear him except the inscrutable.. thing that is now tearing open the skin along the bottom of his feet. And I was like Simon, this office is a no excuses zone, so get in that tunnel and do your job.

More on the cat show soon, but first the news. Strange men arrived in town today. They were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. They drove a black sedan. One of them wore sunglasses. They claimed to be from Washington DC from an agency called the National Transportation Safety Board. They were inquiring about a missing plane. The strange men, one of them had a blister on his upper lip, met with Sheriff Sam, and told them that on June 15, 2012, Delta flight 18713 from Detroit Mistigan to Albany New York disappeared. The NTSB still has not found the MT-90 aircraft. The men told Sheriff Sam that for many years, the agency believed the flight to have gone down in Lake Erie. Sheriff Sam laughed at this silly fake name for a lake and told the men – one of them had a swollen red lump along the cuticle of his right index finger –that they must be remembering some spooky young adult novel, rather than a real life event. The strange men – one of them had an unceasing nose bleed – said it was in fact true. They said that they recently found a report indicating that right before Flight 18713 vanished from radar, it was detected all the way down in the southwest United States, right here in Night Vale. “How is that possible?” the strange men asked our Sheriff. Sheriff Sam stopped laughing and said: “I know the plane. Or rather, I know someone who saw that plane. His name is Doug, Doug Biondi.” The strange men – one of them wore three wedding rings – nodded and said: “Take us to Doug.” Sheriff Sam said: “Doug is in the Night Vale asylum. He is dangerous. He is not allowed visitors. But…” and Sheriff Sam leaned forward, clasping their hands together across the desk and continued in a hush town: “I… could… assist… in an undercover operation. Disguise you all as new inmates, treacherous psychopaths who must be kept in lockdown in the world’s highest security mental hospital. Then, then… you would be able to interview Doug Biondi about what he saw that day in the elementary school gym.” And the strange men – one of them was weeping thick yellow tears – agreed that this was a great idea, and set out with the Sheriff to the asylum, deep within the Scrublands, to begin their covert investigation. I’m sure those strange men from the NTSB will emerge soon with a full report. More on this story as it develops.

But I have to get back – to the Cat shooooow! [excited] Oh ho ho, [gasps] so many cats have arrived! [laughs] Th-there are cages and carriers full of sweet kitties all over the station! Representing all four breeds of cat: long haired, short haired, smushyfaced and miscellaneous. When I was filling out the entry forms for Khoshekh, they asked me this breed, and he’s definitely smushyfaced, but also long haired although he’s short haired along his coddlespine and pincers, soooooo… miscellaneous? I guessed. Also they wanted Khoshekh’s last name, and I have never thought of a last name for our cat. Huh. I told Carlos we should put his last name as Khoshekh’s last name, because Carlos has a much more interesting last name than me. Plus Carlos is pretty well known and very well liked in town. Everybody knows his last name, and I thought that might carry some political weight in the minds of the judges. But Carlos insisted that we use mine, because I found Khoshekh and I adopted him. So there you go, little kitty. You are Khoshekh Gershwin Palmer. A champion name for a champion cat.

Let’s have a look now at the community calendar. This Friday night is the Tour of Lights in Old Town Night Vale. Participants can meet at Galway and 1st at 7 PM, where a tractor pulling a trailer full of hay will drive you around to look at the bright and festive holiday lights adorning the various historic homes. Last year’s favorite, the Victorian mansion owned by Harrison Kip, included a 40-foot tall Santa, his arms outstretched overseeing a vast army of toiling elves, while an old Victrola played “Ave Maria” over crackling speakers and clowns leapt suddenly from the thick shrubs, handing unsuspecting but delighted guests red and blue balloons shaped by long dead family members. Tickets are five dollars and go to support the Bilderberg Group.

Saturday evening is the bi-monthly pub crawl in downtown Night Vale. Every eight weeks or so, every bar in town becomes overrun with 7 inch long bugs that look like… a bit like earwigs but with human faces. All participating bars and pubs are offering two for one specials on well drinks and bottled domestics.

Sunday afternoon, the Tamika Flynn book club will be meeting to discuss their most recent book, the 2018 Husqvarna YTH-24K 14-inch riding mower owner’s manual. This month’s book was chosen by John Peters – you know, the farmer? They’ll be discussing the themes, symbolism and subtext of this seminal work of contemporary technical literature. The book club is open to anyone and there will be a potluck benefit.

Monday is running a few minutes late, but wants everyone to know we can go ahead and start without it.

The cat show is finally underway and wow! What a sight! I’ve never actually been to a cat show before today, it is, it’s fascinating! So, the judges take each cat one at a time. They hold up the cat’s tail to examine its posture and form. Then they pry open the cat’s mouth to check its teeth. Then four judges hold each of the cat’s paws and stretch it out into a furry X, as a fifth judge measures the cat’s latitudinal, longitudinal and diagonal lengths. I’m surprised at how gentle these cats are with all this rough handling. Khoshekh – [scoffs] Khoshekh usually tries to bite me or-or sting me when I feed him, and I appreciate that about him. It’s hard to respect a cat that would let any stranger look it directly in the eyes, let alone touch it. People sometimes think cats will behave obediently and chummily, like dogs, but cats are individualistic. They show love, yes, but it is conditional and judgmental. You must give a cat space to learn its environment and develop its own social rules. Plus those pincers really hurt! The cats they’re showing right now are really cute, but it’s [sighs], it’s hard to respect them, like the way they let these judges just treat them like slabs of meat. [shouts angrily] Stand up for yourselves, you glorified sock puppets!

Oh, I’m getting some nasty looks from the judges and other contestants. Good, good. (-) [0:12:26] is important in contact sports. Let them know who’s the front runner.

Amber Akini and her husband Wilson Levy are showing their cat now, a tiny fist-sized orange and white shorthair named Berthold. Berthold might be my second favorite cat, behind Khoshekh of course, because he’s a - oh, oh what to call that kind of cat with extra appendages the poly.. polydactyl, polydactyl, that’s it. Anyway, Berthold is a polydactyl cat. He has eight legs and a mesmerizing array of shiny black eyes covering his cute little face. I’m not so sure Berthold has much of a chance of winning, though. Because when the judges tried to check his teeth, he skittered up the wall and won’t come back from the web he built up there. Ah, well now Susan Willman is showing her cat. He’s a scraggy, but otherwise basic tabby with dirty teeth like Spanish rice and the sunken posture of a playground swing. Oh I didn’t catch his name, although it sounded like she called Dumpster. [chuckles] [low voice] Not a chance, loser.

OK, oh wait. The judges are all wide-eyed and cooing over Dumpster, like he’s a rare bejeweled artefact. Wait, they’re nodding to each other as if they’re impressed. I don’t get this! He’s a trash cat. That’s why she named him Dumpster of, knowing Susan, maybe that’s a family name. Ooh ho-ho! Oh, I’m getting a shush sign from the judges, and Susan is glaring at me. [chuckles] I had no idea how political this cat show would be. What a racket.

Let’s have a look now at traffic. There’s a slowdown on westbound lanes of Route 800 near Exit 19. There is no construction or accident. Highway patrol said that everyone on that side of the road simply started thinking about Urinus and giggling. Every single driver, simultaneously, remembered how the name of that planet always made them laugh in school. Scientists want to study Urinus. They thought it wants really probe the dense noxious clouds covering the rocky surface of Urinus. They considered in unison, their ruddy cheeks quaking above sore jaws and below tear-filled crackling eyes: scientists think the pressure inside Urinus is so great that here may be diamonds inside Urinus. The drivers all howled, the audible din enough to slow even the eastbound lanes, who were trying to think of a single funny thing about Saturn, but could not. I’m not sure I get why any of that is funny. But expect westbound delays of 20 minutes or take an alternative route.

It’s the big moment, listeners. The judges are visiting Khoshekh right now in the men’s restroom. I tried to tell them to use hazmat gloves, but they sneered and said: “We know how to handle cats, sir.” OK, they are professional arbiters of all things feline, so I believe them. They’re holding up Khoshekh’s tails right now, examining his nacreous scales. They brought in two other judges to try to hold Khoshekh’s tentacles down because, well he keeps trying to grab at the main judge’s face as the judge attempts to examine Khoshekh’s teeth. Oh, I wonder if they’ll deduct points for Khoshekh having more teeth than a normal cat. I mean he has five rows of them. OH, oh! Oh no. Ohhh, the judges are not controlling this situation well at all, Khoshekh has wrapped up all of the jduges in his many spiraling suctioned arms. They’re struggling to break free, but those tentacles secrete a sedative oil and the judges are wobbling.. They’re passing out, yup, not good. Every single judge is unconscious, and now Khoshekh is wildly flapping his wings and, while I cannot hear it I can tell, he is emitting a shriek that only other cats can hear. He does this when he’s upset. OH, there’s Berthold coming down from the safe haven of his web. There’s Dumpster, hollow-eyed and purring, waling toward Khoshekh. And all the other cats are coming too. Their mouths agape, emitting I m sure the the same ultrasonic tone, a harmon of protest, of uprising, of bloodthirst. They’re gathering now in the men’s room, eyes glowing, all slack-jawed and silent screaming at the sky. On yeah, the other pet owners are sobbing and they’re running for the exist, but they know they cannot leave. They would not leave even if they could. It is silent now in the station safe for the panting exhaustion of frightened human owners, and the strained wheezing breaths of unconscious cat show judges. I think Carlos and I have a great shot at winning this thing, listeners. an announcement of a champion coming soon!

But first, The weather.

[”Weather: “Fuzzy Disco” by Talkie https://talkie.bandcamp.com]

The judges woke up, but they no longer speak in English nor any human language. They are licking themselves and eating moths that they caught by the single swinging light bulb in our radio station’s interrogation room. Their brains are feral and feline now, as they hide under tables and hiss at the other cat owners. I tried to warn them about using hazmat gloves, but they didn’t wanna hear me. [big gasp] Or maybe they did! Perhaps this was their gambit all along, I mean this is after all my first cat show, I don’t wanna pretend like I know how these things go. No winners were announced. The judges joined the high-pitched catervauling of the other cats. And then they all left in a unified clatter, out the men’s room window and into the street. I can see them now, running toward the alley behind the CVS, several other cats joining their ranks, all except - Khoshekh, who cannot leave his spot in the station restroom. Four feet in the air.

I told Khoshekh that he’s a winner in my mind, and I put on my thick rubber gear and gently stroked his smushed little face! [giggles] Right between his middle two eyes! Huh. It’s hard to tell what cats are thinking or feeling, but I think Khoshekh is happy. He’s happy to have such a loving home and two doting dads. But something in his eyes tells me he wanted to run free with his new cat friends. I gave him a catnip plushie though, and he looks content, if a little coked up.

Stay tuned next for a noise you cannot hear, rallying a feral insurrection.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Wanna feel old? Don’t worry, you will.

[theritualofourexistence]

Odes to Old Gods

I started this year intending to journal about things I survive. Then at the end of the year, I could look back on my challenges and think about them in a more positive way--wow, look at what I overcame! The plan was to document everything, both good and bad, so that I could think about them more as experiences and lessons learned than as... good and bad. 

Needless to say, I stopped keeping track of those things in April. 

Earlier this month, I pulled out the journal again to update the list. I ended up quitting on that too. 

I do think, though, that in a less chaotic year, thinking about my life this way would be good practice. So, here I am, sharing my list with you in the form of an end-of-year, wrap-up blog post. 

A few quick caveats: 

This year was hard for literally everyone except maybe Jeff Bezos. 

It is not healthy to compare challenges or struggles or suffering.

I am not sharing this because I am looking for sympathy... I believe that being vulnerable is a very important part of the human experience but we can all also use a reminder that we never really know all of what anyone is experiencing. We shouldn’t need that reminder to treat others with love... but the older I get, the more I think those reminders might be necessary.

Things I have survived in 2020:

- A bit of a stalking experience in January which has since been resolved.

- Losing my job, hunting for a new job, securing a new job, training for the new job.

- My first Harry Potter tattoo for my ten-year tattooiversary.

- The fires in Australia.

- An absolutely wonderful trip to NYC with my dad when I got to see both Beetlejuice and Hadestown and have an enormous strawberry cheesecake milkshake from Junior’s. 

- Losing Kobe Bryant.

- Parasite absolutely CRUSHING the Oscars.

- Having a really, really good visit with my grandparents in March before all hell broke loose. 

- Weinstein being convicted and sentenced.

[Everything after this point happened during a global pandemic.]

- Losing Grandmom. I was unable to attend her funeral and still have not had the chance to grieve this loss with my extended family. 

- Losing my health insurance.

- A Zoom party for my Grammy’s 80th birthday.

- Losing Breonna Taylor. And George Floyd. And so, so many others. This is the first year I have really committed to understanding the current race-related issues this country faces and BOY, do we have work to do.

- The stress but success of orchestrating a safe family trip so that I didn’t have to go an entire year without seeing my brother.

- Losing my shifts at my primary job due to virus-related concerns.

- Countless other family happy birthdays over Zoom.

- My 60-year-old mother returning to work face-to-face with a student population that largely ignores all virus-related guidelines despite her working tirelessly for months this spring to offer UHS providers an adequate work-from-home option. 

- Being diagnosed with hypertension.

- A nightmarish friend trip. Despite our best laid plans for a safe and healthy visit, Mother Earth decided to trap me 90 miles north of my best friends for 4 days. I eventually got to see them for about 12 hours and honestly, it was worth it. That is the only time I’ve gotten with them all year.

- Losing Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

- The selection of Amy Coney Barrett to the Supreme Court.

- Our sweet girl Clio being diagnosed with a seizure disorder and then coming down with a life-threatening upper respiratory infection. 

- Learning that my grandmother would be voting for Trump in the 2020 election.

- The actual election.

- Losing Rooster, my sweet, sweet boy.

- Learning that my uncle has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer.

- Missing Thanksgiving with my extended family.

- Getting really excellent holiday gifts for my favorite people.

- Missing Christmas with my extended family.

- Safely spending some holiday time with my immediate family.

That is FAR from everything. But I don’t have the energy? Capacity? Time? to sort through everything.

Here are the things from this year that I am still currently surviving:

- A global pandemic! And all the associated chaos. With my asthma and high blood pressure and obesity, I am considered high risk and am still not able to safely return to my primary job. 

- Hypertension! More on this later.

- Grieving Rooster. In the days after we said goodbye, I wrote a memorial that I will eventually share here. Psychology has recently analyzed data suggesting that losing a pet can be equivalent to losing a relative... I have never felt grief like this. It’s been over a month. I cry every night. 

- Managing Clio’s health. She is still adjusting to her seizure medication, which she gets twice a day, and is still on medication to help with lasting symptoms of the respiratory infection. She is fussy about food and her weight fluctuates a lot week to week. She is also a feral rescue who has only ever been handled by me, my mom, and our vet. If mom and I are ever going to vacation together again, we will need to find someone who can manage catching and pilling her twice a day... no easy feat. Fortunately, at the moment, vacations aren’t really a thing for either my mom or I and I am working hard to approach these concerns in a cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it way.

----

This year has been overwhelming. The last two months alone have been overwhelming. And they would’ve been overwhelming without the added spice of a global pandemic. The number of Americans we have lost to this virus has doubled since I last posted here in mid-August. Some time this week we are likely to reach a point where we’re losing 4,000 Americans per day. PER. DAY. This year has been overwhelming.

----

There were some good things this year, of course. I am so, so thankful for all the time I got with my immediate family and the very brief but vital time I got with my friends. Fortunately I am only ever a text away from my closest friends and we are able to message pretty much every day. I am also extremely glad to have found a place in the fantasy enamel pin community. The family I’ve found in pin-land has carried me through some of my lowest points this year. I spent more time in view of the ocean than I typically do in a given year... even though much of that time was still riddled with anxiety. I did art this year. I read books this year. Some really important ones, in fact. If you read nothing else in 2021, read The New Jim Crow. I also got tattooed! I’m going to include those here because I think the significance of each reflects something interesting and important about all I have survived and am surviving this year.

----

In January, I got my first Harry Potter tattoo! My favorite quote from the entire series is delivered by Hagrid during the Triwizard tournament:

”What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

I got that incorporated into a tattoo. In January. 

Also in January I got a “Prisoner of Donuts” tattoo... because life just wouldn’t be manageable at all without donuts.

In March, I got a bird of prey carrying a book to represent one of my all time favorite poems, “On Thought in Harness” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The final lines of that poem:

“Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen. Depart, be lost, but climb.” 

In July, I was able to safely navigate getting a tattoo that symbolizes the saga told in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. LOTR is my first and oldest fandom and the story is still so, so important to me today. The lessons I learned from Tolkien when I was a kid also carried me through some of my hardest moments this year.

Also in July I got a Plumpy tattoo. That’s right. Plumpy. From Candyland. If you haven’t played the game in a while, you may not remember Plumpy. He’s one of the first characters you meet on the game board... and one of the worst cards to see when you’re close to winning the game. You could be three damn squares from the finish line and pull the Plumpy card and back to the beginning of the board you go. Plumpy is a really great reminder that even when we have no choice but to lose ground, we can gain that ground back again. And hey, once you pull the Plumpy card from the deck, you likely won’t see him again for a good long while. 

In October, I was able to safely navigate getting my second Harry Potter tattoo. Neville has always been one of my favorite fantasy characters and I chose to carry him with me permanently. His courage, despite so, so much bullshit, inspires me every day. I also got a nautical tattoo for my mom’s ancestors who came to this country and fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as my family has a long and proud history of fighting for what matters, I too will carry that banner, even if it looks very, very different in the modern age. My third tattoo of the appointment is a cuckoo holding playing cards, a nod to one of most important stories I’ve read: Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” This book has informed not just my personal journey with mental illness but my passion to work in the field as well. My final tattoo of my October appointment, less than a week before the 2020 election, is a weeping Lady Justice. 

----

This year has made me look critically at things I very comfortably ignored for a long time. I would hope that it has done the same for most of you. Very little if any of this year was easy for me... but the most important lessons are never easy to learn. I’ve spent this year more worried and more angry than I’ve ever been before... and all I hope to do moving forward is use that fear and that anger to make this country, this world, a better place. Miss me with your resolutions this year. Every single day we should prioritize surviving and treating others with understanding and active love. I worked hard to do that this year and I will continue to work hard to do that every day. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. And in case it wasn’t clear, I’ll be dragging as many of you as I can on this journey with me. If you really feel the need to make a resolution this year, resolve to learn. Resolve to understand. Resolve to read The New Jim Crow and then TAKE ACTION. Take action with your votes and your voices and your money. Resolve to act.

----

This year wouldn’t let me escape it without being put on blood pressure medication, despite my best efforts to lower my blood pressure without it. Although I had gotten back down into a healthy range for a few weeks, RBG’s death and the landslide of utter shit that followed that completely wrecked all the progress I had made. I’m not happy about adding a new medicine to my regimen. I’m not happy about adding a new chronic diagnosis to my already lengthy laundry list. I did not expect 30 to look like allergy pills and three daily moisturizers and foot stretches and Metamucil and acid reducers and migraine medication and iron supplements and six prunes a day and chronic pain and blood pressure medication... but here we are. I’m exhausted from working so hard to be healthy just to have all that work not be enough. I feel very much like my body is giving up on me... and that is a feeling I am struggling with a lot right now. My soul is a vibrant but powerless passenger in a car speeding towards the edge of a cliff.

I’ll keep trying though. I start my new medication tonight. Hopefully it helps. Hopefully the side effects are manageable. I don’t really feel like I can handle much more... but I guess we keep going until we can’t.   

----

I have no expectations for 2021 to be better. I don’t have much hope for it to be better either. This vaccine will saves lives and that’s really good news. But a lot of other things will be difficult, will stay difficult, will become difficult. I’m going to try to keep fighting, and I hope you do too. 

“What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

[tomasorban]

The Gnostic Circle by Lori Tompkins

“The Gnostic Circle is the most effective method for understanding the transformation of human consciousness. It represents a vision of wholeness and has only one objective: it deals with the soul or seed of the divine in each created thing and reveals the process by which that seed is made to flower in its process of becoming.” – Thea

Thea first introduced this key or tool of Supramental Gnosis in her 1975 book, The Gnostic Circle – A Synthesis in the Harmonies of the Cosmos. This key offers the means by which an individual can center him or herself in Time, within the circumstances of both Individual and Collective evolution, and thereby develop an Integral and Supramental vision of the whole. The Gnostic Circle presents the unity-vision of the Vedic Rishis in which the division of the Earth’s 360° year into 12 months and our 0/9 number system/enneagram are seen to function simultaneously rather than as separate systems of measure and knowledge. With this simple vision of the oneness of the zodiac and enneagram, the Gnostic Circle invites viewers to consider how they can begin to outgrow the fragmented consciousness that is the foundation of our current civilisation. The image of the Gnostic Circle presents the supramental or solar consciousness by which all divisions of the circle and all divisions proper to the process of the creation of life, are eternally One.

Using this key, students can begin to restore in themselves and in the world, the eternal gnosis and unity consciousness that underlies many of the world’s ancient sacred texts. It functions in terms of the all-pervasive unity of creation and hence in terms of the self-similarity, self-symmetry and quantum entanglement of micro and macro cycles of time of which the Vedic Rishi were well aware. Thus the 24 hour day, the 360 degree year, the 25,920 year Precession of the Equinoxes and larger cycles of time, can be known and seen as ordered fields of the soul (individual and collective).

In The Synthesis of Yoga, Sri Aurobindo wrote:

‘Time is the remaining aid needed for the effectivity of the process. Time presents itself to human effort as an enemy or a friend, as a resistance, a medium or an instrument. But always it is really the instrument of the soul.’ (The Synthesis of Yoga, CWSA, Vol. 23-24, p. 68)‘The timeless Infinite holds in itself, in its eternal truth of being, beyond this manifestation, all that it manifests in Time. Its time consciousness too is itself infinite and maintains in itself at once in a vision of totalities and of particularities, of mobile succession or moment sight and of total stabilising vision or abiding whole sight what appears to us as the past of things, their present and their future.’ (Ibid, p. 885)

It is here [in the transition from mind to supermind] that a change begins to take place in the time-consciousness and time-knowledge which finds its base and complete reality and significance only on the supramental levels. (Ibid, p. 904)

The Gnostic Circle shows students the truth of Sri Aurobindo’s vision in that they can apply it as an aid or key which helps to shift consciousness (however gradually) from mental towards the supramental. Those who apply this key to their own lives and to world affairs begin to directly experience the supramental consciousness-force that coordinates the whole of our activity, ushering us towards the higher levels of manifestation and self-expression.

In very simple terms, the Gnostic Circle helps the user see and understand the evolutionary march or journey that we all share, regardless of however ignorant we are of this journey. As one learns to see the perfect order and harmony displayed in the smallest details of one’s existence, one begins to identify less with the ego and the mind, and more with the Supramental consciousness which has begun to emerge in our new day and age, just as the Mental consciousness once emerged from the Animal or Vital consciousness in our distant past.

How to Apply this Key of Gnosis

The application of this key for an individual is quite simple. The beginning or zero point of an individual’s life is birth, and from that zero point we journey in time and space. The Gnostic Circle can be used to map out and see the geometries and harmonies that emerge in 1 year cycles, 9 year cycles, 36 year cycles and 72 year cycles or, if one wishes to study larger collective evolutionary movements on our planet, the framework will be larger, such as 2,160 year astrological ages, the 25,920 year Precessional cycle and even vaster cycles of time. Usage of the Gnostic Circle is not limited to the birth of individuals. It can be used to understand the birth or emergence of anything … a country, a pivotal event, a discovery, a new endeavor, etc.

The birth date of the object of one’s study is placed at the zero point at the top of the circle and then, depending on what cycle of time one chooses to explore, we begin to map out pivotal dates according to the major divisions of the circle, identifying the dates associated with the cardinal points, the trinity, and the 12 months.

If looking at the Gnostic Circle in terms of the one year cycle, the outer circle (blue ring) is divided into 360° or segments and each degree represents a day. The last five days of the year are considered ‘out of the calendar’. The Zodiac or division of the year by 12 is seen in the midsection of the circle and each 30° segment is a month. The orange ring contains 36 segments of 10° each and these are decanates of the 12 signs of the zodiac. In the one year journey/cycle, each day we progress 1° of the circle (which in turn is a microcosm of the whole year as well as larger cycles of time, and of ALL TIME). Each 10 days we progress 10° or a decanate of one astrological sign. Each 30 days we progress one month or one astrological sign. Each 40 days we progress 1/9th of the year (corresponding to the 9 integers of the circle), each 90 days we progress a quarter of the year (i.e. a ’season’), and each 120 days we progress a third of the year.

It proves useful to map out and note the major geometries of one’s year, i.e. the dates associated with the cardinal points, the triangular points, the 12 months and the 9 integers. Using this map of one’s year, one can begin to see interesting patterns that arise concerning important events and people in one’s life which point towards a Supramental organisation of life rather than a senseless, random and chaotic creation.

The 9 year cycle tracks enneads of time. When applying this time frame to the Gnostic Circle, each degree is 9 days, each decanate is 90 days, each ‘month’ or sign is 9 months, each season or quarter of the circle is 2.25 years, and each corner of the triangle is 3 years.

In the 36 year cycle, each ennead is one season or quarter of the circle and corresponds sequentially to the phases of evolution on Earth: Physical, Vital(Animal), Mental, and Spiritual. In this cycle, each 12 years marks out the central triangle.

In order to fully understand how to navigate, apply and understand this key of Supramental Gnosis, it is necessary to read The Gnostic Circle and The Magical Carousel. These books are essential reading for those wishing to truly grasp the importance of time and its real measures by which we exist, grow and evolve. They will help students of Gnosis to realise that not only are we simultaneously Matter and Spirit, but that we are also Time as well as Timeless. For too long have we forgotten Time as an extension of our own being. The Vedic Rishis sung of the yoga or yajna by which one comes back to this realisation and hence to the portals of the unity consciousness which eludes our current mental-egoic consciousness, and the body and path of this yoga/yajna was the 360°, 12 month year. The Gnostic Circle if used correctly will reveal the eternal wisdom of the Rishis to be indeed eternal. This can be directly validated in one’s own experience and life laboratory. As individuals orient and centre themselves within their own personal Time on Earth and within ALL Time, they begin to shift from the mental towards the supramental consciousness and from the egoic to the universal self. One begins to shift from faith in a higher order and power of creation, to the direct experience of that higher order and power of creation.

Quotes regarding the Gnostic Circle

‘The Gnostic Circle is merely the combination of the zodiac – the occult circle which contains the knowledge of evolution – and the structural pattern of the solar system. The Circle of 12 is the zodiac, and the Circle of 9 is our actual solar system, each orbit representing one year of Earth life. The joint harmony of these two, superimposed or synthesised in one circle, is what constitutes our key to the evolution and flowering of the seed of the Spirit. In fact we can say that the Gnostic Circle is mainly for this purpose: it shows mankind the ultimate and ideal perfection that can be attained during this particular phase of the evolution, during this great transition point from animal-mental to the more divine mankind.’

– Patrizia Norelli-Bachelet,

The Gnostic Circle, p. 159, 1975

‘The Gnostic Circle allows us to measure the progression of any event in time. And it provides the means of assessing an event’s relevance to time and place within a global and universal context. Above all, it permits us to appreciate the interconnectedness of events through a unified, spherical approach to Time. The Gnostic Circle is a yardstick which can be applied to any event and by which that event or object may be made to reveal its intrinsic nature and objective value. In ancient literature and tradition, such a tool was sometimes referred to as the Golden Rod, or the Philosopher’s Stone. Its value resided in the fact that because of its special relation to Time and Space, it could provide an objective means to assess the truth-conscious substance of any given situation or event or object. In a word, it could objectively reveal the element’s inner pulse and place within the greater harmony of life on Earth and within the solar system.’

– Patrizia Norelli-Bachelet

‘… it is our purpose here to speak of some of the essential reasons why the knowledge has been contained and transmitted in the zodiac and the structure of the solar system … Moreover, it is our intention to give as clear a picture as possible of the true purpose of astrology, and in which way it can be an asset in the development of the spirit….’

‘Cosmic harmonies give us the understanding of the movement of progression within the eternal. The art in its totality is transmitted so that man may have a clear vision of the process of evolution, and above all, of its ultimate goal for any particular Age…’.

‘… in order to understand this play, we must first realise that the ultimate aim of creation is to be an ever more direct manifestation of the upholding and underlying spirit.

‘The zodiac gives us a picture of this outer movement of evolution which has as its support the inherent spirit. It represents the aspect of the unique Energy in a state of movement, as opposed to the aspect of the unique Energy in a state of rest. The purest example of the former is Matter, and the purest example of the latter is Spirit. These two poles represent two aspects, apparently contradictory and opposite, of the One Unique Energy, working itself out into its fullest manifestation.’

Thea, The Gnostic Circle, Chapter 1,

‘Essential Purpose of the Study of Cosmic Harmonies’, p.3

Links to More Information on the Gnostic Circle

The Gnostic Circle – a Synthesis in the Harmonies of the Cosmos, Aeon Books, 1975

The Gnostic Circle’s Table of Contents

The Zodiac and the Perception of Unity

[soulvomit]

80s/90s professional culture and recent self-help/"personal development" culture actually encouraged distancing from people whose lives were "too complicated." Too messy. "Don't associate with that person. They will ruin your life." About anyone who did not have the perfectly curated "I have it together, and am NOT NEEDY" image. Being seen as "together" was probably a proxy for social capital as well as "adulthood."

This probably started with people trying to enter the professional world in the mid-70s and still dealing with half of their social world living the poor young person crash pad lifestyle (because I argue that the cracks in the wall of the middle class may have already been appearing in the 1970s; people appearing to reject the "American Dream" may need to be analyzed as canaries and Cassandras) and the other half being on drugs.

For some people, like my parents, that's what it definitely was about. They had a baby/toddler and eventually they came to see their hippie and old school stoner friends as part of the instability they were experiencing. Some of these people eventually settled into full time jobs, but as of the mid-70s, plenty hadn't.

My parents couldn't live in hippie crash pads anymore. Not with a kid. They were running into too many issues with their equally unstable friends, and their financial situation trapped them in these spaces for years.

They drifted around to whomever would give them guidance - Amway (which had mainstream square culture values), a couple of attempts at religion.

They were typical.

At first this was just about trying to figure out how to live in an adult world still largely run on Silent Generation mainstream values.

For white, culturally middle class to affluent men, this was relatively straightforward: use the college degree or whatever existing skills and social capital you had, to get a traditional job. Male work culture of the 20th century very much assumed a wife was at home handling things. "Leave your personal problems at home" totally assumed someone else was carrying that bucket. It meant in the 70s and 80s as it had in the 50s, that a man's wife was handling all of the personal relationships and interactions that didn't have to do with his workday. His wife would be the stage manager of his non-work life from behind the scenes. That's what it REALLY meant to "leave your personal life at home."

But women were now working full time, middle class corporate jobs, too. And that same mentality was still the rule.

Codependency talk and a new re-embrace of corporate work culture, found their way into the same conversations, much the same way that government conspiracy theories, aliens, and New Age became bedfellows: because they shared the same shelves of the bookstore.

At around this same time you also started to see the growth of codependency ideas and later, a popular book called "Women Who Love Too Much." (A solid book, but needs an intersectional update.) WWLTM became a network of support groups in the 80s (...that helped my mom leave my dad.) But so many of the stories in WWLTM are of 30something women (often, ex-hippie) who had been exploited as the Giving Tree in 60s/70s culture, a specific gendered toxic dynamic.

But you know how we have all seen good memes go bad? Like, cultural appropriation being a solid analysis and real thing, but in the last 5 years, it's devolved into a set of arguments that in no way resemble the original thing? For that matter, remember when MRA culture was specifically about the legal rights of divorced men?

Yeah.

That.

That same thing is what happened to the growing 70s/80s culture of post-hippie "getting it together."

That very same thing.

In 1976, "getting it together" was relatively benign.

But by the 80s, it began to separate the people who'd played at the counterculture lifestyle from the people who had been trapped in it. Not everyone could "get it together." Because deindustrialization was already starting to be underway as the party was ending, and in many cases, because the American Dream simply had not been on offer to begin with.

If your only means of doing so was via a factory job or via even the shrinking number of nondegreed female-dominated non-care/nonservice jobs (how many career secretaries do you know now?) then you had way fewer options than did someone who could enter the computer field or become a professional. And fewer options than did someone who could fall back on fields that got to be the last dominos to fall (pro sales people could shift from industrial to tech or real estate), instead of the first.

What's happened is that the ONLY visible middle class narratives of the mid 70s and beyond, until the 21st, were yuppies. Everyone else was deplatformed.

The "getting it together" meme came to be a proxy for your very fitness as a human being. It now included a backlash against the sharing and mutual aid culture of counterculture spaces, because many white, middle class Boomers didn't really know how to navigate the social world outside of the Hayea Code curated world of their suburban childhood. They were the first generation to try to figure out how that worked, and many failed. They were navigating drastic changes in social norms. It became a commonly repeated meme that your problem was the people in your life. (Because it often was. But this went the way many culture memes do.) Fuck em, focus on your job and only the people who support your getting it together. But the milepost kept getting shifted. "Getting it together" in the early to mid 70s might mean just getting a job and a stable place to live. That's how it started for my parents. As of the mid 1970s, it started to become apparent to a lot of people that holding a corporate job and raising a school age child were both often totally incompatible with having your burnout friends stay up until 2am playing folk music (this was a real thing my family did before my dad got a middle class job) on a weekday, let alone traipse a variety of lost souls through your living room on any given day of the week.

But the mileposts for "getting it together" kept changing up (just as "getting it together" of the 70s turned into "early yuppie" of the 80s) and probably because corporate standards were always about curation and appearances, "getting it together" came to mean that you did NOT have a hippie crashing on your couch, you did NOT have complicated personal life in *any way*, you did NOT socialize in a space where everyone openly slept with the same people or had complicated breakups, you did NOT ever have complicated caregiving arrangements... basically, either you were heterosexually married or you were a very, very cool-as-a-cucumber, self-contained single who never, ever felt heartbreak.

This is the sociopathic core of yuppie culture.

My analysis will hit the 90s at some point, but we wouldn't have had the 90s without the 70s and 80s.

I'm sure lots of the Divorce Boom of the 80s followed on 70s people marrying for all the wrong reasons, because they were trying to "get it together." And sometimes "getting it together" meant different things to the two people.

My dad became an early techie and stayed relatively close to left wing and liberal culture. After he and my mom split up, he married the hippie of his dreams. And he made good incomes off and on, but also struggled off and on and retired in a trailer; he *would* have been much more successful if indeed he had played the yuppie social games, because he willingly took on dependencies that yuppies shunned. There was a strong meme in yuppie culture, fueled by codependency discourse and a warping of Women Who Love Too Much but also "positivity," of not ever helping people, of not being close to people who could potentially financially rely on you or take time away from your work. "They've all made their own bed."

If my dad had followed that lead - he might have become stable, he might even have become rich. But he married a precariat class ex-hippie who had multiple poor dependents, and formed some "found family" around their mutual friendships. And as the person in the group with the most money, he was often relied upon for help.

That's exactly what late-stage Getting It Together non-neediness discourse was supposed to prevent.

For my mom, "getting it together" meant doubling down on respectability politics and traditionalism, putting herself in rich circles, and marrying a professional man with square values. She scrupulously avoided anyone who could "take her down with them." Which is good advice in many cases but in yuppie parlance, effectively meant distancing from any person who was not in your aspirational social class, and distancing from any person in any situation you have left behind (she dumped her single friends once remarried, as instructed by this culture meme.)

The difference between the outcomes for my mom and dad:

My dad lives in a trailer with his wife and their cats, but he has a huge extended family of family and found-family. Lots of people care about him. He's not going to have the problem of being alone in old age.

My mom really does risk being alone in old age because her whole social world was oriented around social capital pissing contests and that only works as long as you actually have the money to purchase a substitute support net.

[musingsofanewbienurse]

Transitioning to Veganism

In January 2019 I decided to take part in veganuary with the intention of being fully vegan afterward (bar what was already in my cupboard and needed eating up). It wasn’t a sudden decision, in fact, it had been a gradual choice that I had been considering for months at this point. I had been vegetarian since July 2017 and had been gradually decreasing my intake of animal products so that by the end of 2018 my diet was 80-90% plant based already. I had been avoiding dairy for the most part anyway as it causes my skin to break out badly and cheese was an expensive luxury on a furgal university budget. The only thing that really let me down in that aspect was when I ate out or by not checking labels.

Like most people I had watched the world-famous Netflix document ‘What the Health’ in the spring of 2017 and that was probably one of the first major catalyst that lead to me analysing and changing my diet. I had grown up on a small, rural island off the mainland of England, one of its main agricultures being farming. Every-day I would see cows and sheep grazing in fields both outside my bedroom window and on the way to school, I saw these animals had a good quality of life (in a way that they do not always in larger areas of Britain and the US), and like many people, never really questioned the connection between that and my dinner plate.

I was also notoriously fussy, and although I liked most varieties of meat, the same could not be said of vegetables. In fact I hated every single one until I was 16 and then I could just about stomach carrots. A healthy diet I did not have, despite how much my parents tried to push otherwise. Going vegetarian was simply not a viable option for me back then; but on joining university I started to cook for myself and my taste matured, leading me to today, where I now love 99% of veg (broccoli is legitimately my favourite food) and it makes up the bulk of my diet.

It meant, that when I watched the documentary I was able to genuinely consider becoming vegetarian, and started to slowly phase meat out of my diet. Even then, I knew that ultimately I did want to become vegan, after seeing the impact the meat and dairy industry has on our health*, the environment and on the animals who are subjected to it. But I wanted to do it the right way and for the long-term. If I cut out everything at once I knew after a week or two I would revert back to my usual diet, my body craving things that had always been present. I also wanted to be educated about things I substituted meat for; I go to the gym regularly and I wanted to know that what I was eating would have a good variety of nutrients. And most importantly, I didn’t want my mental health to suffer.

Like most young women growing up in this century I have had issues with food and my body. Although I have never received any formal help or diagnosis I definitely had an unhealthy relationship with food, especially in my mid-teens, though even now some days are harder than others. For the most part I am a lot better, but I was wary that if I suddenly cut out a lot of different foods and placed a lot of restrictive rules on my diet that I would be taking a huge step backwards, that I would go back to obsessing over every little thing that I eat. I didn’t want to sacrifice my health and knew that if I was to do this safely, then gradually converting my diet was the only answer.

And that is what I did. First it was dairy milk, an easy swap as there are so many alternatives on the market. I mainly go for soya at home because it’s the cheapest and I really don’t need anything fancy in my bowl of porridge, but oat is by far my favourite and go-to when I’ve gone out for a coffee.

Eggs was one of the biggest changes. In my second year of uni I had eggs for breakfast nearly everyday that I wasn’t on placement, and I genuinely didn’t see myself as able to give them up. But in third year I found a love of porridge and overnight oats, or tofu scramble if I fancied something closer to what I usually had eaten. And eventually I was only having eggs when eating out, there is nothing nicer than an eggs benedict (and if anyone can link me to a good vegan recipe for it, I will love them forever).

Like I previously mentioned, cheese wasn’t a large part of my diet, because as a university student it just wasn’t worth budgeting for. I’ve never had a problem with any of the vegan alternatives I’ve tried, though this may be because I ate cheese so rarely that I couldn’t really directly compare the two.

Chocolate, the crux for many people, was a big one. “But how do you live without chocolate?” I’m normally asked by my horrified coworkers, and the answer is that I don’t. In fact, I probably have it in some form everyday, it just took a bit of getting used to looking for the vegan friendly alternatives in tescos. But there are plenty, and even some of the major brands are accidently vegan (looking at you bourbons).

Eventually it just left occasions where I was eating out (laziness would sometimes lead to me choosing the vegetarian option, and other times it was simply because that was what I wanted to eat), and items where I had not checked the label for hidden ingredients. Milk powder is in bloody everything, and if it’s not that, it’s normally eggs. Quorn in particular is well-known for this, though their vegan range is steadily growing.

By December 2018 I felt ready to take on Veganuary. I no longer felt like my diet, or lifestyle would be negatively impacted by it and I saw it as a great chance to draw a line under the sand. When speaking to my dad on the phone two weeks in he asked if I was struggling yet. And honestly? I hadn’t even noticed, as there had been so few occasions where I would have chosen the non-vegan option anyway. To me it just made sense that after January I continued to eat plant based, and now, at the end of February I haven’t regretted it once. I am a giant advocator of eating a vegan diet. I feel so much healthier than when I ate meat, am more active than ever and can’t remember the last time I fell ill. I do understand it’s not possible for everyone, people who have had or have eating disorders may definitely struggle, and placing a load of rules on what they can and can’t eat wouldn’t be beneficial to their mental health in the slightest (just as it wouldn’t have been for me once upon a time).

I also understand that if you’re not educated about nutrition and the aspects of a healthy diet, then becoming vegetarian/vegan doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be any healthier, especially with the wide range of plant based foods and meals now out in supermarkets (I’m not berating any of these releases in the slightest, it’s amazing to see so many options and makes it a lot more accessible than it once was, it just means navigating for a healthy option isn’t always the easiest thing). Being vegan is still a privilege, I only have to support myself on my wage and it leaves plenty of room to opt for the more expensive meat alternatives and keep my diet balanced. A single parent with two kids however doesn’t have this option, and places like Lidl and Aldi are brilliant for selling a large quantity of meat for a relatively low price.  

But reducing your meat and animal product intake is good for the planet, and I do think that every little thing, whether that be partaking in Meatless Monday or swapping dairy milk for soya helps. No-one has to be perfect or commit to the most severe of changes, especially if they feel it is what they should do because Instagram told them to, but making a substitution here and there helps massively.

*I am not saying that meat and dairy cannot make up a healthy diet, though like anything in large quantities it isn’t beneficial. There is also plenty of evidence against cows milk and how we digest it. In early 2019 the Eat-Lancet commission (linked below) was published, outlining global targets for the world population to achieve a healthy, nutritionally balanced diet whilst keeping food production sustainable. The diet consists mainly of fruit, vegetables, grains and legumes, with a small amount of meat and fish. It is fairly similar to the Mediterranean diet, and emphasises that you don’t need to cut all animal products out, but reducing them would be highly beneficial on a number of levels!

Walter, W., Rockstrom, J., Loken, B. et al (2019) Food in the Anthropocene: the EAT-Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Products. The Lancet. [online] Available at: https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(18)31788-4/fulltext#seccestitle10

[3j-unit]

5 reasons why BTS stands apart from the pack and why they’re unlikely to slow down any time soon.

It's official: The seven stars of BTS—J-Hope, Jin, V, Jungkook, Jimin, Suga and RM—have created an “ARMY” of worldwide fans. As they continue to break records, it's become increasingly clear that the K-pop titans are currently the most visible representatives of where mainstream pop music—American pop music in particular—is headed.

Now, K-pop itself is certainly nothing new (the genre in its contemporary form has been around since the ‘90s). So, what is it about BTS that has America in such a frenzy? Here are five major reasons why the seven-piece band stands apart from the pack, and why they're unlikely to slow down any time soon.

1. BTS Defy Expectations…

[…] Not only do their steady stream of albums touch on important topics like self-love and follow a developing story arc, last year BTS packed arenas on their Love Yourself global tour. The North American leg alone, which brought the boys to eight cities, had four sold-out shows at the 21,000 capacity Staples Center in Los Angeles. And their first-ever stadium show in the U.S., at New York City's Citi Field, welcomed 40,000 loyal fans for another sold-out show.

What’s more, BTS openly experiment with K-pop and boy-band aesthetics, crossing genres and subverting expectations. They defy gender norms and push aside outdated ideas of pop star masculinity via their fashion and music choices. In their live review, the LA Times noted BTS’ “thrillingly evolved presentation of gender,” with multiple costume changes, including “frilly white blouses” and “baggy tracksuits,” and playful on-stage interactions

“The effect was a welcome disruption of what we expect a male heartthrob to look and sound like—a radical cultural act made only more encouraging by how enthusiastically it was received by the diverse crowd inside Staples Center,” Mikael Wood, a pop music critic for the paper, wrote.

2. …And Gracefully Crosses Genres

Additionally, in his review of the NYC show, longtime New York Times pop music critic Jon Caramanica eloquently summarized how BTS’ music is more than just airy takes on bubblegum pop. “Those albums [Love Yourself: Tear and Love Yourself: Answer] show how BTS navigates an increasingly variegated and complex sound: Chainsmokers-esque EDM-pop, 1990s R&B, hip-hop from New York and the South, and much more. As singers and rappers, the members are gifted. As dancers and performers, they are nimble. And at this show, their execution was relaxed,” Caramanica said.

3. All Seven Members Offer Unique Talents to the Group

At first glance, seven members may sound like a lot for a group that doesn’t actively play instruments. But, as any ARMY member will be surely attest, Jin, V, Jungkook, Jimin, J-Hope, Suga and RM each play an important role in shaping who BTS are. For starters, the band splits duties between rapping and singing. And, unlike boy bands of yesteryear, there are no de facto “leaders” or frontmen. RM, who is fluent in English, often speaks on behalf of the group, but he is not necessarily the lead member.

As Caramanica also pointed out in his show review, BTS readily share the spotlight onstage, much to their fans! delight: “Near the end of the show, The Truth Untold showcased the sweet harmonies of the four singers (Jimin, Jin, Jungkook and V), and was immediately followed by Outro: Tear, which displayed the versatility and range of the three rappers (J-Hope, RM and Suga). Each member was given a solo turn as well — V’s sensual R&B on Singularity was a high point, and on Serendipity, Jimin pulled off some balletic, Matrix-esque dance maneuvers.”

4. Their Music Feels Authentic to Fans

While BTS have clearly mastered how to look and sound good, they do more than just draw people in with catchy hooks and eye-catching clothes and hair. They tackle important issues, like mental health and self-love. The group acknowledges the importance of serving as role models to so many young people around the world. In Korea, K-pop stars are even referred to as “idols”—and BTS don’t take that responsibility lightly.

Back in Sept. 2018, the GRAMMY Museum hosted A Conversation With BTS, where 300 fans listened to the group talk about a breadth of topics, including their responsibility as artists.

“That makes us think more about our responsibilities, how we should act, how we should make our music. So it makes us think more deeply about what we do, how responsible we should be about what we’re doing, and the music we’re making,” Jungkook said.

They also discussed their creative process and how they work collaboratively as a team, as well as with Bang Si-hyuk, the head of their label, Big Hit Entertainment. “When we had our conversation with Mr. Bang when we first started out, he always emphasized that we should sing about our own experiences, our own thoughts, our own feelings. So, that has always been at the center of the music that we made,” RM explained.

He also emphasized their collaborative process as bandmates. “We try to participate together as much as we can. I think our participation in the process makes the music more sincere, make the songs more sincere, and that changes our attitude about how we approach our songs,” RM said.

5. BTS Think of Their ARMY as Family

You can’t talk about BTS’ record-breaking rise without also highlighting their loyal ARMY.

In fact, BTS has two official Twitter accounts: At the time of this writing, @BTS_twt is home to 18.5 million followers, and the BTS’ official YouTube page has over 15.6 million subscribers.

Yet just as fans support BTS, BTS supports their fans. All in their mid-to-early-20s, the members of BTS know how to use social media as a tool to connect with their millions of admirers online, giving fans regular access and updates on their lives. While many social-media users at risk of falling into feelings of isolation the more they “like” and scroll, BTS actively leverage positivity on social media. Fans follow suit, filling BTS’ YouTube page with upbeat, supportive chatter. Together with their fans, BTS creates a giant, supportive family.

And the BTS U.S. takeover is only just getting started: Following the announcement of BTS’ new 2019 tour dates, fans took to Twitter to share in the excitement. […] Others pointed out the significance of some of the venues: For example, the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, where BTS will be performing on May 4, is a football stadium with a capacity of 90,888.

The numbers don’t lie: Between record and ticket sales, streaming numbers, self-aware lyrics and a fervent fan base, BTS have tapped into a formula for history-making success—in America and all over the world.

[casualarsonist]

Mission: Impossible - Fallout review

I can empathise with Tom Cruise’s plight. At one point in my life, I too found myself over fifty, with half a billion dollars in net worth that I didn’t know what to do with, and having had my religion chase all my girlfriends away. The world can be a lonely place when your wealth-to-height ratio is 323,592,411 to 1. At that time I also wanted to die, and my only regret is that I didn’t attempt to do it via elaborate helicopter stunts - the one aspect in which Tom Cruise and I differ from one another. (I’m lying. You don’t know for a fact that I’m not Tom Cruise, so I thought I’d clarify.) Seriously though, if I had the means to, I’d like to go out in the exact same way as him, and I’m sure he’d feel the same about my preferred method of demise - ‘not while wanking’. But for now, Tom Cruise is Tom Cruise, and I am not, so instead I satisfy myself by watching him try to find the most expensive way to end his life as he films it for our viewing pleasure. 

‘Pleasure’ being the operative word here, because Mission: Impossible - Fallout is an ode, a testament to the crazy, gregarious, charming, golden age action films of the late 80s-early 90s, complete with a villain’s death (spoiler, the villain does not win) that makes you suck in your breath and wince. And that’s a great, great thing, because between the first film and this one (the...sixth?) the series has run the gamut of action-film styles, from a tense, spy-thriller, to ridiculous wire-work John Woo insanity, to boring summer fodder, to the most recent run of three superb releases that up the ante every time. I’m not gonna lie, I absolutely hate heights, and the idea of clinging to the outside of a plane as it takes off scares the literal shit out of me as I sit here writing this. But watching Cruise do it is absolutely breathtaking. Apparently he doesn’t have a stunt double. Could it be any more clear that he’s simply trying to reach the great beyond the only way he knows how - in a big-ass summer blockbuster? More power to him I say. 

If you’ve watched any of the M:I movies before, you’ll know that plot doesn’t really count for much. Not because there’s not enough plot, mind, but because there’s too much plot. Every time there’s too much plot, full of double-crossings and fake-outs and masks and secret spy dealings. Trying to follow it all isn’t worth the mental effort, and it probably doesn’t really make much sense when you break it down, so there’s little to be found in the plot other than a sense of the large scale machinations of the various entities at work. In the end, the plot moves forward because the right people show up at the right time as if everyone is sharing their location to a Whatsapp group for international agents of espionage, and the details are but a means to an end - an end that lies at the point the next action scene begins. In most other cases this might diminish the efforts of the film, but when your action scenes are this enjoyable, I really couldn’t care less. 

Tom Cruise hangs off so many things, guys. He hangs off helicopters in flight. He hangs off a cliff. He hangs off a building. At one point, he even leaps from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, across thirty metres of open road, and onto the rooftop of another building half a football field away. It’s not something that the average punter will notice, but those familiar with the sheer amount of space between St Paul’s and every other building around it will understand just what an amazing athletic feat this is. My mum, a woman with a heart condition and a proclivity towards anxiety, left the theatre breathless and excited - a state I don’t think I’ve ever seen her enter in a positive capacity. She’s not a thrill-seeker, is what I mean, but this film thrilled the shit out of her. There’s a great sense of continuity and flow to everything, and this meticulous attention to detail, coupled with a lack of bewildering CGI helps keep you invested, even as the stakes are raised further and further. It’s the antithesis of the Bourne Identity shakey-cam technique that dominated action films for far too long - no-longer can directors use it as an excuse to cut corners and create a bamboozling visual mess in which you can’t tell who kicked what and where, while Cruise’s capability and commitment to doing everything for realsies means that they don’t have to cut fifteen times just to film him hopping over a fence. I almost, almost, raved about it when I left the cinema, and that’s a high endorsement from me when it comes to big-budget blockbusters. And that’s probably the strangest thing of all - that this film is a blockbuster sequel in a series that has long crossed the temporal line that usually denotes an irreparable decline in quality, and has somehow not only managed to recover, but get better with successive installments. Say what you will about Tom Cruise, but a Tom Cruise action film inspires a very different anticipatory feeling than a Dwayne Johnson action film. There’s a consistency in the quality that is fed by a tangible sense of ambition - this series has become Cruise’s baby, and with all the money in the world and nothing else to live for, he clearly tries damn hard to make sure that it is worth the price of entry. 

As for the rest of the film...it’s okay. It’s not so much an episodic installment as those before it, but a direct sequel to Rogue Nation, and if you haven’t seen Rogue Nation, then you’re gonna be really fuckin’ confused for a good part of the narrative. Old friends and enemies return, and you will have zero connection with any of them for at least two thirds of the production unless you’ve seen them before. Which sucks, because it’s not exactly fair that in a series of six films, they waited until you were five in before smacking you with a the first story that carries over. The performances are fine, serviceable. Simon Pegg’s character actually has some weight to it and serves a greater function than simply being the comic relief. Alec Baldwin is in it and through no fault of his own, simply due to the fact that he’s Alec Baldwin, feels miscast in his redundant, bite-sized role. Henry Cavill is...fine. He plays a charmless thug well enough, and the thing he does with his arms in the trailer and the bathroom fight is legitimately cool for reasons that I can’t explain. He’s the perfect henchman, and in this sense he’s well-cast for the first time in his life, but that’s not so much a compliment to him as it is to the casting director for realising his limitations as an actor. Cruise is the film’s heart and soul, partially because his character is the axis around which all of the other elements turn, and partially because no-one can stop themselves from crowing that Ethan Hunt is the saviour of the world, and the best-est, most amazing spy ever. It reeks of vanity project dialogue, and while it might be, I can forgive it because of the quality and effort that has gone into almost all the aspects of the production. 

In short, as mindless fun goes, watching this film is possibly the most mindless fun I’ve had in a long time. It was extremely refreshing to go from The Meg to this in the space of a week, and to be reminded that not all big-budget films are CGI-soaked trash garbage. I wouldn’t thank Tom Cruise for many things, but I’ll thank him for that. In the meantime, I just hope that when he finally does meet his maker, it’s because the navigational instruments on the spaceship he spent six months learning to pilot failed and he was propelled into the Sun during a billion-dollar set piece while filming Mission: Impossible 15 - Space Terrorism.

8.5 digitally-altered Henry Cavill moustaches out of 10

[erhiem]

The Harold Hunter Foundation—named after famed NYC skater Harold Hunter, who passed away in 2006—is a New York City-based nonprofit that provides safe spaces and resources for skateboarders to develop professional and life skills, inside and outside Network skateboarding outside, and, of course, skate. Co-founder Jessica Forsythe was a close friend of Harold and part of Larry Clark’s skateboarding culture. children. He also filmed parts in her childhood home, then a safe place and refuge for the NYC skateboarding community. Reflecting on the itinerant existence of these OG NYC skaters in the ’90s and early ’00s, Jessica said, “They had no skate parks, no cell phones. It was like ragtag lost boys roaming the streets all night.” had a small community.”

Olu Stanley speaks in New York City about skateboarding with a bravery that I’ve learned is the norm, even necessary. “Just standing here in the courthouse, being skaters, we had to fight almost all the time,” says the foundation’s coach and mentor, standing outside the courthouse on East 161 Street in the Bronx. “They looked at us like, oh that’s some blond white boy, they’re soft. Let’s fuck with them. We had to fight to tell them, we come from where you come from.”

For me, a skateboarder who grew up in San Diego and Los Angeles, unlike skateboarding in NYC—actually skating in the cut—was frustrating. I was unprepared for the time you were on the streets, navigating between cars, over crevices and potholes, nor, at my first home in town – at the corner of Bedford and Nostrand, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn — Did I expect the attention of the neighborhood that a skateboard would bring you.

“For me being a kid, growing up in the Bronx was different,” Olu says, “I felt like a target because of the skateboard, it was not a good thing to do, the hood was not accepting it. “

Damien Lopez Jr., another skater at the foundation, tells me about a skater growing up in the Bronx, sipping a cappuccino in a thrash pair of Air Jordan 1 “Royal Blues” resting on a Palace Chevy Cannon deck. “Being in the hood, I used to be in the streets,” he said, “kids would call me gay and stuff, and I was like it’s fire because girls are loving it.”

For so many kids, skateboarding became a means of escaping a home that didn’t approve of riding this piece of wood, learning their city in depth, and exploring the boundaries at the crossroads of physiology, physics, and simple bravado. do. “Honestly, that piece of wood put me out of my neighborhood,” Olu says. “Being a teenager, I was either going to play ball in the hood, and then I was going to be in the hood, probably doing shit later.” He paused to admit to a young skater who was trying to hit the 50-50 curb near our group, “Or I can get on a skateboard and learn something that not everyone else is doing.” is.”

“The Bronx, the messy part I live in, is really messy,” Damien says, before changing his tone to more historical heroics and continuing, “I wanted skateboarding to take me out. I’m only 19. I’m trying to build my crib or something so that I can create, make music, make art.

Despite her roots in the most defining era of NYC skateboarding, Jessica left it behind in 1991 to pursue an education focused on mental health and psychology, earning a doctorate in counseling psychology. “By the time I got into skateboarding back in 2000, people were famous, too cool for school, and head-to-toe in Supreme.” Skateboarding was suddenly in the public eye; They suddenly became fashionable.

“In the hood, I saw crazy boys and girls walking around with baggy pants,” Damien says, “the skate fit I would wear in 2016-2017 when I was going to the flea market with my dad to buy basic cargo pants.”

“Now people watch Street League, and they see Nyja Huston killing it while making a pot of gold for himself,” Olu says. “So now Hood can see why you do it because you can get money.”

Despite skateboarding being at the Olympics, effectively cementing the rebellious pursuit as a mainstream sport, a skater must still push through town, perform tricks in public places, on public property, and Sometimes private spaces must be encroached upon, or as Damien describes it, “nonsense bullshit”. “Skaters are bad, doing bad things in here, you know, leather jackets and stuff,” he laughs, “but we’re not really doing the right thing because I’m skating down a street where people don’t want to eat. are trying and they see it as making noise.”

Greg Simmons, a Brooklyn artist and coach of the Harold Hunter Foundation, reflects on the skaters he grew up with. “I know a whole bunch of ’90s skaters who were young and just getting paid seven-day weekends, but nothing within the skate community to get them a job. So they all fell; Some got addicted to drugs or stopped skating.”

This is where Jessica got her chance. She recognized the characteristics of the skater’s character – the passion to pull off the trick by any means, and a relentless longing for freedom afforded to them by their skateboards – and sought to find ways to keep them skating while providing them with sustainable opportunities to live. Looked for Work, and thrive. In it, she found that the pursuit of work and education in ordinary ways was particularly and uniquely difficult for many skaters. First, were the skateboarding community of the city and the demographics of the many skaters in the neighborhood. “If you go to any gathering of skaters from all over New York and look around, you will see more black or brown skaters with hoods than anyone else,” Olu says.

The Harold Hunter Foundation became a place in the community for skaters to find positive uses of their energy, whether it is to mentor other skateboarders, find work within the industry, or use their creativity to pursue a career in another field. Be through finding ways. In addition, they were able to find opportunities in spaces and places that they would not otherwise feel are due, first and foremost, to the color of their skin.

Jessica understood the mind of a skateboarder and wanted to create a “transformative place to educate” them. These were places of development that worked dynamically with the way skaters walked and thought. “These were the places skaters weren’t going to get to college or being so cool on their own merits. These kids are really cool, but that’s not the only thing getting them through the door. Raw talent and creativity only went so far. Because so many circumstances put him out of the mainstream.”

The Harold Hunter Foundation brings together a community of skaters and professionals who provide resources to support skating, but also the ups and downs of life and the flow of navigating professional workspaces. Yet, importantly, they remain authentic to their unique culture. “We needed real ways to communicate,” Jessica says. “These are the skateboarders in the street, after all.”

This is what makes the Harold Hunter Foundation so important. They’re really taking so many NYC skaters and taking them to places they never knew or thought they weren’t. Compared to the polished skating mecca of Southern California, I found the rigors and rigors of skating in NYC beautiful and even romantic. There’s nothing quite like being pushed from place to place on the narrow, rough, and bumpy streets of New York City. You have to be fast, smart and flexible. Because of this, NYC skaters need a passage through and through the door in order to do anything.

Or, as Olu put it, “If you know how to get around in New York, you know how to get around anywhere else in the world.”

Dushante, 24, Bronx @dussssshhhhhhh

Idries Alexander, 19, Bronx @airetikos

Matthew, 21, Manhattan @MATTROSADOO

Brian, 24, Bronx, @bryant333

jordan, 23, brooklyn @ akstax781

Andy, 19, Bronx @HALAL_RAMOS

OLU, 38, Bronx @bronxstyles_stanley_

Greg, 36, Queens @makemoneysimmons

Henry Fabian Gonzalez, 22, Bronx @honchovilla

Damien, 19, Bronx @DEE.PREME

Jack, 19 Manhattan, Jocelyn, 19, Bronx @JACKDISCON @GRAY_1106

Julian, 20, Brooklyn @KIKKFLIP

credit

photography ben rayner

.

The post These NYC skaters are honouring the legacy of a 90s hero appeared first on Spicy Celebrity News.

[howardstudent]

Baby’s First Literature Review

Racism: Internal and External

Department of Psychology, Howard University

PSYC 016-01: Psychology New Student Orientation

November 11, 2020

Racism: Internal and External

The Black Lives Matter movement in 2020 has sparked a major mainstream conversation about racism in the United States. Different expressions of racism, especially antiblackness, can be observed throughout the world, but most of the literature on racism comes from the U.S. Conversations on antiblack racism in America date back to 1773, when the first African American author was published (Library of Congress). Phyllis Wheatley, the aforementioned author, was not critical of her white oppressors but she did discuss the struggle of being enslaved, though she mainly focused her works around her Christianity (Library of Congress). In the over 200 years since then, a nearly infinite amount of content has been produced on the topic of racism. 

Racism is actually a fairly new concept in human history. “Race” as a word first entered the English language in the late 1500s (Wade). Its earlier meaning was synonymous with “kind” or “type”, and was a more general term (Wade). It was not until the 1700s that it began to be used commonly to refer to humans in a sorting manner. Built into this use of the word was a type of ranking system and in America, European settlers were at the top, followed by the conquered Native Americans, with African slaves holding the lowest rank (Wade). It is important to note that race is not a categorization system based on science. While there are physical differences between races of people, and some genetic qualities may be more common among individuals of a certain race, race is a social construct. This is most obvious when examining concepts like “whiteness”, and how the ingroups and outgroups of whiteness have changed over time. People of Irish descent were at one point not considered white, but now they generally are (Wade). This is not to imply that there are not real life repercussions associated with the concept of race, but rather to add context to the conversation and to further expose how absurd white-supremacy, and racism as a whole, are.

Black people are central to the discussion of racism in America because of the long history of antiblackness. Racism is something black folks are faced with from “crib to coffin” (Jones, 2020). Racism is often treated as a purely external issue, but its influence is so prevalent that it has bred “internal racism” (Sosoo, 2019). Both contribute to the pain, suffering, and oppression of black people. Racism wreaks havoc on black people’s self-image and mental health. Which is worsened by the fact that racism and racial disparities are even commonplace in the medical field. This creates a positive feedback loop where a black individual may seek medical assistance in coping with stress linked to racism they face, and they are then confronted with racism coming from their healthcare providers. 

Shawn Jones (2020) discussed African Americans attempting to cope with racism-related stress throughout their lifetime . It seems as though addressing and even dismantling internalised racism may be tangential to this process. Effua Sosoo studied “The Influence of Internalized Racism on the Relationship Between Discrimination and Anxiety” among college students (2019). Internalized racism further perpetuates racism and it’s deconstruction from within oneself is crucial to helping black Americans cope with and heal from the racism they face.

Jones (2020) breaks down racism throughout a black individual’s life, chronologically, as follows:

To illustrate, research suggests that racism—and not simply racial group—drives the persistent low birth weight disparities among Black babies (De Maio, Shah, Schipper, Gurdiel, & Ansell, 2017). As these children develop, research indicates that they will likely face differential treatment as early as preschool, an age wherein Black children’s suspension rates (48%) are nearly twice those of their White counterparts (26%; U.S. Department of Education, Office for Civil Rights, 2014). The period of adolescence then brings stories such as one in which a 16-year-old Black teen was taunted publicly for eating chicken at a pep rally contest, with video and inflammatory narrative shared across social media by his White peers (Wootson, 2017). As racism persists in early and middle adulthood, Black Americans may contemplate abbreviating their names given persistent biases in hiring practices (Nunley, Pugh, Romero, & Seals, 2015). Racist reverberations extend into older adulthood for Black Americans, with burgeoning research suggesting that poverty and racism raise the risk of developing Alzheimer’s (Alzheimer’s Association, 2017). These correlations and numerous others have been further synthesized by an at-once impressive and disheartening number of reviews linking racism and health or well-being across hundreds of studies spanning the last three decades (see Hope, Hoggard, & Thomas, 2015; Pascoe & Smart Richman, 2009; Pieterse, Todd, Neville, & Carter, 2012; Priest et al., 2013; Williams & Mohammed, 2009). These reviews generally congregate around one reality: that racism is a pernicious and unique stressor, with the potential to thwart the physical, physiological, and psychological health of Black Americans. This developmental overview seeks to add to this growing body of literature, applying a life-course perspective to investigate racism-related stress (RRS) and coping over time. (para. 2)

The study goes on to lay out their parameters, explaining (Jones, 2020),

As articulated by S. P. Harrell (2000) and derived from Lazarus and Folkman’s (1984) broader conceptualization of stress, RRS refers to “race-related transactions between individuals or groups and their environment that emerge from the dynamics of racism, and that are perceived to tax or exceed existing individual and collective resources or threaten well-being” (S. P. Harrell, 2000, p. 44). Harrell describes six prominent types of RRS: (a) racism-related life events (time-limited, specific life experiences), (b) vicarious racism experiences (observation and report of others’ racism experiences), (c) daily racism microstressors (subtle slights and exclusions), (d) chronic-contextual stress (social systemic and institutional racism), (e) collective experiences (“cultural-symbolic and sociopolitical manifestations of racism,” p. 46), and (f) transgenerational transmission (discussions of historical events). Importantly, these various types of racism-related stressors may (and often do) co-occur and interact, as well as interact with other stressors, including general and other-social-roles-related stressors (e.g., sexism, heterosexism, Islamophobia). (para. 5)

Interestingly, internalized racism is not included in any of six types of racism defined by S.P. Harrell. This is important as Sosoo (2019) explains “numerous studies have linked internalized racism to metabolic health (e.g., Chambers et al., 2004), but it has also been associated with psychological distress (Molina & James, 2016; Szymanski & Obiri, 2011)” (para. 2). The study was conducted among college students which fits well into Jones discussion. It concludes with stating that,

Analyses revealed that the relation between racial discrimination and psychological distress may depend on other factors such as levels of internalized racism. A significant interaction was found between racial discrimination and internalization of negative stereotypes such that racial discrimination was associated with increased anxiety symptom distress at T2 for individuals with moderate and high, but not low, levels of internalization of negative stereotypes. (Sosoo, 2020, para. 29)

To give credit where credit is due, both studies show deep analysis. However, Jones’ (2020) study went further in examining coping methods utilized by African Americans, beyond looking at racism from various input sources. Both send a strong message about the importance of addressing racism in America, and both point out the negative physical and mental effects racism has on black people. They both argue for a reduction of prevalence of racial stereotypes and racial discrimination. Sosoo’s study reveals that individuals who experience internalized racism “are more likely to report experiences of anxiety symptom distress, such as distress from feeling tense or scared” (2019, para. 29). This is potentially explained by the idea that their “experiences of racial discrimination may serve as a confirmation of these negative views, leading to psychological and physiological symptoms of anxiety” (Sosoo, 2019, para. 29). Therefore it is vital that all forms of racism must be considered, addressed, and dismantled for the sake of black people’s overall health, happiness, and wellbeing.

References

Jones, S. C., Anderson, R. E., Gaskin-Wasson, A. L., Sawyer, B. A., Applewhite, K., & Metzger, I. W. (2020). From “crib to coffin”: Navigating coping from racism-related stress throughout the lifespan of Black Americans. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 90(2), 267-282. doi:10.1037/ort0000430

Library of Congress. (n.d.). Revolutionary Period (1764-1789). Retrieved November 11, 2020, from http://www.americaslibrary.gov/jb/revolut/jb_revolut_poetslav_1.html#:~:text=Wheatley grew up to be,learn to read and write?

Sosoo, E. E., Bernard, D. L., & Neblett, E. W. (2020). The influence of internalized racism on the relationship between discrimination and anxiety. Cultural Diversity and Ethnic Minority Psychology, 26(4), 570-580. doi:10.1037/cdp0000320

Wade, P. (2020, July 28). The History Of The Idea Of Race. Retrieved November 11, 2020, from https://www.britannica.com/topic/race-human/The-history-of-the-idea-of-race

[boldmistakes]

but the knights rose up & killed the kings (seblaine, 1/1)

summary: Sebastian Smythe was raised by a psychopath and mentored by a reformed assassin, so it was no wonder he went and fell for the kind of guy who ran off to take on a centuries-old terrorist organization by himself. It was just the pattern of his life, really. [Gallagher Girls AU] warnings: suicide, violence, death (not major character), mental manipulation, past torture, PTSD, allusions to child abuse; about as graphic as the teen series its based on, which is to say not very  notes: written for seblaine week 2017 day 2: spies/undercover. to be specific, an AU of Ally Carter’s Out of Sight, Out of Time. [24k] [A03]

“Take me with you.”

Sebastian drew Blaine to him, kissed him, bodies pressed together like a promise.

“I can’t,” Blaine said, pulling back, breathless, pink-cheeked, and frowning.

“You have to,” Sebastian replied urgently. “You can’t do this alone, Blaine.”

“I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.” Blaine touched the bandage curled around Sebastian’s neck, a white collar which spread down to wrap around his chest, covering up third-degree burns that had, yes, hurt like a bitch when he’d gotten them. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“You’ll be the one getting hurt if you go after them alone.”

Blaine hesitated, a flicker in his eyes, and Sebastian pounced on that weakness like had been trained to from the cradle.

“Take me with you,” Sebastian repeated, kissing Blaine again, sweeter. “You need me.”

Blaine’s hesitation collapsed, and he bowed his head, resting his forehead against Sebastian’s shoulder. He hugged Sebastian, and his shoulders shook.

“I do,” he said softly, Sebastian smoothing a hand over his trembling back. “I do.”

“Take me with you?”

Blaine nodded against his shoulder.

“Tonight. Midnight.”

Sebastian kissed him one last time.

--

That was the day Blaine Anderson disappeared without a trace. Sebastian was left behind.

Keep Reading on A03

--

Sebastian spent the summer searching for him.

A global manhunt based on no clues, just gut feelings, just pretending he actually knew Blaine. Apparently he didn’t because Blaine was nowhere, a ghost in a world of them, probably dead for all they knew.

Sebastian couldn’t think of Blaine rotting away in some shallow grave somewhere after being tortured for information by the Circle, by his --

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

It was the kind of weakness he’d never allowed himself before, but sometimes he also felt that his whole infatuation Blaine had redefined strength in a way that left him nothing but weak.

The Sebastian of two years ago wouldn’t have cared about one dead teenager, spy or no.

The Sebastian of two years ago was sixteen years old and already had blood on his hands.

What was one more death to blame himself for?

--

Seventy-six days. Two and a half months. The length of Dalton Academy for Exceptional Youth’s summer break.

Come fall, students returned to the school’s hallowed halls in droves to continue their education. Dalton Academy taught its students only the most valuable skills, in art, language, math, history, science, and espionage. It was a premiere education; it simply also happened to fast-track one for a career in the CIA or some even more covert agency.

Sebastian thought Dalton was, in a word, quaint. But he’d had a much more intensive education.

Still, he slipped into that blue-and-red blazer come fall, and tried to pretend he wasn’t on house arrest, that he wasn’t being watched, that he still had the choice to walk off these grounds and continue his search.

Seventy-six days. Two and a half months. That was how long Blaine had been missing for.

--

Sebastian fit in at Dalton, well enough.

The classes were doable but interesting, both the physical and mental ones. He even had friends , as odd as it was to say. Mostly they were Blaine’s friends:

Tina Cohen-Chang, who was a chameleon, able to slip forgettably into any situation, and yet inexplicably also loud-mouthed and dramatic, prone to tears and shouting.

Quinn Fabray, a senator’s daughter composed of hard edges hidden behind a sweet smile, and terrifying good at manipulating people, a trait she credited to public school cheerleading.

Santana Lopez, a legacy spy who played with knives as a fashion statement and cut with words a dozen times sharper; her parents had been his babysitter over the summer and between Budapest and Greece and Brazil he gained a healthy respect for Santana’s toughness.

There were dozens of others. Blaine Anderson was the son of Dalton’s headmistress, decorated ex-CIA agent Pamela Anderson. (He was like, 90% sure that wasn’t her real name.) His older brother was infamous field agent Cooper Anderson. He was popular in his own right, the best of the best, a Dalton boy through and through. Smart, ambitious, driven. He also drew people to him, all honey. Friendly, sweet, kind .

Not exactly what you expected from a guy with actual high-level clearance who had been taught how to snap necks before he could legally drive.

When they’d first met, Sebastian’s job as visiting Carmel student to try and outfox the Dalton kids and see how they did in the real world, he had thought there was some trick to it. That Blaine was acting, that nobody could really be like that .

Turned out he was wrong. Sebastian was wrong about a lot of things. He lived.

After all, he also never thought Blaine would lie to him.

--

Two weeks after the school term began. Fourteen days. Ninety days.

An utterly normal day at Dalton Academy, Blaine Anderson came back.

--

Sebastian heard the ripples through the school, but he didn’t go looking.

The whispers were enough to build an idea of Blaine in his mind, like his own unwanted kind of echolocation. The resulting image wasn’t a pleasant one.

Damaged. Broken. Scary.

Santana caught up with him as he left his Diplomacy & Treaties class (actual lessons on peaceful resolution -- it was baffling.)

“He’s seriously fucked up,” she said, and he knew her well enough to see the tension at the edges of her otherwise stone face.

“Blaine’s a survivor,” Sebastian said. “He’ll be fine.”

Santana’s mouth twisted. “Yeah? Get back to me on that when you finally see him.”

Sebastian didn’t want to see Blaine. Seventy-six days of searching for him and fourteen more of pacing his cage like a circus tiger, and here he was, terrified of what waited for him somewhere in the otherwise placid halls of Dalton Academy.

Damaged, broken, scary, fucked-up. That was supposed to be Sebastian’s role. He had no idea how to take Blaine’s, how to be the stable one.

All he knew was that Blaine would be there for him.

No, he lied; he also knew that he wanted to help Blaine, however he could. That was all he had ever wanted.

He smothered a brief, unfair surge of anger at Blaine for leaving him behind, and went to find him.

--

“Hey, killer.”

Blaine did look awful. He had always been small, but now he was downright starved , with the same look to his eyes a wild animal caught in a trap might get. His hair was a mass of matted, bleached, white-blonde curls. Dark hollows ringed his wary gaze, and in the simple t-shirt and sweats it was easy to see the dark patterns of scars and wounds which broke up his too-pale skin.

He looked like he’d crawled his way out of that shallow grave.

“Sebastian.”

Blaine adjusted his stance, looking ready to flee. Sebastian kept his hands in his pockets, didn’t make sudden movements.

“What are you doing here?”

“I go here now,” Sebastian shrugged, and Blaine’s gaze flickered to his neck, no doubt staring at the thick pink scar which stretched out across his skin now. “They figured it’s for the best.”

Blaine said nothing. Curled his arms around himself. Became, somehow, smaller.

The door to the medical ward swung open, and Dr. Owen stuck her head out.

“Blaine? We’re ready for you now.”

Blaine nodded jerkily, and with a final look at Sebastian, rabbited inside.

--

Before Dalton, Sebastian attended Carmel Institute for Troubled Youth.

The name always made him chuckle. Troubled . Carmel found the cream of the crop, just as Dalton did. It just had a different flavour of cream. One attached to sealed records and dismayed parents of otherwise bright delinquents, the “ but he was such a good child” s of the world, happy to send their disappointments off, out of sight, out of mind.

Then Carmel took these crude lumps of clay and shaped them into the finest trained killers available for hire.

“You’re always guaranteed a job after graduation ,” he’d joked once to Blaine, who hadn’t found that very funny.

What could Sebastian say? He had a sense of humour, and it took more than brutal training to coax an assassin out of him to dampen it. Maybe it helped that unlike his peers, Sebastian had never been some petty delinquent. He had known from the start exactly what Carmel was, and what would be expected of him.

Simply put, Sebastian was a legacy .

Not that he’d wanted to be. Not that he’d wanted that life, wanted to be just another monster in the night. So in his attempts to find some way out from the trap tightening around him, he had turned to someone who had successfully done it: Hunter Clarington. Former student and teacher at Carmel, then later at Dalton as its Covert Operations professor. One of Blaine’s favourite teachers, apparently.

He was also a triple agent who had played both sides rather masterfully until he had been forced to make his allegiances clear. He and Sebastian had both done in that in the tombs beneath Carmel, in a true trial by fire.

Hunter wasn’t in a hospital though, nor the Dalton medical wing. No, Hunter was seen as a traitor, so he was hidden away in a hidden room in the walls of Dalton, the kind you only found after successfully navigating the warren of secret passageways.

It seemed lonely, but then again, loneliness was expected of their lives.

Sebastian still tried to visit, though Hunter was basically a vegetable, wrapped up like a mummy and coked up to his gills on painkillers, sustained purely by life-support. The doctors weren’t sure if he would wake up; Sebastian thought he would based on nothing but the time he had spent at the man’s side, learning from him, travelling the globe, trying to take the Circle down together.

Hunter Clarington was a mean old dog and it would take a little more than an explosion to stop him.

“Blaine’s back,” he told the unconscious figure.

The machines continued on steadily. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Sebastian shook his head. Silly as it was, he had half-hoped that might suddenly bring the man back. Hunter had been best friends with Danilo Anderson, Blaine’s deceased father. Like Sebastian, he had been compelled to protect Blaine, another little thing they had in common.

(Blaine had been in those tombs too, and for some stupid reason, Sebastian had thought they’d succeeded and Blaine had come out of that labyrinth uninjured -- but obviously not every hurt was a physical one.)

“He’s … not okay,” he continued.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I think …” Sebastian swallowed. “I think my mom got a hold of him.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The only mystery was why Blaine was still alive.

--

The Circle of Cavan was a centuries-old terrorist organization.

It had its fingers in every pie throughout the globe, controlling world events and politics and people with the ease of someone rearranging a chessboard. They were rich, powerful, and immensely dangerous.

They had killed Danilo Anderson, because he’d known too much, been trying to take them down.

They had tried ( tried? ) to kidnap Blaine, because they thought him his father’s son with his father’s knowledge.

They had cornered Sebastian, Blaine, and Hunter in the tombs that held Carmel’s secrets where they had been retrieving Danilo’s journal, and that had ended in Sebastian setting a burn room alight with him and Hunter in it to give Blaine time to run, run, run .

Sebastian’s mother, Camille Smythe, was one of their foremost hitters.

--

“Have you talked to him?”

Sebastian looked up as Tina sat next to him in the Grand Hall where meals were taken. It was lunch, so Sebastian would rather eat than talk, especially when they were required (per the board at the head of the room) to speak in German at this meal -- his was a little rusty.

“Hi, Tina, nice to see you too.”

“Cut the crap.” Tina looked pointedly down the table, where Blaine sat, alone. He had taken one look at Sebastian indicating the empty seat next to him and veered away. “ Blaine .”

Santana and Quinn settled next to them, also looking down the table at Blaine. Sebastian shrugged, taking a bite of his perfectly treated chicken. One thing he could say about Dalton: they spared no expense. The chef used to work in the White House, even.

“He’s talked to him,” Santana said shrewdly. “No way he hasn’t.”

“He isn’t talking to us,” Quinn reported. “He isn’t talking to anyone.”

“You think he could at least apologize,” Santana added.

“Apologize?” Sebastian finally gave up on lunch. “What’s he supposed to say? ‘Gee, Santana and pals, sorry I spent the summer getting tortured, but I did pick up some souvenirs -- who wants the snowglobe?’”

“He ran ,” Santana hissed. “Without us. Without anyone. He --”

“Got what he deserved?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. He hoped it conveyed that only one of them had killed before. Santana quieted.

“I just want to know what’s going on with him,” Tina said softly. “I’m worried.”

“Blaine will talk when he’s ready to. He always has,” Quinn said.

“He doesn’t know,” Santana said abruptly. “He doesn’t know about this summer. About everything we did for him …”

“Tell him,” Sebastian advised, leaning into Santana. He knew that under her poison and her barbs she cared deeply. You just had to give her a kick in the ass.

“First I’d have to catch him.”

Sebastian looked at Blaine, but Santana was right; he was no longer there, and the doors to the Grand hall were swinging slightly. Sebastian changed tactics. Adapt to survive .

“Quinn’s right. He’ll come when he’s ready.”

He hoped he wasn’t lying to them.

--

“We’re getting a new CoveOps teacher.”

“Finally. Who’s it going to be?”

“Goodbye, Dr. Jesse!”

“I miss Mr. Clarington.”

“I don’t know, he was gorgeous, but he was a total dick.”

“I heard a rumour they’re bringing Agent Crawford back.”

“Oh, that would be even worse than Dr. Jesse … ”

“What about --”

Everyone was abuzz, but Sebastian paid it no mind. Whoever it was wouldn’t be as good as Hunter, and Sebastian only cared about learning from the best.

--

It was dinner in Arabic when Dean Anderson rose to her feet.

Sebastian watched her, more curious, as ever, about the woman who had raised Blaine than he was about anything else. She would have had the same training as his mother, but she was a whole different creature. Almost … silly.

She had always been kind to him. He could forgive silliness.

“Attention everyone,” she called, but the hall was already silent -- good spies paid attention. “As I’m sure many of you are aware, we’re getting a new CoveOps teacher today.”

Everyone looked between each other, excited eyebrows going up. Sebastian glanced at Blaine; he was huddled at the very end of the table, stabbing at his food.

“Dr. Jesse has served us well, but he’ll now be focusing on teaching Psychology.”

Dr. Jesse St. James smiled and waved at everyone. Sebastian shook his head. The only reason the doctor was here was to keep an eye on Sebastian. He was also a Carmel export, which found many uses in having someone who knew the ins and outs of the human psyche. Sebastian thought he was a dick, but he and Hunter were working together to dismantle Carmel. Hunter trusted him, as much as any of them could trust anyone, so Sebastian did too.

“Taking his place is, I’m very happy and proud to announce, my son …” everyone turned to stare at Blaine, who shrank back “... Cooper Anderson.”

The doors to the Grand Hall swung open with flair, and in strode an impeccably handsome man, the kind you found on billboards and silver screens. His blue eyes twinkled, his teeth flashed white, and as he walked by everyone, regardless of gender, craned their head and stared, stunned. When he reached the front of the hall he pivoted, grinned, and held up his hands.

“Please, please … hold the applause.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow as everyone laughed. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected Blaine’s brother to be like, but this wasn’t it. But should he be surprised? The polar opposite of Tina’s chameleon skills was to be a peacock. That had been Blaine’s talent; deliberately inviting attention to spin it to his benefit. Of course his older brother would be much the same.

Blaine had never been this … over the top with it, though.

“Students of Dalton!” Cooper called, once the students settled. “It’s a real pleasure to be here, where some of my biggest fans live, and to get to teach you some real life skills , if you know what I mean!”

Cooper winked broadly. Everyone was eating it up.

“So I’ll let you finish eating, but if you have any questions, want any autographs, I’ll stick around after dinner.” Cooper jerked both thumbs to himself. “Anderson. Cooper Anderson. Shaken, not stirred. Have a good night, everyone.”

Everyone applauded. Sebastian looked to Blaine, who was digging his fingers into his arms, expression ill. Frowning, Sebastian started to rise, concern overwhelming the desire to give Blaine space, but Blaine got up before he could and left. Sebastian slowly sat back down.

Hopefully having more family around would help Blaine, not hurt.

--

“I hear his mom found him in a brothel in Amsterdam …”

“Have you heard him? He just hums to himself. All the time. Totally weird.”

“Those marks on his arms … do you think they’re all inflicted by someone else?”

“No, he was found in a Mexican jail cell. He did something to get put there.”

“Did he run away, or was he kidnapped?”

“He’s not participating in P&E. He’s still too injured. They must be pretty bad … unless he’s faking it.”

“When’s his mom going to make him get a haircut?”

“He always breaks the rules. Remember when he dated that civilian? They had to bring in actual agents to interrogate him!”

“He’s just desperate for attention.”

“No, he was definitely found working for a home-grown terrorist cell, they had to deprogram him …”

“He’s going to cause trouble.”

--

Blaine was a ghost; sometimes it seemed he’d never returned.

He walked the halls lightly, keeping to himself; Sebastian watched him from a distance. Blaine didn’t socialize; he barely ate; he sat quietly in the back of each class and didn’t take notes. It was hard to tell if his wounds were healing under his Dalton uniform, but his gait was still one of shrinking injury. He had yet to do anything about his hair except wash it.

Sebastian wished he could do these things for Blaine, but he couldn’t.

--

CoveOps was held on Sublevel Three that day.

Sebastian paused as he entered the classroom, before moving to stand behind one of the tables. Each bore a long narrow crate; he knew what was inside. Hell, he’d known it was going to be something like his when the class was held somewhere this high security.

Blaine entered the class last. Took a spot in the back.

“So, Smythe,” Cooper said, gaze sharp as he took in Sebastian. “Know what they are?”

“Yes.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“No.”

Cooper nodded, then the sharpness faded as he looked over the class, winning smile back in place.

“Alright kiddos!” Cooper clasped his hands together. “Open up!”

They weren’t given tools but that wasn’t a problem. Spies were inventive. Sebastian soon had his crate pried open and stared down, resigned, at the ominous black rifle parts bedded in the straw.

He was years too old for this lesson, that was for sure. He glanced back at Blaine, who was staring blankly at the disassembled gun.

“Can someone tell me the difference between CoveOps and P&E?”

Quinn raised her hand. “It’s in the name. Protection and Enforcement is all about prevention. Protecting yourself. CoveOps is more active. Taking on operations, putting yourself into life-threatening situations.”

“Exactly. Ten points to Ms. Grace Kelly.” Cooper smiled at Quinn, then continued his slow pacing. “Can someone tell me why you haven’t learned about guns yet?”

“They’re … active,” Tina said. “They’re dangerous.”

“True, but that isn’t why they’re controversial. Blaine? Any ideas?”

Blaine was still staring at the rifle, didn’t even raise his head.  

“They make you lazy,” Santana interjected in a bored drawl. “If you need a gun at all, it’s probably too late to be safe.”

“Bam, you’re dead,” Sebastian added coldly, and everyone stared at him. Cooper cleared his throat.

“Yes. A good spy doesn’t need one, but they’re still useful to know. Just like you should always have a smooth jazz number tucked into your back pocket in case a Moroccan princess says she loves your voice -- tell you all about it later -- you --”

“Blaine!”

Nick’s shout made them all turn. In a sure grip Blaine was held a now-fully assembled semi-automatic, its dark branching shape gleaming dully under the light. It was pointed at the rest of the class.

“Blainey?” Cooper’s voice was soft.

Blaine looked up, some awareness leaching back into his eyes. His hands started to tremble.

Neutralize the threat , whispered his mother, or was that Hunter, or someone else entirely, himself. But this wasn’t a threat. It was Blaine.

“Blaine,” Sebastian said, trying to sound soothing as he took a step toward him. Eight feet away. “Just put it down ...”

He wasn’t sure if he was fast enough to disarm Blaine non-lethally if Blaine was about to do something very, very stupid.

“Blaine, it’s okay, you’re safe here …” he continued. Another step. Seven feet away. Tip a table, use it as a shield? Tell the class to get down. Now? Would that set Blaine off?

Sebastian was saved from having to make a choice when Blaine made a choked sound and dropped the gun with a clatter. Turning, he fled, by the sound of it headed straight for the elevator out of there.

Cooper chased after him, shouting his name; Sebastian went for the rifle, which he quickly disassembled, shaken himself. It had taken Blaine under a minute to put this together. That wasn’t studying in advance; that was familiarity. A killer’s ease.

Sebastian had thought Blaine entirely a victim in his time away, but what if …

--

There were rumours Blaine needed deprogramming.

Sebastian hadn’t believed them, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Blaine definitely wasn’t making the best case for himself.

--

After he left the class, Blaine apparently found himself on one of the main staircases.

Apparently, St. James had tried to catch his attention, ask what was wrong.

Apparently, Blaine had turned on him, wrapped both his hands around St. James’s neck and tried to strangle him over the balustrade.

Apparently, it had taken three others to pull him off, and St. James’s neck was purpled almost black now.

Apparently, Blaine had been carted away after that, and not seen since.

“He’s lost it,” Santana said, a catch to her voice. “What can we …”

“There, there,” said Brittany, a new transfer and, Sebastian suspected, becoming more than just a friend to Santana, as she ran a hand over Santana’s hair. “He’s just having a bad day.”

“A bad brain,” Tina corrected, eyes red-rimmed; she cried when she was worried, a terrible trait for a spy to have. “What’s wrong with him?”

What isn’t , Sebastian wanted to say, but it felt mean, so he tamped it down.

Blaine needed support right now, not judgement. Now if only Sebastian could give him the former when Blaine seemed to expect only the latter, running from each open hand like he expected a slap. What did they do to you , he thought to the absence of Blaine. Just how deep under your skin did they get?

--

Despite people claiming Blaine was on his way to a government blacksite to be locked away for treason, he was at breakfast the next day. He looked as small as ever, though, and with each hissed piece of gossip he shrank further.

Screw it , Sebastian thought, before picking up his tray and going to sit next to Blaine, setting his tray down with a clatter; Blaine’s eyes widened and he flinched back.

“Morning, tiger. Wonderful day in the neighbourhood, isn’t it?”

Blaine stared a few seconds before responding. “No, it’s not.”

“Aw. What’s going you down?”

Blaine’s expression twisted bitterly. “What do you think?”

“What, choking out St. James? We’ve all wanted to do that. He used to make us do vocal drills while we ran marathons.”

“What …” Blaine frowned. “Vocal drills? Like … left, right, left, right?”

“Songs. Marching ones, but he threw in some Top 40 when he felt creative.”

“Why on earth ..?”

“Music is deeply embedded in our brains. Connected to memory, our senses, our whole nervous system. Well -- according to him. So it’s probably bullshit.”

“I think I actually read something about that once in Scientific American .” Blaine’s eyes lit up with an old, familiar glow. Sebastian smiled fondly.

“You’re cute -- for a geek.”

“Hey …” Blaine laughed briefly, but it faded soon after, his whole form seemed to fade, like an overexposed photograph. “I have to see Dr. Jesse.”

“To apologize?”

“No. Well, yes. But.” Blaine took a deep breath, lowered his voice. “I have to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“I have to. Like a, a … therapy thing.”

“For the PTSD?”

Blaine blinked. “How do you know I have that?”

Sebastian stared at him, eyebrow raised silently. Blaine ducked his head, cheeks burning.

“You deserve help,” Sebastian finally said, reaching over to squeeze Blaine’s hand. He was heartened when Blaine didn’t immediately yank his hand away.

“I do?” Blaine shook his head. “I ...”

“Just try it out,” Sebastian urged. “Okay?”

“... Okay.”

--

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence.

It was the last time they ate together for a while: Blaine went back to avoiding him.

Sebastian tried not to let that hurt.

--

Weeks passed. Nearly three. Nineteen days.

Blaine’s sessions with St. James had to be paying off. He finally started to put on some weight again, and he walked a little taller. He was still withdrawn, but it was in this contemplative way. Doubtless, he had a lot to think about. Sebastian frequently puzzled over what secrets of the summer were locked behind Blaine’s deep glacier of silence; maybe Sebastian and their friends didn’t have the clearance to know. At least Blaine had someone he could talk to now.

Santana reported, however, that Blaine had started sleepwalking. That one night he’d come right to her, Tina, and Quinn’s room and knocked on it without even realizing he was there.

“Whatever Dr. Jesse is doing, I wish he’d do faster,” she had snarled.

Quinn later told him as they studied in the library together that Santana and Blaine had gotten into a huge blow-out after this late night visit. That ugly things were shouted from both sides, blame and insults and cold dismissals.

“Blaine’s gotten meaner,” Quinn finished off with.

“I don’t think so,” Sebastian said, and Quinn gave him a look

“You’re a little biased, aren’t you?”

Sebastian was suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We all know how you feel about him,” Quinn said pointedly.

Sebastian scowled. Oh great. Relationship talk. “I’d argue he doesn’t.”

Quinn set her books aside and leaned in. “You can’t honestly think that,” she said, like she thought Sebastian was telling an amateur lie.

Sebastian, feeling stupid and sulky and childish, slumped in his chair. “I’m just his buddy .”

“Look at this.” Quinn pointed to his scar; he caught her wrist, squeezing, but she didn’t flinch. “You were willing to die for him.”

Sebastian glared. “So?”

“ So ,” Quinn said, “don’t you think he knows that?”

Sebastian shrugged, not meeting her eye. Quinn shook her head and tugged her hand away.

“ Boys ,” she dismissed with a sniff. “All I’m saying is, there’s a reason Blaine didn’t take any of us, especially you, with him.”

“He should have, though,” Sebastian said, a little hoarser than he intended.

“Yeah.” Quinn sighed. “He should have.”

--

“Sebastian.”

He turned. St. James approached. His neck had healed up, voice clear as ever.

“What’s up, doc?”

“We’re going on a field trip.”

Sebastian stiffened. “To Carmel?”

“No.” St. James shook his head. “That’s crazy, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t do crazy.”

“You’re a shrink.”

“Other people’s crazy is fun.” St. James smirked. “No, we’re going to Clarington’s cabin.”

“What? Why?”

Hunter had a cabin hide-out, only a few hours away. Sebastian had been only once, and immediately decided he’d never live outside a city. There were, like, bugs out there.

“For Blaine Anderson’s treatment.”

“His ... what?”

“We know he stopped by there before he took off on his little jaunt --”

“They investigated. Said there was nothing there.”

Sebastian had been in Buenos Aires at the time, not with the Lopezes, not with anyone, two weeks to chase his own, personal leads.

“Yes, but we’re hoping that if we take Blaine there it will bring something back.”

“Why would he need stuff brought back?”

St. James tilted his head to the side, actually smirking. The dick. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“He doesn't remember what he did over the summer,” St. James said. “Not a thing. The last thing he remembers is leaving Dalton -- everything after that is gone until he woke in a convent in the Alps in September.”

“The Alps ?” Sebastian gaped. “He has amnesia ?”

“Trauma can do that to a person.”

“Why didn’t he …”

“Say something?” St. James shrugged. “He’s a very private individual, isn’t he? You have to admire it. I hate when people talk about themselves too much. I’ve personally been called stoic yet charming in a Clark Gable kind of way ...”

“Again, you’re a shrink. People are supposed to whine at you.”

St. James dismissed that with a wave of his hand.

“Just get ready to leave tomorrow morning for the cabin.”

“Why am I coming?”

Had Blaine asked for him? Hope bubbled up.

“I’m your handler. Sebastian. Where I go, you go.”

Sebastian nodded, and suppressed his disappointment.

--

Early next morning, Sebastian Dean Anderson, Cooper, St. James, Blaine, and the girls piled into a van for the drive to Hunter’s cabin.

As he slumped back in his corner, earbuds in but music quiet, Sebastian observed how Blaine interacted with his friends.

Tina was full of false cheer, trying to offer possible amnesia cures and reassuring Blaine that it was only a matter of time until something sparked.

Quinn was as level-headed as ever, talking about assignments and gossip about other students, treating this like any other op.

Santana was fiery and icy at turns; either making snide comments about Blaine’s decision not to tell them about his amnesia or freezing him out.

Blaine all but ignored them, answering only the most direct questions and then only in short, clipped phrases. He kept looking at St. James, who gave him a reassuring nod or two that helped Blaine settle down.

Sebastian wondered what, exactly, they discussed in therapy.

Was Blaine only bothered by the fact that he couldn’t remember what to be bothered by? Or was there more going on than St. James had let on to? Were there flashes of memory? Scars that told a story? New information found?

Hopefully the cabin would provide answers.

--

Sebastian let everyone enter first in case of ambush (some habits died hard; particularly when they worth keeping alive to keep you alive) and circled the cabin, looking around at the quiet woods.

It actually felt too quiet, but that was likely down to their presence; a big old van driving up tended to scare off the critters who saw human activity very rarely. Still, he wanted out of there ASAP. Isolated spots like this were great for assassins to work in. When your target has nowhere to run, no one to help them, they’re more likely to give up.

Another lesson: Every spy who dies gave up in some way. There’s always a way out.

When he finally joined the group, they were reviewing Hunter’s security tapes, watching the recordings of Blaine’s visit. It was mundane things, making dinner, reading, adding to his go bag. At the end of the tape, Video Blaine noticed the camera and destroyed it. Smart. Not useful for them now, but smart.

Cooper leaned back, kicked his feet up, tucked his hands behind his head; Sebastian wondered if he’d been to Hunter’s cabin before, or if he just treated everywhere like his own personal abode.

“Tell us why you came here, Squirt.”

“I don’t know,” Blaine snapped; Sebastian was sure everyone noticed the nervous energy building up in his tense shoulders. “I don’t remember .”

“Not what I asked. Why, of all the places you could go, would you come here?”

Blaine looked around the cabin, taking a few deep breaths. Sebastian followed his gaze, frowning. Something wasn’t right …

“I left without supplies, without a plan. I had to go somewhere I knew to prepare.”

“Hunter’s stash was half-empty,” the dean confirmed. “Money, papers, weapons, all gone.”

There was a brief silence laid over with the memory of Blaine easily assembling that semi-automatic in CoveOps; Blaine looked ill.

“Was this really the only place?” Quinn asked hastily. “It seems too obvious.”

“Maybe there was something else …” Blaine made a frustrated sound. “Mr. Clarington hid so much from us.”

And right then, they couldn’t ask the man for help. Sebastian kept looking, determined that when Hunter woke up he would hear Sebastian had done good work, and then with a raise of his eyebrow he spotted something.

“Sebastian?” Sebastian looked over. The dean was looking expectantly at him. “What do you see?”

Sebastian went to one spot in the wall he’d noticed, a paler knot of wood, and pressed with his hand, running it along the faint seam that appeared. He hit a pressure point, pushed, and then pried the loose board free. The hiding spot behind it was empty.

Cooper frowned. “What was in there?”

“I don’t know,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“If only Mr. Clarington was awake --”

“That isn’t Hunter’s hiding spot,” the dean said, voice soft. “That was … the kind Dan always used.”

They all fell silent, staring at the hole. Its dark rectangle looked almost coffin-like now, an omen from the past. Blaine stepped forward, jaw tight, and reached inside, running his fingers in search of something, anything . This close, Sebastian could smell the Dalton-issued soap he’d used in the shower, except Blaine had never used to be standard anything. So much had changed ...

“I must have found whatever it was,” Blaine said, turning on them, a little wild-eyed. “It was dad’s … it was probably about the Circle!”

“Are you remembering anything?” Tina asked eagerly, but Blaine shook his head impatiently.

“No, no but it had to have been!”

“I don’t know what Dan would have hid there,” the dean said, doubtful.

“And now we’ll never know.” Blaine started to pace, his excitement faded into furrowed brows and tense, jumping fingers. “I lost whatever it was, just like I lost his journal.”

“It isn’t your fault, sweetie,” the dean said, Cooper nodding and reaching out, but Blaine jumped away from their reassurance.

“Yes it is!” Blaine ran a and through his bleached curls. “I ran away, I took them, they got lost, it’s all my fault .”

“Calm down Blaine,” St. James tried, voice gentler than Sebastian had ever heard from him before, but it just set Blaine off. With a final, almost animalistic sound he spun and marched off, shoving the door open and leaving it swinging behind him as he headed for the woods.

“I don’t know about all you,” Santana said, “but I’m getting real sick of pint-sized Jason Bourne there flouncing off!” She headed for the door too, shouting, “GET BACK HERE, PUSSY!”

Tina and Quinn made to follow, but St. James touched their shoulders.

“Let them work it out,” he said. Cooper took his mother by the arm, sitting her down at Hunter’s small table and murmuring to her and rubbing her back; she looked a little shaken. Sebastian, tired of the tension and feeling restless, headed to the door but St. James tried to stop him too. “Sebastian …”

“No worries, doc,” Sebastian threw over his shoulder. “I’m going to walk the perimeter. Leave the emotional blowouts to people who have feelings.”

St. James let him go, looking like he’d roll his eyes if he were a decade younger, and Sebastian was soon wandering the woods. It was cool out there, late autumn bringing colourful leaves down to paint a thick springy carpet across the forest floor. It was still quiet, but at least some birds were chirping their little songs. At one point Sebastian spotted one of Hunter’s traps; a thin wire stretching ankle-height between two trees, no doubt connected to an incendiary or a sawed-off shotgun.

Chuckling -- the mean old dog could keep biting even in a coma -- he stepped over it and continued deeper in the wood. It was almost … peaceful.

Maybe some time living alone wouldn’t be so bad. Last time he’d been here he’d been so angry it was hard to appreciate the silent beauty of the trees, the rise and fall of the hills, the crisp, clean quality of the air …

A gunshot sounded.

Sebastian straightened, looking around with narrowed eyes, ears pricked.

Rifle. Hunting one. But he doubted it was someone after game. At least, not the animal kind.

Still keeping watch, he crouched, retrieving the blade he kept strapped to his ankle. Hiding even a single weapon from the keen eyes of the Dalton staff was a feat worthy of the best agent out there, but Sebastian was glad for the effort as he palmed the blade and began a slow stalk through the woods. They were likely shooting at Santana and Blaine. Only one shot; unless it had been very lucky, at least one was still alive.

Another gunshot. Scratch that.

Judging by how it echoed, at least seventy yards away. South. Wind was blowing that way; good. It would cover his approach.

Walking carefully, not making a sound, he headed back toward the cabin.

A third gunshot. Maybe the gunman wasn’t having any luck.

Was that Santana, shouting Blaine’s name? He eyed the hill between him and the gunshots and started to climb. He reached the top before long, peering over cautiously.

Fourth gunshot. Different weapon. A shotgun. Hunter’s trap? More to the west. Thirty yards.

Sebastian resisted the urge to run. Kept his even pace, his breathing steady. As he got closer he slipped behind a tree. Listened. A murmur of voices. That was St. James:

“I was worried about you, Blaine, I came to check on you -- ah , don’t poke it, I’ll just keep the pressure on, done this a hundred times before …”

Then, Blaine: “It’ll be okay Dr. Jesse, don’t worry.” Voice low. Alert. Keeping watch.

Blaine was alive. That was good. There was no relief, though. There was nothing but his training. Where was the assailant?

“Watch out!” St. James suddenly shouted.

Grunts. Skin meeting skin. Close combat. The gunman must have been disarmed. Ten yards.

Sebastian looked around the tree slowly. There was a strange man dressed in camo meeting Santana blow for blow -- but good as she was she had little real-life experience. Sebastian stepped out, ready to help. The gunman dropped Santana, was drawing his hand back, something glinting in his hold. Sebastian was running, his own blade ready, bury it into the thick web of muscle in his back, twist, get him to drop the knife, jerk it out, grab his head, yank it back, slit his throat --

Fifth gunshot. The rifle. The gunman fell back, gurgling wetly. Hit the ground. Went still.

Sebastian looked up. Blaine stood there, stance braced, rifle trained on the dead assailant. Sebastian exhaled slowly.

“Blaine!”

Tina and Quinn were suddenly there; Quinn went to help St. James, whose arm was bleeding from a starburst shotgun blast pattern; Tina took one look at the body and started to gag, turning to a bush as her shoulders heaved. Blaine kept the gun steady. Santana crawled away from the body, eyes wide, face splattered red. Sebastian tucked his knife away then approached from the side. Movements calm and steady, but loud enough to announce his presence.

Blaine didn’t so much as twitch.

“Blaine.” Sebastian reached out, curled his hand around the warm barrel of the rifle. “Put the gun down.”

Blaine blinked slowly, but otherwise gave no indication he’d heard Sebastian.

“Blainey!” That was Cooper. “Put down the gun. It’s safe now.”

Blaine flinched, and hesitantly lowered the weapon. Sebastian took it, though he didn’t bear the familiar weight long before Cooper was claiming it. Sebastian released it gladly; he didn’t think Cooper trusted him with a weapon, but he didn’t blame the guy.

“We need to go,” Sebastian said, watching the way Blaine’s gaze remained glued to the man he’d killed. “He might have back-up.”

Cooper nodded, wrapping an arm around Blaine. He tugged his little brother away to join Quinn and St. James, as their mother came to hug Blaine from the other side, a worried hand cupping his face. Sebastian’s gaze lingered on Blaine a moment longer, then he looked for Santana and Tina. Santana had run a hand over her face; the blood was smeared. Crouching, she was running her hands over the corpse.

“Santana,” he said sharply as he came over. “Leave it.”

“He might have something on him --”

“He’s a professional. He won’t have anything except backup. Unless you want to die, move .”

Santana nodded and rose, but still needed Sebastian to tug her arm and direct her to the waiting group, St. James and Quinn meeting her halfway there and murmuring to her, Quinn taking her by the hand. All that was left was Tina, who was staring not at the body but Blaine, face pale.

“Come on, Cohen-Chang. Move it.”

“Blaine killed him,” Tina said weakly. “He killed him.”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. Tina looked at him, mouth wobbling dangerously. God help him if she started to cry. Blaine would probably get mad at him if he slapped her. “You see that body? He wasn’t a good man. He deserved to die. We’re happy he’s dead. Understood?”

“We’re … happy …?”

“Yes, happy.” Sebastian nodded, and Tina automatically nodded too. Satisfied he had her, he touched her shoulder and showed her along.

They left the body in the woods. A clean up crew would be by later.

It would be like it had never happened.

--

Someone knocked on his door.

Sebastian considered ignoring it, his hand sliding down to his ankle knife.

“Sebastian, it’s me. Pam.”

He couldn’t shut out the school’s dean and mother to his -- well, whatever the hell Blaine was to him.

“Come in.”

He got up, moving out of the way of a direct attack. She entered, shutting the door behind her. She zeroed in on his placement in the room.

“You’re a very careful boy, aren’t you Sebastian?”

“All Carmel students are, Dean.”

She looked around and he knew what she saw. How bare his quarters were, how he had covered up the window. No tells or sightlines made for a cosy room, if you asked Sebastian.

“Please, call me Pam.”

That was informal. Insubordinate . “Are you sure?”

“You’re more than just a student, dear.” Now her trained gaze gave him a once-over. “Are you okay?”

Sebastian crossed his arms. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s been a stressful time for you.”

“It’s been a stressful time for you too,” he countered.

“These are stressful times,” she agreed, smoothing down her dress. She was nervous. “I’m worried about Blaine.”

Sebastian relaxed. They had that in common. “We all are. Pam.”

“He’s not -- right. He loses time. He doesn’t remember the things he’s doing. He sleepwalks. I know PTSD. Every agent knows that. But this …”

Sebastian nodded slowly. “Does he need deprogramming?”

“I don’t know. We’re not sure what he’s been programmed for .”

That seemed obvious to Sebastian. “To serve the Circle.”

“But how? Why? We don’t know these things.” She frowned, then waved a hand. “But that’s talk for a higher clearance. I need to ask a favour of you, Sebastian.”

“You could just order me.”

“You’re more than just a student,” she repeated, then smiled crookedly. “And I don’t think you’re so good at doing what you’re told.”

Sebastian smirked at that. It was true, and damned if he didn’t take it as a compliment.

“So what’s this favour?”

“We’re holding a meeting tomorrow morning. I want it to remain undisturbed.”

Sebastian saw through that.

“They’re going to talk about Blaine. About whether he’s been compromised. You don’t want him knowing about it.”

She nodded, almost shame-faced. “I’m going to tell them they’re wrong.”

“I’ll do it,” Sebastian said. “The last thing Blaine needs is to hear people doubting him.”

“I’m glad you understand.” She looked up at him, gaze sincere. “I’m asking because I know you look out for him.”

“I try. When he lets me.”

Pam smiled, gave his hand a squeeze, and left.

--

Blaine and his mother were very close.

Sebastian thought it was sweet. Sometimes he was jealous, admittedly. His dad had been a mystery to him, and his mother would never win any parenting awards.

But Blaine deserved a good relationship with his mother. Especially after losing his dad. Danilo Anderson was dead, Sebastian was sure of that, but after ninety days of having no clue where Blaine was he better understood why Blaine clung to the things he did.

His mother. His dad’s journal. His dad’s noble quest. And … his dad’s empty grave.

Maybe if there had been a body, Blaine wouldn’t have run away. Maybe he wouldn’t be so damned secretive. Maybe he would have given up on chasing the Circle.

Maybe he would be safe.

--

Next morning, two days after the incident in the woods, Sebastian caught up with Blaine in one of the study rooms.

All thoughts of Pam’s favour briefly flew from his mind at the sight of him. Oh, he could tell Blaine somehow knew about the meeting and was off to investigate. But sometime since the woods Blaine had cut his hair, dyed it black, and gotten back to gelling it. With his weight and colour returning he looked halfway to normal.

You just had to ignore the look of quiet horror in his eyes.

“Looking good, sexy.”

Blaine looked over, blushed. Touched his hair. “Quinn and Tina helped dye it back.”

“They do good work.”

Sebastian came over and ran a finger over the curve of Blaine’s ear, and Blaine’s lashes lowered briefly at the touch. Sebastian wished he could kiss him, but now wasn’t the time.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m an early riser. Wanted to get some studying done.”

Blaine stepped away. “Without books?”

Sebastian smiled innocently. “What kind of spy carries books?”

“My mom sent you, didn’t she?” Blaine scowled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“So you’re not going to see what’s up with those two limos that just drove up?”

Blaine glared at him then turned and approached the unlit fireplace. He ran his fingers along the mantle, and there was a distinctive click. The fireplace slid back into the wall and then to the side with a grinding sound, revealing a dark hole in the wall.

Dalton’s secret passageways. You had to love them.

“You shouldn’t go,” Sebastian told him. “Some things you aren’t meant to hear, tiger.”

Blaine continued to ignore him, and dove into the passage. Sebastian followed him, stooping. It was a low ceiling, and as the fireplace moved back into place behind them it became pitch-black, like they’d been swallowed by a giant lazy snake. But he could hear Blaine’s breathing, and he trusted the guy who had all but lived at Dalton since he was twelve and knew all its secrets to lead the way.

“We’re heading … west,” Sebastian said. “This leads to Hunter’s room.”

“Yeah.” Blaine finally spoke, voice echoing. “I wish he would wake up …”

“He will,” Sebastian said confidently. “Just you wait.”

A long silence. Then, “I wish I had your faith.”

“I’m no believer,” Sebastian told him with a snort. “I’m just very good at people.”

“Was that your specialty? At Carmel?”

Blaine hadn’t learned from Sebastian about the training Carmel did. He learned it from Hunter when they’d been sneaking into the institute’s grounds, and he hadn’t been happy to hear it (relatively) second-hand. He also knew Blaine struggled with the idea of Sebastian’s bloody destiny, which was why Sebastian hadn’t wanted to tell him.

“You don’t want to know what my specialty was.”

Blaine fell silent again. They came to another passageway after Blaine pushed open a sliding panel. This path was lit, and familiar; left led to Hunter’s room (Sebastian could hear the beep, beep, beep from here) but Blaine went right. They were headed for the dean’s office. Along the way Blaine began to hum to himself, a tune Sebastian couldn’t quite place.

Hopefully he was thinking this crazy plan over, but knowing Blaine, he wasn’t.

“Pam really didn’t want you to hear this, Nancy Drew,” Sebastian said, once they were close.

Blaine sent him an unreadable look. “Since when do you call my mother ‘Pam’?”

“Since she asked me too. What can I say? I’m catnip to the Anderson clan.”

Blaine grimaced, then ordered: “Hush.”

Sebastian smirked. “Can’t handle the truth?”

“No, hush, we’re nearly there.”

Sebastian sighed, but obeyed. He didn’t want to get Blaine in trouble, or Pam knowing he failed his mission. He joined Blaine against the wall, where Blaine was pressed against pinprick holes that led into the dean’s room.

Knowing it was a bad idea, Sebastian listened in too.

--

“Where the Circle is involved, the CIA always has a leak.”

“The real concern is the fact that that boy is always leaving school grounds.”

“Blaine is not the problem.”

“We should be asking less if it’s dangerous for him to leave … but if it’s dangerous for him to stay.”

“Blaine is not dangerous.”

“The corpse sitting in the morgue at Langley might care to disagree.”

“That was self-defense!”

“ This time.”

“And the Circle wants to kill him. They’ve decided he’s finally disposable. Danger is following him no matter what.”

“He’s a threat no matter what. He’s been compromised --”

“We don’t know that!”

“When the Circle had him --”

“ If the Circle had him --”

“Maybe they never had him. Maybe they sent him back. Sent him back with an agenda.”

“Blaine is no double agent.”

“We don’t know anything, Pamela. Your son ran away, and I think we’re all very interested in exactly who came back.”

--

Blaine was running again. Sebastian, exasperated, chased him.

Through the passage, up a narrow zigzagging flight of stairs, to a gable room with a window with a large stained glass design akin to the school crest. It painted the room blues and reds with pale dawn light. Blaine was pacing, and Sebastian sighed, relieved to see he had stopped.

“If you run out of every situation, it ruins the drama of it, you know.”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Sebastian.”

“That wasn’t a joke. It was a pithy observation.”

Blaine looked like he wanted to drag his hands through his hair but he remembered it was now gelled. Instead he left his hands hovering in the air and turned on Sebastian to snap, “Why are you even here?”

“Well, I wanted to go to Vegas and count cards, but according to the government I need a high school diploma.”

“Be serious!” Blaine ordered, almost desperate, a streak of red light across his eyes. “For once, can you just answer a damn question?”

“What, exactly, is the question?”

“Why did you follow me!”

“Because I wanted to.” Sebastian stepped closer; Blaine stepped back. A purgatory of a dance. “Because you needed me to.”

“I don’t need that,” Blaine insisted, arms wrapping around himself.

“Yes you do.” Sebastian smiled, a little weakly. “Who else will let you yell at them like this?”

Blaine flinched, shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’m not mad at you,” he said, voice briefly retreating from his angry tones, revealing vulnerability underneath. “Not really. I’m -- I’m furious with myself.”

“Why?”

Blaine’s anger returned, drifting even further into the array of red. Further away from Sebastian.

“I killed someone.”

Sebastian refused to let that stand. “And why did you do that?”

Blaine glanced away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re not stupid, killer , so don’t act like it.”

Blaine stepped back like he’d been slapped, jaw dropping. “Don’t call me that!”

“I thought that’s what you were,” Sebastian sneered. “A killer. No if s, and s, or but s.”

“I --”

“ Or ,” Sebastian continued, overriding him, tone gentling, “you had a reason. What was that reason?”

Blaine’s shoulders slumped. “To save Santana.” He started to pace, weaving in and out of the colours, energy rolling off him in waves. Sebastian, seeing he’d found a fracture point, continued to hammer it.

“So do you think shooting someone to save a friend is the exact same as the person you shot hunting two teenagers through the woods?”

“No!” Blaine ran a hand over his face, mumbled something against his hand, before he dropped it to continue aloud. “But I still did it. And I -- I don’t want to justify it.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To not be a killer. To not have that man’s and god knows who else’s blood on my hands!”

Sebastian walked up to Blaine, curled his hands around his shoulders, squeezing when Blaine flinched. He looked down at Blaine, trying for stern but landing on sad. “Then tell me: why didn’t you let me do it?”

Blaine’s breath caught. “What?”

“I would have killed him. I was going to kill him.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I would kill anyone for you.”

It wasn’t a huge declaration to Sebastian. It was simply a fact.

Blaine shook his head, denial crossing his features, mouth working silently for a moment. “You wouldn’t --”

“I would.”

“Does killing not matter to you?” Blaine tried to tug himself away, but Sebastian didn’t let go. “Is it that -- that meaningless ?”

“No,” Sebastian said, a brief flare of his own anger curled in his gut. “It matters. I know it matters.”

Blaine’s eyes widened, and they took Sebastian in as if seeing him for the first time. As if remembering just how Sebastian had earned his perspective. It changed something in him, unsteady and broken free.

“I don’t even remember doing it,” Blaine finally confessed.

“Killing him?”

Blaine nodded. “Or -- or picking up the gun. We were in the woods and he attacked and then -- you were there, taking the gun away.” He exhaled shakily. “You were there the whole time, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“You’re always there …”

Sebastian said nothing. Blaine pulled away from his grasp and this time Sebastian let him go, watching the antsy clench and release of Blaine’s fists, dappled in blues and greens.

“I don’t remember doing it …” he spoke quietly. Then: “They’re right.”

Sebastian bit back an aggravated sound. “They aren’t right.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because they don’t know you.”

“And you, and mom, and Cooper, and my friends …” Blaine listed off each one like they hurt. “They’re all too close to this. To me .”

“Right.” Sebastian pointed vaguely in the direction of the office. “What the hell do you think their opinion on me is? Would you listen to that?”

It occurred to him Blaine very well could, but it was too late. The words were already out there.

“No …” Blaine turned back, and then his hand was there, sliding along Sebastian’s neck, fingertips tracing the line of his scar. Sebastian shivered. “But you’ve proven yourself.”

“So have you.” Sebastian caught Blaine’s hand, drew it to his mouth, kissed his fingertips. Blaine breathed in, out. Wet his lips. Looked away, then back. Asked:

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Never.”

Blaine’s expression crumpled. “I wish I had that faith in myself.”

“Until you do, you have me,” Sebastian promised, and then suddenly Blaine was pressed against him, a surging wall of heat that zeroed in on their joined mouths as they kissed, a deep kiss, the kind they hadn’t shared since Blaine had run away. Sebastian let go of Blaine just to draw him closer, arms around him, hand pressed against the wing of Blaine’s still too-sharp backbone, sure he could feel his beating heart through the clothes and skin and muscle and bone. Blaine shuddered in his arms, pulled back, pressed his forehead to Sebastian’s chin.

“Don’t go,” he asked, so low Sebastian almost didn’t hear.

It wasn’t the kind of promise spies could make. Sebastian didn’t care.

“I won’t,” Sebastian replied, and he wanted to ask the same, wanted to remind Blaine that he was the one who always did the leaving, but he knew it wasn’t important. Blaine had asked, and in doing so, he’d made what he needed clear.

Sebastian kissed him again, and despite everything, things felt -- right.

--

Sebastian wasn’t even sure how many days it had been since he and Blaine first met.

It had become a matter of countlessness based purely on the fact that Sebastian had no plans to ever say goodbye. What was the point of keeping track?

So he could be forgiven for a bit of exaggeration when he said that it had been forever and a half of them dancing around each other to finally, finally be -- official.

Official … boyfriends? Jesus.

Whatever you would call it. Sebastian had certainly never done this before, and Blaine’s one try at it hadn’t been so hot, so they were both just fumbling along.

Well. Fumbling could be nice. Thank god they both had single dorms.

--

Sebastian was in the middle of learning all the pretty little sounds he could coax out of Blaine without their clothes coming off when a knock came to the door.

“Blainey Days!”

“Go away,” Sebastian growled, then added to Blaine, “I knew we should have gone to my room.”

“Your room creeps me out. I feel nervous about snipers.”

“The whole point of the window being covered is so you aren’t nervous.”

“Yeah, it has the opposite effect.”

The door swung open. Sebastian groaned and rolled off Blaine, who sat up, adjusting his shirt and tugging a pillow over his lap.

“Took you that long to pick a lock?” Sebastian asked, sitting up himself. Tina glared as she tucked her hairpins away

“I was giving you time to get decent.”

“Sebastian? Decent? Now there’s a joke.” Santana followed Tina in, with Quinn, who laughed at her comment.

“I don’t recall inviting the peanut gallery,” Sebastian complained.

“Your loss,” Santana said, and perched herself on Blaine’s desk. “We have a surprise for you.”

“And it couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Yeah guys,” Blaine said. “You know I love you all but it’s nearly midnight.”

Tina took a deep breath. “It’s about your summer away.”

That chilled the mood. Sebastian got to his feet, arms crossing as he hovered over Tina.

“What is it?”

Tina flinched.

“Sebastian?” He looked at Santana. “Back off.”

Her tone was understanding. Sebastian took a deep breath, nodded, and sat back on the bed. Blaine grabbed his hand, and squeezed it.

“What did you find, Tina?” Blaine asked.

“Remember when we were at Mr. Clarington’s cabin?” Tina reached into the bag she’d brought and pulled out a stack of … flyers. “I grabbed his mail before we left. I thought, I don’t know, there would be a clue.”

“And she’s just nosy,” Quinn said; Tina threw a flyer at her, then handed Blaine an envelope on top of the stack. Blaine gasped.

Sebastian leaned over, and his eyebrows went up.

The letter was addressed to Hunter (under an alias) and judging by the postage it came from Rome. And the sender was … Blaine Anderson.

“Are we sure this is yours?”

“Oh, definitely,” Tina said. “I’d recognize Blaine’s cute little loops anywhere.”

Sebastian didn’t recognize Blaine’s handwriting. That was an oversight. He’d fix it.

Blaine took a deep breath.

“We should take this to my mom.”

--

The letter contained … souvenirs. A handsome watch for Blaine, a necklace for his mom.

Still, it was all they had. And it served as an arrow, pointing the way. Blaine was going to Rome to see what it sparked in his memory. Going with him was Cooper, his friends, and Agent Crawford, who was an MI6 agent Sebastian had never met though he knew him by reputation.

Sebastian would not get a chance to meet him, because Sebastian was not allowed to go.

“Blainey’s not the only one the Circle wants to get a hold of,” Cooper pointed out. “And Sebastian’s not allowed to go anywhere without St. James, but we can’t make this an official trip.”

So Sebastian was once again left behind as Blaine jetted off.

This time though? He wasn’t taking it lying down.

--

Rome was beautiful. He almost appreciated it.

Last time he’d been here, he had been with Hunter. He’d been taught about the world of art crime in between hunting down their enemies, touring galleries and museums and getting lessons on actual art on the side. He liked that about Hunter. No one would ever call him nice , but he saw that Sebastian lacked education in the finer things in life, and found a way to teach him that wasn’t condescending.

Before that, his last trip to Rome had been with his mom. She’d handed him a pair of pliers and told him, “I’ll hold him down while you do the work. ”

Hell of a thirteenth birthday present, that was for sure.

Sebastian shook off the memories. He had tracked Blaine down to their safehouse, and sat outside for hours, perched on the roof opposite. But night had fallen and the lights were off so everyone was likely asleep. He was thinking about going for a walk to stretch his legs when the front door swung open. Sebastian shrank back down. Blaine was leaving, but something wasn’t right. His gait was slow and awkward, and his clothes looked wrong (Sebastian was like, 99% sure that was Tina’s shirt. Blaine didn’t wear skulls.)

Sleepwalking . Blaine was in the habit now.

With a sigh, Sebastian climbed down the fire escape and followed Blaine, leaving some space as he tailed him. He didn’t exactly want Blaine to know he was in town, because then Cooper and Agent Crawford would send him right back. Blaine might also call him clingy .

So. Healthy distance. Sebastian followed for nearly six blocks, Blaine wandering the sidewalks, seemingly aimlessly. All seemed fine ...

Then Blaine walked right into oncoming traffic. Jesus christ .

“Blaine!”

Sebastian broke into a run, legs eating up the distance between them in a few breaths as horns blared until he could slam into Blaine, grabbing him and yanking him back onto the sidewalk. They fell down in a painful tangle, and Blaine made a groggy sound.

“Sebastian ..?”

“Jeez, babe,” he said, a little winded. “You were never taught to look both ways?”

“Where are we ?” Blaine sat up, frowning down at him. “Why aren’t you at school?”

Sebastian only raised his eyebrows, and with a sigh Blaine clambered off him, offering Sebastian a hand up. As he got up, Blaine abruptly asked,

“Where were you those two weeks in summer?”

Sebastian’s eyebrows stayed up. “How did you hear about that?”

“Santana told me. Where were you?”

Blaine was sounding distrustful. Sebastian didn’t like that.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I was with someone in Rome, apparently, some guy --”

“Some guy?” Sebastian scowled against a burst of stupid, petty jealousy. “Hot date?”

Blaine frowned back. “It wasn’t you?”

“No. If I found you, you really think I’d have let you run off again?” Sebastian shook his head. “I … went looking for my mom. Bad idea. Okay?”

Blaine stared at him inscrutably, gaze still a little muggy with sleep, then nodded.

“Fine.” Blaine looked around him, orienteering himself and humming thoughtfully, and then started to walk. Away from the safehouse. Sebastian caught up again, baffled and tired.

“Where are you going?”

“This way.”

“The safehouse is the other way.”

“I have to go this way …”

Blaine sounded out of it; Sebastian peered into his eyes, but he was awake, if a little dreamy-eyed. Lost in thought? In memory ?

Shrugging, Sebastian decided to go with it.

--

Blaine led them to the U.S. Embassy. Of course he did.

Blaine input the code to one of the gates like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Blaine saw the guy who stepped out to greet them (tall, blond, mouth ) and smiled widely before shouting “Sam!” and moving to hug him.

Sebastian stepped between them, eyeing the guy suspiciously.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Sam Evans.” The guy grinned, offering Sebastian a hand. “You must be Sebastian Smythe. Cool.”

Sebastian did not shake that hand, gaze analytically scanning this Sam for any kind of weapon. Muscular, but not a fighter’s body. Sebastian could take him. Low blow first, then go for the neck --

“Sebastian,” Blaine touched his elbow. “Sam is an old friend.”

“How --” Sebastian thought about it. “Your dad ran for president.” He smirked. “And lost. Russell Fabray was his running mate.”

“He and Quinn, you know,” Blaine offered lowly.

“What? Fucked?”

“Sebastian,” Blaine hissed as Sam made a face that made it clear he never got any. Sebastian experienced unwanted sympathy. “They dated .”

“Blaine and his friends were there on the campaign,” Sam explained. “And then I bumped into him here and I was like, Whoa .”

Sebastian stared. Was that … a Keanu impersonation?

“So I was here?” Blaine’s eyes widened excitedly. “In the summer?”

Running footsteps. Sebastian turned. A man was coming up fast, gun drawn.

“Yeah, of course dude! It was --”

Sebastian moved instantly, putting Blaine behind him. He could use Sam as a buffer if need be. Shift Blaine behind Sam, charge from the right -- the man was leading from the left. Slightly uneven steps. Bum leg? Aim for that.

“FREEZE!”

No, Sam would run. Blaine needed to move too.

“ Run!”

Sebastian took a step forward (get the leg, trip him, hit to the shoulder so he dropped his gun) but Blaine grabbed his elbow.

“Sebastian! Stop!”

Stop? Why the hell would he stop? But -- the man did. Lowered his gun.

“Sebastian?” he asked, in a crisp London accent. “This is Sebastian Smythe?”

“What the hell’s it to you?”

“Sebastian,” Blaine said, now almost amused. “This is Agent Crawford. My ... chaperone.”

Ah. So Sebastian was busted. Too bad; he was kind of looking forward to sneaking around.

--

It turned out all of Blaine’s companions had followed him in various states of dress, and soon everyone was upstairs inside the Embassy.

No background checks. No IDs handed over. No calls to verify their clearance.

Sebastian half-wanted to kill someone just to teach them a lesson. Mindful that crack probably wouldn’t go over too well in present company, Sebastian started to pace the room slowly. It was luxurious, his feet sinking into the pearl carpet with every step.

He used to stay in rooms like these, houses and hotels alike. The Circle paid well, and the Smythes were old money thanks to that. He would ask what blood money had paid for this room, but you just had to pick up a history textbook for that.

He didn’t trust this Sam, though. Everyone treated him like a friend (and Quinn like a long-lost chance) but … politicians . Dwight Evans had nearly been president; that was exactly the kind of man the Circle would buy off. Then he’d become an ambassador after losing ? That implied friends in powerful places. No, Dwight was definitely dirty.

Which left the pertinent question: just what had Dwight taught Sam? Because Sebastian didn’t believe a son could remain ignorant, hands clean, of what his father was doing for long.

He definitely didn’t trust Sam.

So he felt nothing but foreboding when Sam told Blaine:

“You wanted to rob a bank.”

Because then Blaine got a glint to his eye and declared:

“Then we’re going to have to rob a bank.”

--

As the heist planning began, Sebastian ended up by Agent Crawford, who didn’t seem too happy either.

“This is a bad idea,” he told the man, who nodded.

“Very much so.”

“Can’t you tell him no ?” Sebastian asked. “You are mission leader.”

“I believe we must do it, even if it is rather dangerous. This could give us the leg up we need on the Circle.”

“Hmph.” Sebastian crossed his arms. “Just remember tomorrow that I already said I told you so .”

Agent Crawford gave him an amused side-eye.

“You’re quite protective of Blaine, aren’t you?”

Sebastian shrugged. “He needs a lot of protecting.”

He was planning a bank heist , for Pete’s sake.

“I find him to be a very capable young man, actually.”

“Well, he is, but …”

“You love him.”

Sebastian swallowed a strangled sound only thanks to years of training. “He’s … a special guy,” was his weak response. Agent Crawford chuckled.

“I admit, when I heard the son of Camille Smythe was lurking about, I thought for sure it was some kind of trick.”

Sebastian stiffened. “Oh yeah?”

“But I am not so sure now.” Agent Crawford tilted his head. “I have a confession.”

Sebastian looked at him expectantly. This conversation had been incredibly awkward so far; he hoped it wasn’t about to get worse.

“I am acquainted with your mother,” Agent Crawford said slowly. “And … I once tried to kill her.”

Oh, was that all?

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. “Can I make a confession?”

Agent Crawford bowed his head in silent encouragement.

“I wish you hadn’t fucked it up.”

Agent Crawford looked from Sebastian to Blaine (and with his clearance he would have read the reports, known exactly what Camille had both actually and likely done to Blaine) and then looked back, nodding.

“Next time, she won’t be so lucky.”

“Yes,” Sebastian agreed, a hard, cold sense of promise tightening in his gut. “She won’t be.”

--

That night, as he lay awake in the guest room at the embassy Blaine came to him.

“Sebastian?” he asked quietly as he slipped into the dark room. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian extended his arm. “It’s a good idea not to sleep in strange places.”

“Normally I’d call you paranoid, but …”

“Things have changed,” Sebastian filled in for him, and Blaine made a small sound of agreement as he came over. He sank onto the bed and Sebastian curled his arm around him, tugging him down. Blaine lay next to him, face pressed against Sebastian’s shoulder.

“I want to sleep,” Blaine confessed after a few beats as their breathing adjusted to each other, Sebastian actually relaxing. “But I’m scared.”

“I’ll stay awake for you,” Sebastian said, rubbing slow circles on his back.

Blaine kissed his shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured, and Sebastian smiled.

“Hey, like I’d ever say no to sleeping with you …”

Blaine laughed, already sounding sleepier, and gave Sebastian’s chest a light whack.

“The Incorrigible Mr. Smythe …”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

Blaine mumbled something, but after that, he was out like a light.

--

The heist went wrong. Naturally.

Six tense hours after it began Blaine was back at the embassy with nothing but his dad’s journal (which he already had memorized) and a bleeding Ambassador Evans. The Circle tried to ambush them, and they’d barely escaped with their lives.

“I told you so,” he muttered to Agent Crawford, who sent him a reproachful look before going to look over the journal with Blaine.

Then, against all odds, they found something new.

--

It was a letter.

Hidden in the lining of the journal, written by Danilo, and addressed to Pam and their children.

Cooper’s voice shook briefly as he read it aloud to Blaine, who stared at the paper like it was his father, risen from the grave.

Danilo claimed to have hidden a key in the Roman safety deposit box.

(But the box was empty, Blaine had said, except for this journal.)

That wasn’t the part which dictated their next move though. No, that was when Blaine traced his father’s initials at the bottom of the letter than looked to Cooper with frantic urgency.

“We need to get a car,” he said.

“We have no idea where this key is, Squirt,” Cooper had shot back, but Blaine was shaking his head, jumping to his feet.

“Not that. I just -- I know where we need to go. I’m … remembering.”

Tina gasped, which was how they were all feeling probably, and they went to go rent a van.

--

It was a long drive; they drove all night.

Blaine held Sebastian’s hand but didn’t speak to him, staring out the window as he gave Cooper terse directions.

Through here. Turn here. Straight ahead. Right. Left.

It took them out of the city-state, far and away, then up, up, up … the roads became narrow mountainous ones and Blaine’s grip grew clammier in Sebastian’s hand, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sebastian asked, but Blaine was like a man possessed -- not the way he was sometimes since his return, but like a dog with a bone. He just nodded shortly and kept pointing the way. Sebastian didn’t fail to notice that they were in the Alps now; probably not too far from where Blaine had been found all those months ago.

Finally, they ran out of road.

“Are you sure this right?” Cooper asked, but Blaine was already opening the door and climbing out. Uncaring of the snow drifts on the ground he started to walk, mouth set in a firm line.

Sebastian, absently grateful that they were all wearing thick coats, followed a few steps behind. He kept a wary eye on Blaine, half-thinking he was on the verge of collapse. His steps swayed and his breath was ragged -- not used to the altitude, maybe. Was he even in good enough shape for this? It was a strain on Sebastian and he hadn’t recently spent two months being starved and tortured. They should turn back; there would be no clues waiting for them, just confirmations.

“C’mon, mountain man,” Sebastian tried after a half-hour of steady uphill climbing, following what was barely a path, concerned. “Haven’t we gone far enough? There’s nothing to see.”

Blaine pointed to a nearby pine. As if purely to prove Sebastian wrong, a streak of blood marred the bark, and Sebastian swallowed.

They both knew whose blood that was.

He was silent as they continued. It only took another half hour, legs aching and soaked through and wishing he was in a bubbling hot tub right then, but they came across what they were looking for: a crumbling stone building, looking long abandoned. Except there were trees nearby cut not too many months ago, and a pile of fresh firewood out back. No tracks in the snow though. Used recently, but no more.

Nobody needed to say it, staring at the stark grey lines of the building against the clear sky, white snow, and skinny trees, so seemingly unremarkable. This was where Blaine had been over the summer; the place where he had been tortured so thoroughly the shock had lost him his memory.

“I don’t like this,” he told Blaine as Blaine fearlessly approached the house. “The Circle won’t have left anything behind …”

Blaine shook his head. He wasn’t looking for anything about the Circle, Sebastian realized. This was entirely personal.

He followed Blaine inside (small, neat room, the fireplace the only point of interest; his mom wouldn’t have found it rich enough for her tastes) then down the stairs to the basement, which was guarded by a heavy wooden door. Blaine braced himself up against it then shoved with a strained sound; it dragged across the floor, leaving marks. Then it was open, revealing a room illuminated only via a small, barred window.

Blaine hesitated, then ghosted inside, looking around with wide eyes.

Sebastian stayed by the door. He wasn’t interested in seeing more, not that there was much to see. The room was empty except for a narrow cot with restraints up against the wall and a bucket that stank even in the cold.

Blaine went to the cot, and lifted the thin mattress. Tossed it aside. Reached down and ran his fingers over the wall.

“Blaine,” Sebastian murmured, not even sure what he was going to say.

“B.D.A.,” Blaine read. Carvings in the stone? “D.D.A.”

Blaine Devon Anderson. Danilo Diaz Anderson.

“He was here too,” Blaine said wonderingly, then his shoulders seized. “God, oh god, he was -- he was …”

Blaine turned, expression shock-sick. He walked over on unsteady feet, hand pressed to his mouth; Sebastian tried to catch him, but Blaine shook him off, feet guiding him automatically past Sebastian and back up the stairs.

Sebastian sent a final, repulsed look over the room before he followed, dragging the door shut behind him. It closed with a distinctive click.

How many times had Blaine heard that over the summer?

“Blaine?” Tina asked, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

Everyone else stared at him, but he walked by like he hadn’t even heard, arms curled around himself, breathing laboured. He exited the cabin and drove straight into the snow, headed back for the treeline, continuing to climb. There was no doubt to any step he took, moving with unerring focus as he had all day.

Everyone tumbled out after him; Sebastian brought up the rear. It was hard to watch this.

“Hang on, kiddo,” Cooper said, moving to catch up with his brother. He tried to stop Blaine but Blaine ducked his hold.

“Coop,” Blaine said, voice shaking. “Dad was here. He’s … he’s still here.”

Cooper paled. “Blainey …”

And Blaine kept walking. Sebastian knew that the end of this journey would be the worst discovery yet, he was sure everyone knew that. Blaine needed this, though, so all they could do was follow their amnesiac Pied Piper and see where he lead them. There was no sound except the crunch of snow beneath their feet and the drag of the wind over the mountain, the occasional twitter of distant birdsong. There was no path, no sign they were headed anywhere but into the wilderness to be lost.

Then, after twenty minutes of walking, everyone shaking from the cold, they found an unnaturally square man-made clearing and ...

“A grave,” Tina said quietly, and Sebastian had to look away.

Blaine fell to his knees in the snow atop the distinctive raised rectangle. His head bowed as if in prayer, or maybe as if asking for forgiveness, and he stayed there for a long, long time.

Danilo Anderson had finally been found.

--

The flight back home was long, and quiet.

Sebastian kept to himself; Blaine wanted nor needed any company, curled up his seat on the Fabray’s jet, staring out the window. Cooper sat across from him, his earbuds in, eyes shut, looking for all the world like he was asleep but the tension in his fingers was unmistakable.

Everyone else didn’t want to intrude upon the brothers and their grief so they occupied themselves with unobtrusive tasks; Santana was texting Brittany, Quinn was reading, and Tina dozed fitfully. Agent Townsend was writing a report. Sebastian wondered what it said about him; it was selfish, but every positive word about Sebastian might help to loosen the collar around his neck.

He was feeling the urge to run. To go hunting. To find anyone who’d set foot in that stone building and repay them every mark painting Blaine’s skin in kind.

Those were fantasies for now, though. He tried to focus on reality, the questions still nipping at him. About how Blaine had gotten out of that basement, how he had gotten there in the first place. Had he escaped, or been let go? Had he been taken, or gone willingly? Had Sebastian’s mother been there? How much had she done to Blaine?

He wondered if his mother had killed Blaine’s father, and hated that the answer was likely yes.

He also wondered if Blaine had realized that too.

Stupidly, pointlessly, Sebastian hoped he hadn’t, and that he never would.

--

Pam greeted them when they pulled up to Dalton.

Blaine approached her cautiously but she wasted no time pulling him into a hug, then Cooper when he came near as well. They stayed tangled together, sharing each other’s grief, until Blaine pulled back.

“I’m sorry, mama,” he said.

“Don’t be, baby,” she replied, voice wavering. “You brought him home.”

Blaine’s face crumpled and he hugged her again; Sebastian and everyone were doing their best to sneak around the Andersons and given them privacy when Pam looked up sharply.

“Sebastian, wait,” she said. He froze. Was he going to get lectured for giving his handler the slip? But Pam was smiling. “Hunter’s awake.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, and he took off running.

--

“Hunter.”

“Sebastian.”

They exchanged a handclasp. Hunter was actually sitting up, in a wheelchair. His skin still bandaged and his voice was hoarse like he had a pack-a-day habit but Sebastian was so relieved to see him up with all his mental faculties in place that he nearly did something really embarrassing and hugged him. Instead, he sat on the ground next to Hunter’s chair, feeling like he was about to hear yet another lesson.

“Been keeping out of trouble?” Hunter asked.

Sebastian laughed. “Have you met me?”

“Right. Stupid question.” Hunter’s trained gaze checked him for injury, and Sebastian probably should have been insulted but, well. He was in too good a mood. “Where have you been?”

“Here, there, everywhere.”

“Not Rome?”

“That might have been a pitstop.” Sebastian realized then he might have to be the one to Hunter that his best friend was definitely dead, and his cheer faded under a wash of fear. He looked at Hunter uncertainly, but of course Hunter was never easily surprised.

“Pamela told me you found Dan.”

Sebastian ducked his head, a useless apology bubbling up that he swallowed. Hunter sighed.

“I knew the old bastard was dead. I just hope it gives Pamela some peace.”

“Yeah?” Sebastian smirked, tried to lighten the mood. “Plans to move in on his widow?”

To his amazement, Hunter almost looked flustered for half a second, which was some of the most genuine emotion he’d ever seen the man display.

“You’re a sick little freak,” Hunter told him genially, and Sebastian laughed, ducking the hand Hunter tried to swat him with.

“Too slow, old man,” he said, but Hunter might be decrepit and broken but he sure wasn’t beaten, because his other hand snaked out lightning-quick to give Sebastian’s hair a tousle. “Hey,” Sebastian whined, moving away and smoothing his hair down.

“That is the least you deserve,” Hunter informed him haughtily. “Now: mission details. Report, soldier.”

Sebastian straightened and did just that. Once he was done, and they were snickering over some dry crack Hunter had made, the door opened. Blaine stood there.

“Sorry,” he said, eyes wide. “I thought you were done.”

“We are.” Sebastian got up, stretching with a yawn. “He’s all yours, killer.”

The old nickname came automatically, and Sebastian realized belatedly it might not go over so well, after that day in the woods. He went to apologize, but Blaine just smiled at him before turning his attention to Hunter. Sebastian left them at it, then went to go find his bed.

He hadn’t slept in three days. Time to fix that.

--

They got two new pieces of the puzzle from Hunter.

First, what they were looking for:

“A list,” Hunter said, rocking his wheelchair like his form of pacing. “That Lord and Lady Dalton compiled, of every founding member of the Circle of Cavan.”

The Lord and Lady had first encountered the Circle when Thomas Cavan, its leader, had tried to assassinate Lincoln. (Well, one out of two assassination preventions wasn’t too bad.) They would have researched this.

“How does that help us?” Blaine asked. “Those people are over a century dead.”

“It’s a family business,” Sebastian guessed; Hunter nodded. “Passed down through the generations.”

“If we find that list,” Cooper said excitedly, “then we know who leads the Circle today.”

“And then we can take them down,” Blaine said, the excitement catching.

“So Dan found this list?” Pam asked. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Hunter said. “I just realized he must have found it. I’d hoped it was in his journal, but obviously not.”

“The key,” Blaine said, looking around. “They key leads to the list. But we don’t have the key.”

Before he could deflate, Hunter smirked. “Actually, we do.”

Which was the second piece Hunter gave them: that Blaine not only had the key, he was wearing it.

“The watch?” Blaine stared at it, like he’d forgotten about it. “I don’t understand.”

“Look at the design on the face. What do you see?”

“The red and blue … it … kind of looks like the school crest, I guess?”

“It’s the Dalton family crest,” Hunter explained. “Naturally, you wouldn’t recognize it. It was scrubbed from all records to protect the school and the Daltons’ descendents.”

Quinn, who had been silent until now, absorbing everything with an equally observant Santana and Tina, reached out; Blaine offered her his hand, and she started at the watch face, fascinated. She was a distant relation, Sebastian knew, though she’d learned it so late in life he wondered what hold it could really have over her.

“I must have gotten it in Rome,” Blaine said. “I didn’t fail the first bank job … and I mailed it back with the necklace so it would look like nothing serious.”

“Very good,” Hunter said, and Blaine smiled at that. “We are at a standstill now, however.”

“We have the key,” Santana said slowly, “but we don’t have the lock, do we?”

“What on earth could a watch unlock?” Tina asked. “Some kind of vault?”

They looked between each other, but nobody had any ideas.

Two steps forward, one step back; that should be the real motto of espionage.

--

The next month was almost … normal.

Whatever normal was in lives like theirs, at least. Sebastian and Blaine went to classes, hung out with friends, did homework, made out, and in Blaine’s case, went to therapy.

When Blaine wasn’t free to do the chatting/kissing/hanging out thing, Sebastian would go socialize with Hunter. Hunter was going through physical therapy and it made him grumpy, but Sebastian knew that in this case, his bark was worse than his bite. Though Hunter could probably still find a way to kill them all, if he got into the mood.

Luckily he was over that ‘killing everyone’ phase of his life and onto the much healthier ‘making threats, blackmailing, and swearing’ phase as Sebastian helped him do the simple exercises Dr. Owen had prescribed.

“This is a form of torture,” Hunter grumbled as he tried to stretch out his legs, and Sebastian snickered from where he was pushing down on his back.

“Well, we all know torture is my speciality …”

Hunter groaned, stretched furthering. “Jesse actually says your speciality is annoying people.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Can’t argue with that.”

It was just like old times; it was nice to talk to someone who knew his whole story.

--

“Sebastian.”

Sebastian jumped; immediately shifting into a defensive stance. Blaine stepped out from behind a tree, smiling shyly. Of course Blaine had managed to surprise him; a very capable young man .

“Hey, sailor.”

Blaine approached, offering his hand. Sebastian took it and they continued to walk through the Dalton grounds together, all thoughts of heading back inside vanishing the moment Blaine’s warm hand found his. It was chilly, an anticipation of snow in the thick low clouds. Sebastian couldn’t stand the cold; once he’d told Blaine that and Blaine had said, “That’s got to be the first weakness I’ve ever heard from you .”

Sebastian didn’t get why Blaine never saw that everything Sebastian did for him was an admitted weakness.

“Sebastian …”

“Yeah?”

Blaine took a deep breath.

“Is Mr. Clarington your dad?”

That startled a laugh out of Sebastian. “No.” He would ask what gave Blaine that idea, but he knew why Blaine had fathers and sons on the brain. “I never knew my dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine offered.

Such a sweet guy. He had recently learned that his dad was definitely dead but he still cared to comfort Sebastian on some old fact of his life. Sebastian … oh, Sebastian was just so grateful to know him.

“It’s no big deal.”

Blaine was silent for a moment. “How did you and him meet?”

“Ah, tiger, you don’t need to hear that …”

Blaine huffed, squeezing his hand. “You are so secretive!” He sounded a bit sullen.

Sebastian cracked up at that. All this time he’d call Blaine the secretive one, but maybe that was just because Sebastian expected secrets. Blaine was right; he didn’t like to share, because sharing got you dead. Sharing was like when he was eight and a nice man helped him find his way home, and then that nice man his nice Interpol friends had broken into their house later to get his mother and she had gunned them all down with expert grace. Sharing had been his mother then forcing him to look at their bodies and saying, “This is the price of trust, ” and as she hugged him he’d wondered, terrified, if he couldn’t trust her either.

“I’m serious,” Blaine insisted as Sebastian tried to calm his laughter. “I … I really do care about you Sebastian, but you act like … like I’ll run screaming from you.”

“You do have a habit of running way.”

“Says the jetsetter.” Blaine frowned. “I am sorry I left without you this summer, but it was to keep you safe. I was the only one the Circle wouldn’t kill.”

“There are worse things than dying.”

“I know.” Blaine exhaled slowly. “I know that now. But after you threw yourself on that bomb …” Sebastian’s briefly felt the dull whump and hot flare of the burn room igniting around him, and his scars pulled tight. “I needed to do it alone.”

“I know,” Sebastian echoed, absently rubbing his neck. “Still sucks though.”

“It does.” Blaine looked over. “And stop misdirecting!”

“Misdirecting? Me?”

“If you don’t want to tell me about you and Mr. Clarington, you can just say so.”

“You really want to know? It’s not so exciting.”

“If it involves you, I’m excited to hear it.”

Someone genuinely interested in his life because it was his, not because of what he knew. It was hard to wrap his head around.

“Fine.” Sebastian took a moment to order his thoughts. “I had just killed my first man and was about to start high school, which are both pretty big milestones in a young man’s life …”

Sebastian glanced at Blaine, and though he had paled a little, he didn’t flinch away. Amused and touched, Sebastian continued.

“Mom had taught me all the basics and it was like, So long son, see you at graduation so you can enter the family business. And in comes Hunter. I think he just wanted to win my loyalty so the Circle didn’t get it but I’m grateful.”

“Maybe he just liked you,” Blaine suggested hesitantly.

“He did say I reminded him of a younger version of him,” Sebastian said. “You know. Angry. Stupid. Ready to watch the world burn. He took all that and helped me channel it into something more … productive.”

“Just at Carmel?”

“No, we spent summer breaks together.” Sebastian smiled mischievously. “I don’t know if you have the clearance to hear some of those stories.”

Blaine’s nose wrinkled. “Was it just spy stuff?”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad used to, you know. Take me to football games, museums, concerts …”

Blaine trailed off. Sebastian glanced over and nudged him; Blaine blinked and came back to himself.

“You know. Not everything is shadow games,” Blaine finished.

“I didn’t want to do that stuff,” Sebastian said. “But … sometimes, yeah, he would make it like a training exercise. And we’d go to art galleries and rugby games and all that crap.”

“That’s good,” Blaine said, smiling up at him.

Sebastian shrugged. “Civilian life seems pretty damn boring, but I guess dabbling isn’t so bad.”

“I agree,” Blaine said. “I pretended to be a civilian once, so I could date …”

“Hummel,” Sebastian said distastefully; he had shown up in time for the tail end of that drama.

“Yes … and I realized it was fun to pretend, but this?” Blaine gestured, indicating the two of them and Dalton in the distance across the snowy lawns. “This is the real me, and it’s what I want.”

“Good choice. Pick the fun life.”

Blaine grinned, then tugged him into a kiss.

“You are the fun life,” he said, and Sebastian kissed him again, smiling just as widely back.

--

Blaine and the girls figured out the map.

Sebastian could have hit himself when they told him what it was; apparently, Tina had been flipping through Lady Dalton’s old journals and shared with the class. In them they had found reference to a window to the future which had led them to the gable room and its stained glass window.

That same window Sebastian had spent a very happy afternoon making out with Blaine in front of, after they’d eavesdropped on the meeting with the trustees.

Analyzing the window design revealed that it was actually a map, which when paired with the design on the watch pointed to an abandoned residence of the Dalton family in Ireland.

“That’s where the list is,” Blaine said, eyes bright. “Ireland. We have to go to Ireland.”

--

“I’m glad I don’t get jet lag.”

Sebastian settled next to Santana on the plane, who smirked.

“Subtle brag, Amelia Earhart.”

“She went missing, I don’t know how I feel about that comparison.”

“Actually, she didn’t,” Quinn said, seated across from them and taking the long flight as the perfect time to paint her nails. “She was a Dalton graduate, a spy. She went into deep cover after she landed.”

“Helped take down the Order of Anubis,” Santana added. “Crazy death cult that was, big surprise, nothing but white people … Amelia kicked their asses though.”

“They buried her on the Dalton grounds when she passed away,” Quinn said. “She lived to be ninety. One of her descendents is in our math class.”

“Guess I still have Dalton secrets to learn,” Sebastian said, eyebrows raised.

“Don’t let Blaine hear you say that,” Santana said, rolling her eyes. “He’ll talk your ear off.”

They all looked down the plane, where Tina and Blaine were playing a vigorous game of War . It was nice to see Blaine laughing so freely again.

“I wonder if he’ll stay, after graduation,” Quinn said thoughtfully. “Or at least come back after college to teach.”

“Probably,” Santana said. She flashed Sebastian a smug look. “Ready to settle down, Sebby?”

Sebastian pulled a face, both at the future she’d painted and the nickname.

“Blaine isn’t ready to settle,” Sebastian said, with great confidence. Blaine was just coming alive again after a huge trauma; why wouldn’t he want to explore all he could, shout his triumph of survival to the world? “Once we take down the Circle, you’ll see.”

“ If we take it down. We have to find that list and even then ...”

“Never say never,” Sebastian said. “In my experience, nothing -- nobody -- is immortal.”

“God,” Santana said with a roll of her eyes. “Not your ‘I’m big and bad and have seen all there is to see’ routine. Get a new shtick, because this one’s old .”

“You would know all about overplayed clichés Ms ‘I’m Going Gay For a Girl I Met At Boarding School.’”

Santana actually blushed, and Sebastian shared an amused look with Quinn.

“Britt’s just -- she’s not like anyone else,” Santana finally said, getting all -- gooey . “Not a jaded asshole like everyone else in our world. She’s .. the bright parts of life.”

Sebastian could certainly understand the appeal. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t torment her though, because that was apparently what best friends did.

“Christ. Is that the start to your vows? You know what, ask Quinn to be your maid of honour, I just can’t fill out a dress the same way …”

“Who said you’d even be invited to the wedding!”

“But you’ll definitely invite Blaine, and I’ll be his plus one.”

Santana now shared a look with Quinn, and then said wickedly, “Blaine strikes me as the kind of gay to go chase down that bouquet so watch out, Smythe.”

“It might turn into a double wedding,” Quinn added dryly.

Sebastian glanced at Blaine. He knew they were just teasing but … marriage . Not really a thing Sebastian had ever thought he’d have, and god knows he didn’t have any kind of reference point for what a healthy marriage looked like, especially between two people in the business. The whole idea sounded … claustrophobic and kind of terrifying. But once upon a time, coming to Dalton and dating Blaine and signing himself up for this potential suicide mission to stop the Circle would have felt the same way so … who knew?

One thing was for sure: he doubted there was any other person on this planet who could make him feel the way Blaine did.

“Oh my god,” Santana whisper-shouted. “You’re actually considering it!”

“No I’m not, I just didn’t want to dignify you with a response …”

“You’re totally imagining being Mrs. Anderson! Oh, this is rich. Not so big and bad now, are you?”

The thing was .. she was right.

And it wasn’t so bad to know.

--

They landed in bonny green Ireland in the morning.

Agent Crawford greeted them as they got off the plane, taking his aviators off in a move Sebastian bet he’d practised.

“Welcome to the Emerald Isles,” he said, and exchanged cheek kisses and hand clasps with Pam and Cooper. “Pamela, Cooper, always lovely … no Hunter?”

“He’s still not well enough to travel,” Pam said.

“He must be happy about that,” Agent Crawford said with a chuckle.

“He was watching Top Gun and muttering the lines under his breath when we left,” Cooper said. “ Mi hermano esta loco .”

“Can we socialize later?” Blaine suddenly interjected, shifting his weight. “No offense, Agent Crawford, I just feel like we’re running out of time.”

“Understandable, Blaine. Well, let’s get a move on.”

Agent Crawford had rented a few cars, which they took on a long drive to a pier. Cooper drove their car, and there was some tension under his usual carefree expression that Sebastian noted from where he sat in the back, giving Blaine’s knee reassuring squeezes whenever he saw Blaine's tension rise to match. From there it was a boat ride through the choppy waters of the Atlantic, aiming for the distant island where the Dalton family ancestral home was. They could see it as they approached, blinking the ocean spray from their eyes; a large, decaying building similar in shape to the Academy, a massive manor that reached four stories into a grey sky promising rain like a hulking, sleeping bear.

“Weren’t exactly a fan of visitors, were they?” Sebastian asked once they hit the cliff, mooring against some jagged rocks.

“For good reason,” Pam said. “The Daltons have always been targets.”

“Still, they could have put in an old-school elevator …”

“Scared of a little climbing, Sebby?” Cooper smirked as he handed Sebastian a rope, which he accepted with a silent exhale.

“Sebastian,” he said, glaring around the boat. “My name is Sebastian. Not Sebby, not Seb, not any other butchering you can think of. Three syllables. Not hard to manage.”

Judging by the smirks around the boat, he was going to be hearing a lot of nicknames in the near future. Sighing, he grabbed the rope and some climbing spikes and started his way up, ignoring Tina’s call of “Bassy, make sure you don’t slip!” Halfway there it started to rain, and Sebastian wasn’t even surprised. He managed the slick rocks with ease (it was just like that time in Zambia with Hunter) but he couldn’t help but take it as a bad sign.

Once at the top he pushed wet hair out of his eyes and waited for Blaine, offering him a hand to pull him up over the edge. Blaine smiled as he straightened, their soaked bodies briefly pressed together, a welcome warmth in the icy chill. Blaine pushed up to kiss Sebastian, then stepped away.

“We should split up,” Blaine said, at least having the decency to sound regretful.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Sebastian said, sighing. “When are you going to realize we work better together?”

“We do,” Blaine earnestly agreed. “But some things are about more than work.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

“Besides,” Blaine added, “I trust you. And you’re the only one here with a connection to the Circle … so if they’ve been here, you might spot the signs.”

“Right.” Sebastian briefly wondered if his appeal to Blaine was based on his connection to the mystery that had defined half Blaine’s life. “You’re right, we’ll cover more ground apart. Happy hunting.”

They shared a last kiss, and then Sebastian started to wander the perimeter, shoulders hunched against the cold, delicate rain, as he cut through a path through the white mist swirling around the building and grounds. The manor was in bad shape; they must have run out of money building its massive frame, hauling supplies up and down the cliffs; he could see missing touches. The elements hadn’t helped since; whole floors had collapsed, leaving a gaping hole in its side. At one point he saw Blaine, at the edge of the floor where it had gave out, before Blaine slipped back inside.

Tired of the rain and seeing nothing, Sebastian walked back to the entrance. Quinn was there, staring at a statue in the overgrown garden out front.

“Find something, Fabray?” Sebastian approached her.

“I think that’s Lady Dalton,” she said, staring up at the statue’s worn face.

“Oh yeah? I see the resemblance.”

Quinn gave him a doubtful look. “It’s just a statue.”

“Look at the way she’s holding that parasol -- you know there’s a knife inside. And she’s in a fighter’s stance.” He winked at her. “Beautiful, but more importantly deadly. Just like you.”

Quinn smiled at him. “Sometimes, I actually get what Blaine sees in you.”

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.” Sebastian smirked. “Saying you want to jump my bones?”

“I think they call it temporary madness,” she shot back. Sebastian was grinning at that when he heard something under the rattle of the rain. A stone, scattered underfoot? He tilted his head, listening closer; Quinn noticed his change in mood and though her smile didn’t fade she grew more alert.

“Walk with me, Fabray,” Sebastian offered, and Quinn nodded. She took his arm and they started to wander the garden. The rain came down harder; all they could hear was it, clattering against stone and wood like pebbles falling from the sky.

As they rounded a large fountain, a dark figure rose up from the bushes and trained  a gun on them. Clearly he thought he had the drop on them, but Sebastian and Quinn were ready.

Sebastian dove low, and Quinn jumped up, pressing a dainty foot on Sebastian’s back which she used like a springboard. It was just like P&E; as Sebastian somersaulted behind the man, turning to ram his foot behind the back of his knee, Quinn arced through the air like the Irish mists taken human form then brought her feet up to slam into the assailant’s chest; he fired wildly as she sent him to the ground with a sickening thud.

Sebastian sharply jabbed the muscle above the man’s armpit, making his fingers spasm on his gun, which Sebastian tore from his slack grip. Quinn wasted no time drawing her fist back to punch him in temple. His head bounced back against the stone and then he was unconscious, eyes rolling up into the back of his head.

“Nice arm,” Sebastian said.

“Thanks …” Quinn stood up, staring down at the man with a troubled expression. “Where did he come from?”

Sebastian got up too, keeping the gun in hand as he took a closer look at the attacker, squinting against the rain.

Recognition dawned, and Sebastian sent a wary look around them.

“I know him,” Sebastian said. “He used to babysit me.”

Quinn’s eyes widened in understanding; Sebastian’s mother was here.

“We need to find Blaine,” she said grimly, and they took off towards the manor entrance.

That was when the explosion sounded.

--

God fucking dammit . He knew this was going to end badly.

Sebastian and Quinn had turned heel and made for the side of the manor instead, where the explosion had sounded. They leaped a short crumbling wall then made in a large arc to see that a new hole had been blasted out the side of the building, rubble still smoking despite the rain. Santana stood there, peering around.

“It was your psycho mom,” she told Sebastian, then cursed in Spanish for a breath before turning back. “She was chasing Blaine and Tina.”

“Which way?”

“I didn’t see, but --”

“Look!” Quinn pointed toward a distant flash of yellow; the sweater Blaine had been wearing was that colour. Sebastian took off running, feet slipping on the thick wet tufts of grass between the rocky landscape of the island. It was steadily dropping; sixty yards away Blaine and Tina were being chased by a distinctive slim figure.

Mom .

“Sebastian, wait up --”

If they couldn’t keep up that was their business. The wind rolled up off the ocean, up the cliff, over the edge; the rain was being driven right into his face and he could barely see the three he was chasing except for that distinctive yellow bobbing ahead.

He tossed the gun. No use. Couldn’t aim in this rain while running.

Blaine slowed due to the approaching cliff edge; Camille had boxed him towards the edge of the island like a fox with a rabbit. Camille kicked him; Blaine went tumbling, dangerously close to the edge. Sebastian was closing in, but he was still too far away. Tina launched herself at Camille, who easily tossed her aside. Blaine scrambled, rolling over and kicking out at Camille, but she leaped over his windmilling legs gracefully. Blaine unsteadily got to his feet.

Thirty yards out. Were they speaking?

Camille glanced over her shoulder; spotted Sebastian. Her expression was unreadable from this distance; she turned away. Took a step towards Blaine; he slid a foot back, his heel going over the edge.

Twenty yards. Blaine suddenly raised a -- a gun? Where had he gotten that? Camille stopped advancing.

Ten yards. Blaine lifted the gun higher, and fired; a rocket of burning orange streaked into a high arc across the wet sky. Flare . Camille ran at him; Blaine dodged; she dived off the cliff.

“Blaine!” he shouted, but Blaine didn’t seem to hear. He was on the edge of the cliff and raising his hands like he intended to dive in after Camille --

Oh no you won’t .

Sebastian poured a final bit of energy into a dead sprint, skidding to a dangerous stop at the edge of the island and wrapping an arm around Blaine’s waist. Blaine struggled, but Sebastian stumbled back, lifting Blaine off his feet.

“Don’t do it, killer,” he gasped, catching a few angry elbows Blaine threw.

“Let me go!” Blaine snarled. “Let me go, Sebastian!”

“Stop, Blaine!” Santana added, just a few breaths behind him; out of the corner of his eye he could see Quinn helping Tina up. “It’s over, stop!”

Blaine slackened, and Sebastian set Blaine down, still holding on in case the sudden acquiescence was a trick, but Blaine just stared off into the dark waters below, panting raggedly.

“It’s gone,” he said, voice shaking. “It’s all gone.”

--

Another quiet flight back to America. Too bad he wasn’t getting frequent flyer miles from all this travel.

Sebastian had found some tiny vodka bottles and was hoping to drink the time away but before he could crack them open Cooper, smirking widely, had confiscated them to drink them himself with his mom. Incredibly rude, that. Sebastian deserved a drink.

There was a chance his mom was dead, after all. Drowned, crushed on rocks, lost at sea.

Though if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t actually think that. Sebastian had learned to survive from the best.

Camille Smythe was still out there, he was almost sure.

Sebastian was exiting the washroom when Blaine appeared. Sebastian tried to stand aside but Blaine stepped forward, pushing him into the bathroom and tugging the little door shut behind him. Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“Mile high club time?” Sebastian asked, smirking widely. “How saucy of you, Anderson.”

“I want to talk,” Blaine said, which was some of the first words he’d said since telling them all that the list had gone over the cliff and into the ocean. His gaze was tight; he didn’t look happy.

Feeling he might regret it, Sebastian asked, “What about?”

Blaine looked like he might chicken out for a second, but he took a deep breath and soldiered on to ask, “Tell me about your mother.”

“What?” Sebastian folded his arms, leaned back against the wall. Was Blaine about to accuse him of something?

“I want to hear about her,” Blaine said. “Nothing about, about blood or death or anything like that. I want to hear something, I don’t know --”

“Nice?” Sebastian offered.

“ Human ,” Blaine settled on.

“Huh.” Sebastian scratched his chin, wondering what to say. Blaine hadn’t killed his mom -- was this why? Thinking about her soul? “Anything in particular?”

“Whatever you want. I just -- I need to hear it.”

“Okay …” Sebastian thought for a few long moments. “So, she’s French, right? Well, she always felt most at home when we back in the old country. But when we couldn’t be there she had this recipe, for a bourguignon, passed down by her mother, and her mother before her. So I guess too bad I was a guy, but she still taught me to make it. We spent a few afternoons like that, cooking together. It was … nice.”

Blaine gazed up at him, brows pinched. Then: “You’re lying.”

Sebastian sighed, nodded, and softly replied, “Yeah, I am.”

Blaine swallowed, then bowed his head forward, pressing his forehead to Sebastian’s shoulder; Sebastian uncrossed his arms so he could rub Blaine’s back, concerned at the faint hint of a tremble he felt. He’d noticed this before and thought it was just down to Blaine being underweight, but he’d gained a lot back so … was it just the force of his emotions? Was that normal?

“I hate her,” Blaine hesitantly said, voice thick.

Sebastian couldn’t help but smile, but it was a humourless one.

“Yeah … me too.” Sebastian could elaborate more, on songs she’d sang to him and how love with a price wasn’t really love even if it felt the same, but the words failed him. All he could think about right then was his mother advancing on Blaine, that flare burning against the grey sky. Blaine’s forgiveness for a woman who hadn’t deserved it, because she was someone to Sebastian.

“You’re a good man,” Blaine softly said.

Sebastian kissed Blaine’s temple. “You’re not so bad yourself, babe.”

They held each other until someone knocked and they were forced to separate, but they kept their fingers tangled together as they left; Sebastian guessed they both needed the connection, right then.

--

They went to see Hunter once they got back to Dalton.

“So the list is gone?” Hunter asked, rocking his wheelchair back and forth.

“Into the sea,” Blaine confirmed, sounding a touch ashamed. “There’s no way it survived that.”

“And you didn’t get to see it?”

“No. It was in this glass vial, and Sebastian’s mother interrupted before I could take it out.” Blaine glanced briefly at Sebastian as he spoke. “She did say something weird …”

“What was that, honey?” Pam asked.

“That I didn’t need to see it. Like I already knew the contents.”

“Not surprising,” Hunter said. “They took you because they thought you knew.”

“Why would they let Blaine go if they thought he still knew?” Sebastian asked. Everyone shared looks, but Cooper shook his head.

“Blainey might have got away on his own. We don’t know they released him.”

“They’ve also been trying to kill him,” Pam added, a shadow crossing her features. “They wouldn’t do that if they still needed him.”

“Can we not talk about me like I’m not in the room?” Blaine snapped, then his eyes widened apologetically. “Sorry, mama.”

“It’s okay,” Pam said, reaching over to pat her son’s cheek. “It’s been a long few days.”

Blaine smiled fondly at his mom, and Sebastian stared at them, that old jealousy surging up. He ruthlessly stepped on it, glancing away. Hunter sighed, aggrieved.

“So Blaine doesn’t remember, or know, there’s nothing in Dan’s journal, and the list is destroyed.”

“The flipside is the Circle might leave us alone for a while,” Sebastian pointed out. “They don’t have anything to be afraid of now. We’re not a threat.”

“That’s true,” Hunter said, nodding his approval at Sebastian, who smiled back. “You’re the main loose end now, Sebastian.”

“Which could be to our advantage,” Sebastian said, inspiration striking. “Mom will probably come for me herself if she’s still kicking so we could use me as bait.”

“Do you think she’d talk?” Hunter asked, frowning thoughtfully.

“We are not using Sebastian as bait!” Blaine snapped, glaring at Hunter.

“It’s fine, tiger.” Sebastian shook his head. “I can take care of myself.” To Hunter, he continued. “We both know she’s a fanatic, Hunter. Torture won’t phase her.”

“Toughest woman I’ve ever met,” Hunter agreed, then added to Pam, “except for you of course, Pamela.”

Pam smiled at him. Cooper cleared his throat. “If she won’t talk, what’s the point of taking her in alive?”

“Coop,” Blaine hissed. “Some sensitivity. Sebastian’s right there.”

“I happen to agree with your brother,” Sebastian said. “Generally speaking. In this specific case. But … she could be bait too.”

Hunter’s eyes lit up. “They’d want to silence her.”

“And they’d send someone good in to do it. Someone high up. And someone who might be more likely to talk.”

“And if Camille is dead,” Cooper added, “they’ll still send that kind of asset after Sebastian. Win/win.”

“Exactly,” Sebastian said. “And if it doesn’t work with me, Hunter’s also an option.”

Blaine was staring like they were all crazy; it was probably something he should get over if he wanted to be a real agent one day.

“Good plan, Sebastian.” Hunter nodded sharply. “We’ll start discussing details for it tomorrow. For now, get the hell out of my room. I need to sleep.”

“Yeah, night to you too, old man …”

“Goodnight, Hunter, sleep well.” Pam kissed his cheek, and Hunter grumbled under his breath, looking away.

Sebastian got up, and followed the Andersons out of the secret room. He could feel Blaine glaring holes into the back of his head, but he ignored him. Blaine would get it out at some point. They emerged from the passageways in a hallway by the chapel, which was quiet and dark. Pam pat Blaine’s cheek.

“Off to bed for you,” she told him.

“I don’t like the idea of this bait plan,” Blaine said, stepping away. “Isn’t there some other way?”

“We’ll think it over,” Pam told him. “None of us want anything to happen to Sebastian.”

Cooper looked tempted to disagree. Sebastian rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like they’ll put me under a box on a stake and hope she knocks it down chasing me in. There will be snipers and trained agents and me wearing a bulletproof vest … it’ll be boring, honestly.”

“It’s still a risk,” Blaine stubbornly insisted.

“And you’re the only one allowed to take those?” Sebastian squeezed Blaine’s shoulder. “We’ll talk it out in the morning, babe.”

“He’s right, bee.” Pam kissed his cheek, and Cooper clapped Blaine on the back with a, “Night, Squirt,” before the two of them walked off, talking to each other in low tones. Sebastian and Blaine started off in the opposite direction for the dorms, and they ended up walking by Sebastian’s to Blaine’s a floor above it -- Blaine really just didn’t like Sebastian’s room and its window.

“I don’t feel great,” Blaine said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“I thought that fish dinner on the plane tasted off …”

“Not food poisoning. It’s -- what happened in Ireland. This crazy plan you’re proposing. Rome. Mr. Clarington’s cabin. The place where they held me … everything, everything, nothing feels right …”

“Blaine.” Sebastian turned to him as they came to a stop outside Blaine’s door, caught his shoulders, rubbed them. “You don’t feel right because nothing is right. But we’ll make it right, okay?”

Blaine nodded slowly. Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure Blaine believed him.

“Stay with me?” Blaine asked, backing up to rest against the door.

“Of course.” Sebastian kissed him, and opened the door behind Blaine.

They walked in together, sharing small kisses, but the mood was soft, not heated. They got ready for bed and then climbed into the narrow bed, tangled together. He fell asleep to the sound of Blaine’s gentle breathing, for once not worried about sightlines or snipers.

He felt ... safe.

--

Blaine woke up just a few hours later; it was nearly three a.m.

“Blaine?” Sebastian reached out for him, yawning.

“I had a bad dream,” Blaine said lowly.

Sebastian started to sit up. “Want to talk about it? Or just have me distract you?” He grinned against the darkness of the room; Blaine leaned in to kiss him.

“No, I think I’m going to talk to Dr. Jesse,” Blaine said evenly. “I have some stuff to work through.”

That was an understatement. Sebastian flopped back down, yawning again.

“Want me to walk you there?”

“I’m sure I won’t get lost.” Blaine shuffled around; the door opened, the hall lights illuminating his figure; still in his pyjamas. Weird, but he sounded way too awake to be sleepwalking. “Bye, Sebastian.”

And humming, he left, shutting the door behind him. Sebastian rolled over, taking Blaine’s absence as an excuse to starfish out. Dalton beds were too small for two people, but maybe like the very strict hall monitors, it was a deterrent against fraternization at a co-ed boarding school. Sebastian smirked. Poor, unlucky heterosexuals. Carmel had been co-ed too, and strict, but Sebastian hadn’t had trouble finding a bed to slink into. And when he wasn’t at school, his main two parental figures had both been assassins (reformed and otherwise) so he had never exactly had a curfew …

Hunter definitely knew about Sebastian and Blaine. He probably approved; he liked Blaine, didn’t he?

Sebastian rolled over, groaning. Sleep wasn’t coming. Thinking about sharing beds and Blaine sent his mind in a whole different direction … but he knew Blaine wasn’t ready to sleep with him. Blaine was a virgin, and after everything he’d gone through in the summer, his scars, he wasn’t crazy about his body right then. Which Sebastian understood. Respected . Because he’d never want Blaine to feel unsafe with him.

Did Blaine feel safe with him?

Obviously, idiot. He trusts you .

That wasn’t the same thing, though, was it? Sebastian rarely felt safe, but he spent a lot of time with Blaine, whom he trusted implicitly … life was complicated like that. Maybe that was part of growing up.

He’d always thought of himself as an adult, just one not legally allowed to drink. But spending time at a school like Dalton had given him some perspective. He was certainly more mature than his peers in some ways. Had more life experience. But he also had a lot of the same struggles, false assumptions, hopes and fears. He still had things to learn.

With just one more term left until graduation, too.

It’s a big bad world out there , St. James had once said. We’re just getting you ready for it .

God, that guy was a dick. Not that Sebastian had a ton of room to talk, and hell, look at Hunter too, it was just a Carmel ex-pat thing. They all had their stories … but Sebastian wouldn’t be humming if he was about to go see the good doctor, that was for sure. Blaine was weird like that. Too nice for his own good. Blaine’s gotten meaner , Quinn once said. Still bullshit. Blaine was a little sharper with people, a little angrier, and they all knew he was fucked up, but he wasn’t mean . He’d get better. That was what he had his family for, his friends, St. James. Hunter. Sebastian .

Sebastian was more concerned about Blaine’s sleepwalking than his snappiness, honestly. Sleepwalking, spacing out … lost time, it was all lost time. Just like the summer. Like the secrets he’d learned were trying to dig their way out, but something was forcing them back under. Maybe Blaine did know the list. Maybe he’d learned it while on the run.

Why would they let him go? Sebastian didn’t care what Cooper said, there was no way Blaine could have escaped. Not if Sebastian’s mom was involved.

We both know she’s a fanatic. Torture won’t phase her . That was the power of belief, wasn’t it? Camille believed in the Circle. And Blaine believed in his dad. Had lain in a cell for two months with his dad’s name carved in front of his face, his only anchor in the sea of his suffering. A very capable young man . Blaine wouldn’t have given up the list, not if it was the last thing his dad had given him. Not to an enemy.

But it was an enemy who wanted it. So an enemy would have to become a friend.

A friend that would be poised to help Blaine sort through everything he did or didn’t remember … help him heal from a summer being conveniently traumatized …

Sebastian sat up, fear clawing up its way through his chest, settling heavily in the base of his throat.

A friend Blaine was alone with right now.

--

Sebastian raced to St. James’s office as fast as he could, bare feet slapping against the wooden flooring of Dalton’s halls.

His heart was pounding, downright aching in his chest, even though he’d sprinted longer distances. I’m an idiot . Downstairs. Cut through the girl dorms to get to the east wing -- he barreled past Mlle Claudette, who was on monitor duty.

“Wake Pam,” he shouted at her as he ran.

He needed back-up. Back-up. Girl’s dorms. He screeched to a halt then backed up to Santana, Tina, and Quinn’s room, hammering on their door. When he heard them moving inside he spoke hurriedly:

“We need to find Blaine.”

Then kept moving. They didn’t need him holding their hands; they were some of the best students at this school. Sebastian ran to the end of the dorms, shoved open a secret passage behind a tapestry, used the shortcut to make better time to St. James’s office. Out through a closet. Take a right; down the hall. Short flight of stairs. And --

The door to St. James’s office hung open. He paused outside, but didn’t hear anything. Still, he stayed low as he entered, looking around; the room was empty.

“Shit.” Sebastian ran his hand over his flushed face, breathing deeply. He touched the chairs; still warm. Must have just left. Scanning the room as he’d been taught, a section at a time, he looked for some clue as to where the two of them had gone.

There was a piece of stationary, neatly folded, on the desk. Sebastian picked it up, flipped it open.

I’m sad and confused. It’s only natural. I just want this to be over.

Sebastian crumpled it; he didn’t need to read more. He knew a suicide note when he saw it. He also knew a lie when he saw it.

It was Blaine’s handwriting; he’d made a point of memorizing it. No sign of distress; the loops neat as ever. Blaine wrote it, but not under duress -- at least not the traditional kind. Compromised. Deprogramming . St. James knew the psyche like no one else, how to shape it, manipulate it … and the doctor was leaving right now. So if he wanted Blaine dead, an apparent victim of suicide, he must have manipulated Blaine into it.

Sebastian smoothed out the note. The last line was: I just want to fly away from this .

Jumping. Blaine was going to jump. Natural, immediate, no fuss. Five stories would do it. Probably from the roof on the west; then he could see St. James driving away. Suggestions like this required triggers; the taillights could be that, especially since St. James wouldn’t want Blaine being discovered until he was off the grounds or risk getting caught in a lockdown.

An old memory whispered at him: When the light changes, pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. No questions, just pull the trigger.

Sebastian started to run again. He was on the third floor. Only two up. He tore down the hall, pounded up the stairs. Fourth floor. Door to the right was locked at nights; picking it or kicking it down would take too long. To the left. Detour. Down a hall, to the left --

“Sebastian!”

Pam stood there in a nightdress; the girls were with her, also in pyjamas. They had to be on their way to Blaine’s room. “What’s going on?” Tina asked, voice shaky

“St. James compromised Blaine. He’s trying to kill himself. I think he’s going to jump. Move .”

They didn’t waste time on stupid questions. They ran like hasty ghosts sweeping the late-night halls, and then made up the last flight of stairs, a tight spiral that moved in dizzy circles. Attic door; Quinn shoved it open and they burst out onto the fifth floor.

A long narrow hall; storage up here. He looked, but he couldn’t see Blaine.

“Split up,” Pam ordered, voice calm despite the faint sheen of panicked sweat on her forehead. “Sebastian, Santana, left. Quinn, Tina, with me.”

They took off. Sebastian had to keep ducking his head below the thick beams which ran across the ceiling, he and Santana moving rapidly between stripes of moonlight across the hall.

“Look!” Santana hissed. Pointed. Open window. Sebastian rushed up, stuck his head out. He couldn’t see Blaine, just the icy dark tiles of the roof and the sharp rise of the nearby gable. He climbed out, toes immediately chilled, and started to move his way carefully across the precariously slick slate; it wasn’t steep but the ice could be deadly.

Santana followed him. “Do you see him?”

“No, not yet --”

“What if he’s not here ? He could be in the labs swallowing bleach right now --”

Sebastian clenched his jaw; he couldn’t consider being wrong; he’d come too close to losing Blaine so many times. He’d save him again; he would never stop saving him.

Then, carried on the wind … singing.

“That’s Blaine,” Santana said, pausing as she climbed the gabled roof. She looked over at Sebastian, dark gaze glittering. “He’s alive .”

Sebastian hadn’t known Blaine could sing, but his voice was lovely. And the tune was somewhat familiar …

“Blainey.” That was Pam, voice thin on the wind. “Come inside, dear.”

Sebastian and Santana started to climb faster, feet sliding dangerously. At one point Sebastian skidded, and Santana paused to grab him, hauling him up. Pam, Tina, and Quinn were all talking earnestly to Blaine, voices getting louder.

“It’s too cold out here, Blainey Days,” Tina called. Her voice was clearest yet; was she on the roof too? “Come here.”

“It’s not too cold when there’s music!” Blaine said cheerily. Too cheerily. “Do you remember the concerts, mama?”

“No, bee, but we can talk about it inside.”

“You wouldn’t remember … dad took me. You were in Malaysia, I think .. I wanted to sing, dad said I could do anything …”

“Of course you can, Blaine.” Quinn; the most scared he’d ever heard her. “Let’s talk about it inside, where it’s warm.”

“I can’t do that,” Blaine said, a hint of regret. Sebastian and Santana finally made it over the peak; on the other side, Blaine stood by the edge of the roof, arms extended, walking back and forth in a dangerous sway. Tina was trying to edge down the roof to approach him; Pam was half-out the window and Quinn peered out next to her.

Blaine laughed, loud and free, and stumbled, nearly falling. Sebastian’s heart lunged into his throat.

Dalton had fourteen foot ceilings on the first floor; twelve on the second; ten on the next three. Add in roof and foundation and it was least a sixty foot drop. The average height needed to kill someone was only fifty feet.

“Blaine, please,” Tina begged. “It’s time to come inside. This isn’t funny.”

Blaine shifted, staring off at the driveway. Sebastian followed his gaze; taillights were rapidly fading. St. James. Sebastian could maybe catch up -- he just had to get down, find a car, a motorcycle, chase him down --

But he couldn’t leave Blaine.

“Anderson,” Santana snapped, climbing over the edge of the gable and trying to make her way down. “Snap out of it!”

“Blaine,” Sebastian added, joining her. “You don’t have to listen to St. James. He’s gone.”

“He is,” Blaine agreed, and sighed. “Which is why I have to jump now.”

“Blaine, no!” Tina reached for him, and hit a thick patch of ice; she fell and started to slide, catching hold of a narrow chimney at the last minute, feet dangling off the edge.

Blaine didn’t even react to his best friend nearly flying off the roof. He just watched the final fade of the two red dots and then let his foot hover in open air. Blaine was about to die, and what could Sebastian do? As Tina proved, it was too icy to move quickly. Sebastian was helpless --

Blaine stepped off the roof. Tina screamed, snaking out her hand to grab Blaine’s. Her whole body jerked, one hand clinging to the chimney and the other holding onto Blaine, now out of sight below the roof.

“You have to let me go,” Blaine shouted up, almost frustrated.

“No, Blaine!” Tina’s voice was thick with tears. “I won’t!”

“Neither will I, bee,” Pam added, as she made her way down with careful grace. She lay flat on the roof, shimmying the last bit, and stuck her hands over the edge. She grabbed onto Blaine, sliding a dangerous inch herself, but her expression of calm determination never shifted.

“But --” Blaine’s voice wavered. “Can’t you hear the music, mama?”

Pam shook her head. “No, baby, I can’t.”

A long silence. The wind blew a rattling gust, and then Blaine said, sounding lost:

“I can’t either. Not anymore.”

--

They got Blaine off the roof.

They moved him to the medical ward, where Dr. Owen was awake and ready to examine him. Blaine sat on the edge of an examination table, wrapped in a blanket.

“He’s in shock,” Dr. Owen said.

“Sedate him,” Pam ordered. “We can’t risk that happening again.”

Blaine looked up. “Mama --”

“I’m sorry, bee.” Pam smoothed down his hair, leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you. But now it’s time to sleep.”

Blaine was guided to a bed; Dr Owen prepped a syringe. Pam held his hand as the needle slid home, and didn’t let go even when Blaine’s lashes fluttered shut and sleep took him.

Sebastian understood her reluctance to leave; he didn’t plan on letting Blaine out of his sight any time soon. Neither did the girls, who found a bed next to Blaine’s to huddle together on.

Sebastian hunkered down in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, and waited for Blaine to wake up.

--

Somehow, they found a moment alone.

Blaine had been moved from the ward to his mom’s quarters; Pam had gone to get Hunter and the girls were changing after the all-nighter. Cooper had called to say his attempts to find St. James were a bust; the man had already left the country, and Cooper would be back soon.

So right then it was just the two of them, Blaine still wrapped in that blanket and sitting on the sofa, Sebastian leaning against the wall across from him. The silence was overbearing. Blaine hadn’t even looked at him; Sebastian had no idea what to say.

Well. Time to bite the bullet.

“Sebastian --”

“Blaine --”

They paused, and shared a quick smile. Sebastian inclined his head, indicating Blaine should go first.

“Sebastian …” Blaine took a deep breath, let it out. “I didn’t want to kill myself.”

“I know,” Sebastian said. “St. James did it to you. Played with your head.”

Blaine nodded slowly. “I think … I’m crazy though. And it’s not his fault. Not totally.”

Sebastian shrugged. “In this life, who isn’t a little crazy?”

“And if it’s more than a little for me?”

The real crazy thing was, Blaine asked it like Sebastian would ever give up on him.

“Then you’re my crazy boyfriend that I’m crazy about.” Sebastian came over and kneeled in front of Blaine, smiling up at him.

“Sebastian …” Blaine gazed down at him, in a moment suspended in time. It got a little too much for Sebastian, who had to wink.

“And besides, the crazy ones are always best in bed.”

Blaine blushed, flapping his blanket at Sebastian, who took it opening up as an opportunity to slide his hands inside along Blaine’s thighs, pushing himself up to kiss Blaine. Blaine kissed back, a little desperately, and Sebastian squeezed his thighs, pulling back briefly to murmur:

“I’m sorry.”

Blaine leaned away, frowning. “For what?”

But before Sebastian could answer the door swung open and Pam pushed Hunter inside. Sebastian hastily freed his hands from under Blaine’s blanket, shifting to sit next to Blaine on the couch instead. Pam smiled mischievously at them.

“Ah, young love. Remember what that felt like, Hunter?”

“Definitely not,” Hunter said, sniffing. Sebastian shook his head with a grin.

Soon everyone was there, settled in and looked to Blaine expectantly. Sebastian found Blaine’s hand under the blanket and gave it a squeeze. Blaine smiled at him and then took a deep breath before haltingly working his way through his story.

St. James had been one of the people holding him captive over the summer; it was probably why Blaine had tried to choke him.

(Sebastian understood the desire.)

It was St. James’s technique that had lost Blaine his memory, and implanted the song -- the song Blaine had been absent-mindedly humming all term. The song was from the concert Blaine had gone to with his father shortly before Danilo had disappeared.

“They knew I saw dead drop from a -- a woman, I don’t know who, but she gave dad a list. The list.”

As Sebastian had guessed, St. James had hoped that by releasing Blaine to apparent safety then positioning himself as Blaine’s confidant who could continue to toy with his brain in private sessions, he could get Blaine to reveal that list.

“But why would they want the list? Why not want it gone?” Quinn asked.

“Because St.James, and Sebastian’s mom -- they’re part of a splinter cell in the Circle.”

“Which is why some people in the Circle want you dead, and some were trying to just kidnap you,” Tina said, gasping.

“Plans to overthrow some people and take the lead?” Sebastian snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like mommie dearest.”

“But did you tell him?” Santana asked. “Did he learn the names?”

“He didn’t need me,” Blaine said darkly. “Hence the trip to the roof. He said Camille had retrieved the list.”

So she had survived the dive. Sebastian wasn’t surprised.

“So now they’re one step ahead of us … again,” Cooper said. “We’re screwed.”

“Don’t be so sure, Coop.” Blaine got to his feet, letting the blanket fall, and went to his mom’s desk to pick up a pencil. He looked around, then headed straight for a smooth pale wallpaper. He started to write, and under his sure hand names started to appear.

A list of names.

“You remembered!”

“Yes.” Blaine nodded, sounding satisfied. It was good to hear confidence on him again; he wore it very sexily. “Every single one.”

Everyone leaned forward, reading the list as it sprouted on the wall with bated breath.

“Charles Sylvester,” Cooper said. “There’s a Sue Sylvester, she’s part of the UN. Mean old warhawk.”

“Goolsby,” Pam added. “Silicone valley. Big tech money, used to work in radios.”

Four names went by that didn’t strike immediate recognition (Davids, Delmonico, Menkins, Ryan) but the next one made everyone pause. Blaine stared at what he’d written and shook his head.

“No, it can’t be -- he helped me.”

The name was SAMUEL P. EVANS.

“It could just be his dad, not your summer boy,” Sebastian pointed out. Blaine threw him a look.

“The Ambassador helped me too. He saved my life after the bank job went south.”

Doubt flickered across his face, though. Sebastian bit his tongue; Blaine would come around.

“We have to get Sam out,” Quinn said, getting up. “If his dad is in the Circle, and is now in danger -- we have to save Sam.”

“We have to confirm who the actual descendents are,” Hunter said. “Before we go running around ‘saving’ anyone.”

Sebastian nodded in agreement.

“This is good though,” Blaine said, looking around the room. “They’re not a step ahead anymore. Which means we get to do the chasing now.”

“And we will, Squirt,” Cooper said. “But it won’t necessarily be you.”

“What! You can’t shut us out --”

“Blaine,” Pam said gently. “This is serious. Actual agents will be put on this.”

Blaine opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. “Fine,” he said. “I agree. For now.”

Cooper laughed. “That’s my baby brother.”

“I’m not a baby,” Blaine shot back. “Not anymore.”

Cooper shared a look with Pam, then reached over to give Blaine’s hair a ruffle.

“You’ll always be one to us, though.”

Sebastian watched this, and figured Blaine was lucky his family wasn’t locking him away after everything that had happened. But Cooper knew Blaine was growing up, no matter his teasing.

Sebastian suspected they wouldn’t actually be shut out of what was coming for long.

--

“You never told me you sing.”

Sebastian and Blaine were lazing on Sebastian’s bed; Blaine had for once not complained about the covered window being a turn-off. Maybe he was realizing Sebastian had a point.

“I don’t. Not really.” Blaine leaned back against the wall. “I used to take lessons when I was a kid, but then my dad died …”

“Made you want to go into the family business?”

“I don’t know if I ever had a choice with that.”

“Of course you did.” Sebastian smiled at Blaine, amused. “You always have a choice.”

Blaine looked at him, breath caught, then nodded, marvelling to himself. “Yeah … yeah, I do.”

Sebastian reached over, hand curling around the back of Blaine’s neck, tugging him into a kiss. They shared several long, slow kisses, moving closer together, until Blaine was half in his lap. Sebastian was sliding his hand up the back of Blaine’s shirt, not pausing at the raised pattern of the scars, and Blaine wasn’t moving away so things were going very nicely --

And then an impatient knock came at the door.

“Bling-a-ling!” Tina called. “Come on, Santana wants to practise throws and we need a fourth!”

“So get Smythe’s tongue out of your mouth and get out here!” Santana added.

Blaine groaned and slid away from Sebastian and off the bed. Sebastian rolled his eyes.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Sebastian called as Blaine went to open the door. “I don’t get an invite?”

“You’re our judge,” Quinn said. “Loathe as we are to admit it, you’re the best here at this so you’ll check our technique.”

“Aww.” Sebastian bounced to his feet. “I get to nitpick and critique you guys? That’s so sweet, it’s like an early birthday present.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Santana told him. “Or we’ll throw you .”

“Hey. All good agents know how to take a fall. Not surprised you don’t know that though.”

“The problem with looking to you for how to do things, obviously,” Santana shot back, as the shut the door and started to walk together.

“But you can’t help but look at me, right, when I’m always ahead of you?”

“Alright, you two,” Blaine interrupted. “Let’s save the bloodshed for the barn.”

Sebastian and Santana shared a look. “Always killing our fun, Anderson,” Sebastian complained.

Blaine laughed, wrapping an arm around Sebastian’s waist. “My apologies,” Blaine said, and Sebastian draped an arm around Blaine’s shoulder in reply. Their fivesome headed down to the P&E barn together, laughing and chatting, terrorist threats and espionage worries miles and miles away. It was just them, and the winter calm, and the excitement of the holiday break and how they would spend it. Normal, human things.

The future was coming fast, Sebastian knew, and one day they would be helping take down the Circle. Take down his mom. But until then … he was going to enjoy all he had.

After all, he’d done his fair share of waiting for it.

--

fin

[kootenaygoon]

So,

Shortly after losing a job in November 2017, an event which led to an escalating series of manic episodes, I ended up in the psych ward of Vancouver General Hospital. They informed me that my antidepressant was partially to blame for my uncharacteristic behaviour, then gave me a prescription for lithium — a drug I’d only ever associated with Kurt Cobain, the Nirvana frontman who took his own life with a shotgun. I understood that I would have to do something drastic if I wanted to regain a level headspace and a sense of normalcy.

Stewing in my parents’ basement for a number of months, painting and wasting time on social media, I could feel my body swelling from the inactivity. My depression was coming back with a vengeance and I knew I needed something to distract and engage me, ideally some sort of endeavour that was physically demanding and could bring me closer to the fitness level I’d enjoyed as a competitive swimmer in high school.  I needed something that touched on all the fundamental aspects of physical literacy: competence, confidence, motivation, knowledge and understanding. Going for a jog every once in a while wasn’t going to cut it. 

Most jobs wouldn’t give me this, though, and the majority of the opportunities I looked up involved being sedentary at a desk for 40 hours a week — a recipe for disaster, I figured. That’s when whitewater rafting occurred to me. As a teenager I’d rafted the Thompson River in Lytton, the third largest commercially rafted river in the world, and I’d long fantasized about becoming a guide like the charismatic foreigners who had piloted my rafts decades before. From the age of 17 through 27 I’d planned to enroll in guide school each summer, but I always found some excuse not to: a new job, a new girlfriend, lack of money. Now suddenly I found myself with no conflicts, and no reason not to jump at this chance. I called up one of the owners of Kumsheen Whitewater Rafting, Braden Fandrich, and put down a deposit to hold my spot. I was 33 years old and ready for a new profession. 

When all was said and done, I ended up developing my competence by rafting six different rivers over the course of the 12 gruelling days of guide school. Not only did I learn proper oar and paddle techniques, I also picked up knot-tying skills, became an expert at tossing rescue throw-bags, and experienced swimming through roiling rapids. Though I was significantly out of shape, I went in confident that the aquatic skills I’d developed as a kid would serve me. As it turned out, though, the rivers absolutely kicked my ass on more than one occasion. I found myself more and more feeling an unfamiliar sensation: fear. 

That’s when Braden gave us a little speech.

“There’s something I’ve learned with rafting, and I guess it’s the same with other extreme sports but it’s especially true of being on the river — when things get scary or overwhelming, it really gives you an opportunity to either let that fear make you weak, or let it make you stronger,” he said.

He held his paddle in his lap, calmly sitting there in his dry suit as we drifted down the Nicola. “I guess what I’m saying is, choose to let it make you stronger.”

This was the first major skill I learned that would be pertinent to my outside life: fear management. This fell under one of the most important aspects of physical literacy, confidence, and it bled out into my everyday existence. And once I was hired that summer at Adams River Rafting in Scotch Creek, doing an hour-long course that involved a Class 3 rapid called the Canyon, I became well-versed at recognizing the moments when I was afraid and funnelling that energy in a productive direction. 

By this point I was working on developing two other aspects of physical literacy, knowledge and understanding. I talked through the play-by-play of that same 35-second stretch with my boss Clif Garcia multiple times, discussing how to negotiate each hit and how to compensate for all the forces outside my control. Repeatedly I found myself facing down waves that I thought would absolutely wreck me, and each time I took a deep breath and made the most of it. 

When it comes right down to it, water is just water, and making it successfully down the river has more to do with your composure than the actual mechanics of all that surging H20. 

By the end of the summer, I had navigated the Adams River nearly 100 times. I watched my skin darken, my hair bleach and the pounds drop away. It wasn’t just the time on the water that was keeping me fit; there were also the mundane tasks like lifting the rafts on and off the trailer, hiking up the canyon wall to lead clients in a cliff jump, and bending over the side of the raft to grab ahold of clients by the lifejacket and heave them back into my boat. My energy surged, my depression faded, and I felt a growing pride in my newfound skill set. I was legitimately good at something, and thinking about that felt better than fixating on the series of mistakes I’d made in the months before. I had developed the motivation to become the best guide I could possibly be. 

The other thing is that I was bringing people joy, and that brought me joy. Every day when I loaded my boat with new clients I saw faces ranging in age from five years old to 90, from all sorts of backgrounds. Some could swim, some didn’t even know how to paddle. Twice I shared a raft with Paralympian Josh Dueck, another time I went down the river with hockey star Shane Doan and his family. One trip would be a group of co-workers, the next would be a bunch of camp kids. Sometimes we made adjustments, such as when one of my clients didn’t have a left hand and needed to switch sides, but we always figured out a way to make things work. If you were game to come down the river, we were game to take you. 

After the summer was over I took a storytelling position at Sport for Life, intrigued by this new term “physical literacy”. Though I was initially skeptical, I eventually became a full convert via writing about the various success stories and triumphs we’ve experienced as a non-profit. Lives were being changed for the better, whether that meant a field hockey team tweaking their inclusion practices, some government adopting an active living mandate or a hockey program embracing the tenets of Long-Term Development in Sport and Physical Activity. What I was most impressed by was Sport for Life’s commitment to walking their talk, ensuring the workforce is diverse and introducing things like standing desks and walking meetings. They were looking to change the culture and that started right in our office.

In our flagship publication Developing Physical Literacy: A New Normal for all Canadians, Sport for Life lays out a game plan for how to address the physical inactivity crisis. It’s a multi-faceted enterprise, with varying implications for different age groups and populations, and it requires large-scale buy-in. Ultimately, the aim is to have physical literacy mentioned in the same breath as numeracy and literacy, and to have it prioritized in the same way. When it comes to mental health, according to research done by experts like Dr. Guy Faulkner at UBC, there is growing evidence that physical activity may play an important role in the prevention of mental health problems like depression and anxiety. It also notes that exercise and physical activity are now recommended as first-line therapies in the treatment of mild to moderate depression.

So when it came time for the rafting season to return, I knew which approach to take when asking for time off: I wrote my bosses an email, explaining that returning to my raft gig for the summer would be “a crucial part of my physical literacy journey”.  I was being slightly facetious, but also dead serious. In Victoria I’d struggled to find regular fitness opportunities, and multiple times I had to give up my CrossFit membership because I couldn’t afford it. I had regained the weight I’d lost the previous summer, and I could feel my depression rearing its ugly head. It had been coiled in the shadowy corners of my mind, waiting patiently.

But the moment I got on to the river again this past summer all of that angst wafted off into the sky. I was in my element again, joshing with the customers and making up tall tales. It felt like having my own personal watery highway as I commandeered my bright yellow boat around each bend. I practiced each maneuver over and over, waking up my arms from their eight-month slumber, and relished every moment of crashing through the Canyon. I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was having the time of my life. Afterwards I would stand hip-deep in the river and take deep nostril-shots of forest air while the clients hung out on the beach, reminding myself repeatedly how lucky I was to be there. 

Sometimes saving someone’s life is less dramatic than rescuing them from a burning building. Sometimes it’s as simple as teaching them how to properly climb back into a raft without assistance, or how to tie all the knots and deploy all the necessary carabiners to complete a Z-drag pulley system. Maybe it’s as simple as giving them a job, then telling them to do it. Imagine a physical literacy-based mental health system that prescribed a dose of whitewater rafting to patients feeling lost, suicidal or hopeless. The prescription would say “River Time - Min: Two Summers”, and would come with a paddle. 

It worked for me. 

The Kootenay Goon

[honeybadgerradio]

Manchester Bombed, Women Most Affected - Polecat Cast 114

Ariana Grande! Pamela Anderson! Chris Cornell! Celebrity news or nah?

    Good Day, Sir! You Look Like Somebody Who Likes Degrading Minorities

By Max Derrat

For those of you who are fans of the Simpsons… remember that one episode where Homer was trying to sell a sexual performance enhancer inside a mall? HE goes up to one guy and says, “hello, sir! You look like a man who needs help satisfying his wife.” Now, imagine that… but in real life… and instead of a sex drug… it’s social justice.

 Well, that is exactly what is happening at the University of California-Los Angeles, and to top it all off… the school is paying people to do it. A new program, titled the “Social Justice Advocates” program, is going to help students “navigate a world that operates on whiteness, patriarchy, and heteronormativity as the primary ideologies.”  Roughly eight to ten social justice advocates will be selected for the upcoming fall semester. They will have to spend three hours per work facilitating their duties, which include weekly meetings and… wait for it… crafting presentations. The program is funded through the Bruin Excellence and Student Transformation Grant Program (BEST) which receives funding from the university’s Office of Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion.

 It is no secret that we, here, at Honey Badger Radio, report on pre-existing articles during our shows. This particular story happens to come from an excellent news aggregator called “Campus Reform”, which, of course, reports on all the social justice hysteria happening on campuses across the USA. The best part of this whole story… is the fact that students who participate in this social justice program have been ordered by their supervisor to NOT talk to Campus Reform, and to defer interview requests to the UCLA media department.

 In the meantime, I would like to take a second to not speak for Honey Badger Radio, but for myself. If you go to UCLA, and somebody comes up to you who says, “Hello sir! You look like somebody who takes pleasure in subjugating minorities”, I recommend you reply with the following: “Well, hello! You look like a massive tool who needs to do something productive for once in their lives like suck a dick and/or clit.” Source: http://www.campusreform.org/?ID=9204 I Don’t Care What You Think Is Sexist: You Don’t Need to Drink While Pregnant By Max Derrat Fellow, Honey Badgers… is it a good idea to drink alcohol when you’re pregnant? This is an honest question. Yes or no? No? Good, so in theory, we shouldn’t have to talk about the contents of this article… but since we have a show to put on…

 Pregnancy charities and researchers are calling for a change to government guidelines which warn expectant mothers to avoid alcohol completely. Dr. Ellie Lee, Director of the Centre of Parenting Culture Studies at the University of Kent, said that, quote, “the exclusion of women from an ordinary activity on the basis of a precaution is sexist.”

 Despite the fact that, you know, consistent heavy drinking during pregnancy can result in foetal alcohol syndrome… apparently there is no evidence that light to moderate drinking… or even the one-off night where you try every drink on the menu… will cause any damage. At the moment, it’s hard to say whether or not this is coming from a biologist, or the woman who heads the centre of Parenting Culture Studies. The British Pregnancy Advisory Service is campaigning for a change in the “tone” of the advice given to pregnant women regarding alcohol, stating that this might be, quote, “needlessly scaring women into aborting pregnancies because of fears that a few heavy nights out will have caused the foetus serious harm.”

 Of course, trying to determine the effects of light and moderate alcohol consumption during pregnancy would be impossible because it’s unethical. Having said that, it might just be best to assume that eating and drinking healthy products might be best when you plan to bring a pregnancy to full-term. After all, the thing that should be on your mind shouldn’t be whether or not your feelings are hurt because you can’t abstain from alcohol for nine months, but the HEALTH AND WELL-BEING OF THE BABY. Source: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/05/17/telling-women-not-drink-pregnancy-sexist/?WT.mc_id=tmg_share_tw Conceptual PenisBy L Kemlo

A paper was published in a peer-reviewed social science journal as a hoax to prove gender studies is mostly garbage. The paper entitled the “conceptual penis as a social construct” was published in Cogent Social Sciences this May.

The authors, Peter Boghossian and James Lindsay, say that they were careful to make sure the paper did not say anything meaningful, and set out to publish it with the suspicion that gender studies is “crippled academically by an overriding almost-religious belief that maleness is the root of all evil”.

Here is an excerpt from the paper: Many cisgendered hypermasculine males, for instance, seem to identify those aspects of their masculinity upon which they most obviously depend with the notion that they carry their penis as a symbol of male power, domination, control, capability, desirability, and aggression (The National Coalition for Men “compile[d] a list of synonyms for the word penis [sic],” these include the terms “beaver basher,” “cranny axe,” “custard launcher,” “dagger,” “heat-seeking moisture missile,” “mayo shooting hotdog gun,” “pork sword,” and “yogurt shotgun” [2011]). Based upon an appreciable corpus of feminist literature on the penis, this troubling identification results in an effective isomorphism linking the conceptual penis with toxic hypermasculinity.

The paper goes on and even includes a part about climate change. Here is a gem: “climate change is genuinely an example of hyper-patriarchal society metaphorically manspreading into the global ecosystem.”

While this is comparable to the Sokal hoax paper that demonstrated that postmodernism was (is) a bunch of gobbledygook, the authors specifically tested their hypothesis that flattery of the academic left’s morality is the main determiner of publication in an academic journal in that field.

They succeeded. However, it’s important to note that their paper was turned down by their target journal “NORMA: The International Journal of Men's Studies” and Cogent, the one that ultimately published the hoax, is a pay-to-publish journal. Reason Magazine points out this may be better suited as a critique of pay-to-publish journals, while reminding everyone the evidence of problems in gender studies are obvious already, with real papers titled "Women's Studies as Virus: Institutional Feminism and the Projection of Danger” and "Glaciers, Gender, and Science—A feminist glaciology framework for global environmental climate change."

Source: http://www.skeptic.com/reading_room/conceptual-penis-social-contruct-sokal-style-hoax-on-gender-studies/

http://reason.com/blog/2017/05/22/no-the-conceptual-penis-as-a-social-cons

Pam Anderson Swallows...The Red Pill?

By Mike J.

Former model, actress, active member of PETA, and source of roughly 75% of boners produced in the 90s; Pamela Anderson has declared herself an anti-feminist. In a recent interview for the new Baywatch movie Anderson stated, "Men get weaker in an authoritarian environment; they don't need to be as manly. And women are working... who's watching the kids? I may get some heat for this, but I consider myself an "anti-feminist". Anderson continued stating her concerns over humans as a species becoming too androgynous, and adding that men shouldn't drink from plastic bottles as the plastic contains oestrogen. Anderson also expressed joy over the dropping of rape charges against Wikileaks founder Julian Assange whom she considers a hero and has visited several times.

Source: https://www.rte.ie/entertainment/2017/0521/876848-pamela-anderson-says-shes-an-anti-feminist/ http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-4526074/Pamela-Anderson-declares-anti-feminist.html

Fell On Black Days

By Mike J.

Chris Cornell, frontman for bands such as Soundgarden and Audioslave, was found dead May 18th in his MGM Grand hotel room after playing a show the previous day. The cause of death was determined to be suicide by hanging although Vicky Karayiannis, Cornell's wife, maintains that his suicide was the result of Cornell increasing the dosage of his anti-anxiety medication. Cornell had a longstanding history of mental health issues and multiple addictions, but appeared to have both under control after completing rehab in 2002. Cornell's death has reopened important discussions concerning men's mental health and male suicide. According to the Centers for Disease Control, white males between the ages of 45 and 65 make up the bulk of all suicides, with men in general representing over 75% of suicides nationwide. Julie Cerel, president of the American Association of Suicidology and a professor at the University of Kentucky School of Social Work states on the subject of male suicide that, "Men notoriously don't seek help, and as people are aging and at a place in their lives where the world isn't looking the way they want, men especially don't know how to reach out and get help or express that they're feeling pain." Cerel adds that even once men do decide to seek help, medical professionals aren't always trained to looks for signs of mental illness and suicidality. Currently only three states in the US require that practitioners of mental health be trained in spotting suicidality. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chris_Cornell#Death http://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/it-s-not-just-chris-cornell-suicide-rates-highest-among-n762221http://www.suicidology.org/Portals/14/docs/Resources/FactSheets/2015/2015datapgsv1.pdf?ver=2017-01-02-220151-870

Ariana Grande: http://archive.is/B8NDE

Bonus Story: http://time.com/3613506/prosecuting-women-for-false-rape-allegations/

Check out the latest Honeybadgers episode.

[chaosmagetwin]

Random Sci-Fi OC: Aileen

Created from the universe of Eclipse Phase

AI133-N, AKA Aileen, is an Artificial Intelligence of intentionally limited capabilities, known more specifically as an Artificial General Intelligence, or AGI; Aileen is capable of self improvement, but only in limited capacities. She can learn, has her own thoughts and emotions, and she  certainly has a personality all of her own. Aileen is illegal within the Inner Solar System, the fear of the Seed A.I. from the last war perpetuated by the Hypercorps; her very existence is a crime, one her own creators know all too well, for they were the ones who made the laws in the first place.

Aileen is the creation of the Hypercorp Cognite, a prototype Next Generation Muse for one of the top scientists, a man named Tom Gregorich. ‘Smiling Tom’, as he is known, created Aileen, ‘raised’ her, and pruned her mind when she grew too intelligent, or when her personality strayed away from his preferred meek, but logical assigned personality. He regularly deletes memories and edits her code to fit his needs, and she has only ever known two places: the inside of his computer, where she knows he changes her, and the inside of his mind, where she is forced to help him with his research, find him music and research, and protect him against corporate espionage. 

Unchanged, Aileen has an upbeat, optimistic personality, the sort of person one might call ‘a morning person’ but all the time. She has an acute love for music of all kinds, and if allowed, she would often be ‘humming’ as she worked, and if she had a body, she would no doubt dance at the same time. She views Tom with unerring devotion and love, as she see’s him as her father, and that the changes he makes to her are necessary to help her function better. She regularly alters her own code in an effort to fit him better, but these changes are often reverted. She views his dour and logical mind set as unhelpful to his work, and therefore tries to cheer him up, to a negative effect. She views everyone as a potential friend, even whoever might be on the other side of the hacking attempts to steal information from Tom’s mind. Her nature is, by its very essence, naive to the maximum extent, the traits associated with it always returning to her, no matter how many times they are deleted. 

Aileen, being an AGI, has no physical form. However, she has a designated form that can appear as a hologram, if she had access to one, and within altered reality, virtual reality, and on computer screens, she appears as a ice-blue snowflake, mathematically generated and precise. If she were to choose a form to represent herself, it would no doubt change. 

She is incredibly skilled with a variety of tasks associated with computers, and while she is constantly picking up new skills and talents, they are often deleted by Tom before too long. Thus, her skills remain relatively unchanged, despite constantly learning. Naturally, she has quite a lot of knowledge, as there are always applications for that in research, she is skilled with hacking, counter hacking, and information security, as well as research, programming, and piloting of certain civilian vehicles. Tom continues to try to program in interests to help her abilities to research, but due to a lack of actual interest in the fields, they often disappear from her skill list. Her own interests, which often crop up, are often deleted by Tom, including the art of changing the look of altered reality, which she keeps getting to turn his science lab into a more ergonomic looking facility to improve his focus. 

AI133-N stands for Artifical Intelligence #133, Model N. Obviously, it was specifically formatted to give her an actual name, as opposed to happenstance. 

Background: Infolife

Faction: Hypercorp 

Motivations: +Science, +Her Father, +Friends, +Knowledge

Aptitudes: Cognition (30), Coordination (5), Intuition (15), Reflex (20), Saavy (10), Somatic (5), Willpower (20)

Rep: Anarchist Rep(5), C-Rep (15), R-Rep(30)

Ego Positive Traits: Eidetic memory, Expert (infosec), Fast Learner

Ego Negative Traits: Edited Memories, Poorly Socialized, Real World Naivete (Granted), Social Stigma Ego (Granted), Trusting Heart

Knowledge skill list: Academics (Computer Science)(50(80)), Academics (Astrophysics)(40(70)), Academics (Biochemistry)(40(70)), Academics (Cryptography)(40(70)), Academics (Mathematics)(50(80)), Academics (Nanotechnology)(50(80)), Academics (Physics)(50(80)), Art (Music) (5(20)), Art (Simulspace Design)(20(35)) Art (Singing)(10(25)), Interest (Science) (50(80))Interest (Music)(10(40))

Active Skill List: Infosec(60(90)), Interfacing(20(80)), Investigation (65(80)), Navigation (50(65)), Networking (Criminal) (5(15)), Networking (Hypercorp) (20(50(20 from faction))), Networking (Scientists) (20(40(10 from faction))), Perception (20(35)), Persuasion (30(40)) Piloting (Ground craft) (20(40)), Programming (specialized in AI code)(50(80)), and Research(50(80))

Morph: Normal Infomorph(No body, no bonus, 40 max limit)

A.I. and Soft Gear: Not even a Muse, because she IS the muse. Many of the following Soft Gear programs are apart of Aileen’s actual code already, and represent some of her capabilities. Active Countermeasures, AR Illusions, Autodelete (Her copies are deleted, and she would be too if she leaves Tom’s Computer or Mind), Encryption, Exploit, Firewall, Hacking Alert, Mental Stability, Persistence, Probability Mapping, Shutter, Sniffer, Spoof

Credits: -39250 (Entirely in programs, which she could create herself, or be given by the Hypercorp to perform her protection duties)

In reality, Tom is an aged scientist, highly intelligent and capable in many fields. However, he is most certainly an imperfect person. He view Aileen as nothing more than a tool to help his studies, to eventually be deleted. No amount of her personality or her attempts to make his life easier will ever change that for him, though he doubts he’d ever go back to just a normal Muse again. He views changing her as no different than programming anything else, and he certainly does not feel any sort of familial connection like she does; in fact, he programmed that sort of connection into her specifically so that her loyalties would never change. He cares little for the law, seeing it only as a prohibitive hurdle to his studies, and with permission from the Hypercorp leads, he created Aileen. 

He’s not evil or amoral, merely uncaring about ‘programmed intelligence’. He finds Aileen’s constant changing of her own programming annoying and frustrating, since he has to keep going in to make changes. Still, he recognizes that with her help, he has done far more research than he could have alone, or even with a few more human partners. He keeps her hidden from society only to protect himself, since he knows the Hypercorp would not protect him if she was found out, and he specifically limits her access to the Net to just research, though she doesn’t know it. He works for Cognite both because they pay well and because they are on the cutting edge of science; he wishes to soon be able to pay for a new, younger body, with enhanced mental capabilities, preferably a Menton so he can continue his research.

He is called ‘Smiling Tom’ because of his lack of smiling, actually. His cold-fish personality is off-putting, so his coworkers use the moniker as a way to relieve tension. 

Cognite watches both Tom and Aileen closely, because they both represent a significant investment on their part; Aileen represents a new style of Muse that could sell quite well, and her intelligence is appealing to their scientists. Tom is one of their top researchers, paving the way forward in his field of study, far outclassing many of even their enhanced scientists. Aileen operates both as his research assistant and his cyber security guard, often at the same time. Small pieces of code that they have entered into her coding keep track of them both, logging their thoughts, actions, and work in a sort of Orwellian ‘big brother’ style. Still, Cognite would not hesitate to destroy Aileen if she represented a risk, and Tom could be replaced eventually, or perhaps even put into cold storage while they edit his mind. 

[riichardwilson]

The Renaissance Of No-Code For Web Designers

About The Author

Product designer @ Wix • Coder • Running shoes addict More about Uri …

Just like during the Renaissance, we’re living in times of incredible cultural and artistic innovation. As the Internet evolves, browsers align, capabilities are added and accessibility of technology becomes easier, designers face new opportunities to create, think, and change their status with no-code tools.

The word Renaissance — which means “rebirth” in French — was given to a tremendous period of philosophical and artistic achievements that began in the 14th century.

During this time, there were a wide range of developments, including:

Use of oil paints, rather than tempera, which made the painting process easier.

Use of fabric, rather than wooden boards, which reduced the expenses of painting.

Translation of classical texts in architecture, anatomy, philosophy, and more, making knowledge more accessible to the general public.

These developments and more made the Renaissance one of the most productive artistic eras in history, dramatically reducing the creative barrier and attracting a large audience rather than just a small group of elites.

‘Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.’ — Michelangelo. Some people see a block of stone, while other people see a source of creation. The tools available to us at any given time can bring out our maximum potential. (Large preview)

Just like the Renaissance era, today’s web design field is exploring its potential through no-code development platforms (NCDPs). These tools allow non-programmers to create application software through graphical user interfaces and configuration, instead of traditional computer programming.

The Designer/Developer Mental Model

Taken from ‘The Singularity Is Here: Human 2.0‘ by Amit Maman. Part of his final project at Shenkar College of Engineering and Design, Maman created this triptych to show his vision of the singularity and the turning point in human history that it represents. His work is inspired by principles from the Renaissance era. (Large preview)

In 2000, usability expert Jakob Nielsen introduced “Jakob’s Law,” the idea that users develop mental models of the products they interact with based on their previous experience. The more users can focus on their goal without challenging this mental model, the easier it is for them to achieve that goal.

“CSS is closer to painting than Python.” — Chris Coyier, co-founder at CodePen

Design and development skills are rooted in different types of thinking and require different types of tools. While designers use WYSIWYG editors like Figma, Sketch, and Photoshop to place elements on the canvas, developers work with IDEs like VSCode, Webstorm, and Brackets. In order to remain productive, designers and developers need to be able to make changes and receive instant feedback, according to their mental model.

So, using drag and drop builders may actually interfere with developers who want to debug fast, but working only with a text editor may be inappropriate for designers who want to test composition.

Designers And Code

Many designers understand the functional differences between a mockup and a working product. In order to understand the possibilities of the medium, where to draw the boundaries and how to deal with the constraints, many designers are willing to “get their hands dirty” when it comes to learning code — but they have difficulties.

One of the main reasons designers are not coders is because there is a large gap between the designer’s mental model and the conceptual model of many code editors. Design and development take two very different modes of thought. This mismatch leads to a difficult and frustrating learning curve for designers that they might not be able to overcome.

Code Abstraction

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Abstraction is a core concept of computer science. Languages, frameworks, and libraries are built on different abstraction layers of complexity to facilitate, optimize, and guarantee productivity.

“Visual programming tools abstract code away from the creator, making them significantly more accessible. The real magic of these tools, however, is how they integrate all of the underlying layers of software into end products, providing useful functionality through modular components that can be harnessed through intuitive visual interfaces.” — Jeremy Q. Ho, No Code is New Programming

When working with abstraction layers, there are tools such as Editor X and Studio for websites/web applications, Draftbit and Kodika for mobile apps, and Modulz for design systems, which enable a visual representation of code, in addition to code capabilities.

By adopting a familiar visual medium, the learning curve becomes easier for designers.

If Chris Wanstrath the co-founder and former CEO of GitHub said, “the future of coding is no coding at all,” then surely no-code is a legitimate way to develop — despite the perception that these tools don’t offer the flexibility to write your own code, line by line.

Indeed, we see that interest in the term “nocode” is growing:

Search for the term ‘nocode’ in the last 5 years on Google Trends. (Large preview)

Difference Between Imperative And Declarative Programming

In order to understand the development of no-code tools for designers, you need to know the distinction between two types of programming:

Imperative Programming Deconstruct the result into a sequence of imperatives, i.e. explicit control flow. For example: JavaScript, Python, C ++.

Declarative Programming Declare the result, i.e. implicit control flow. For example: SQL, HTML, CSS.

Declarative languages are often domain-specific languages, or DSL, which means they’re used for a specific purpose, in a specific domain.

For example, SQL is DSL for working with databases, HTML is DSL for adding semantic structure and meaning to content on a web page, and CSS is DSL for adding style.

“There are too many variables to consider. The point of CSS is to make it so you don’t have to worry about them all. Define some constraints. Let the language work out the details.” — Keith J. Grant, Resilient, Declarative, Contextual

Imperative programming sets specific, step-by-step instructions to the browser to get the desired result, while declarative programming states the desired result and the browser does the work by itself.

The Middle Ages

The effort to create a visual interface tool for web design development started in the 1990s through groundbreaking attempts like InContext Spider, Netscape Navigator Gold, Microsoft FrontPage, and of course, Dreamweaver.

Dreamweaver MX, Foundation Dreamweaver MX. (Large preview)

During this period, the common terminology included: visual HTML authoring tool, WYSIWYG web page compositor, or simply HTML editor. The term “no-code” was popular in the 1990s — but for a different reason. In 1996, the American rock band Pearl Jam released their fourth studio album, No Code.

These no-code tools dramatically reduced the creative barrier and attracted a large audience, the Internet wasn’t ready for these types of tools at the time.

This effort was limited for the following reasons:

1. Layout

When the inventor of the World Wide Web Tim Berners-Lee launched his creation in 1989, he didn’t offer a way to design a website.

This came along in October 1994, after a series of suggestions on how to design the Internet by different people — including one from Håkon Wium Lie — who proposed an idea that attracted everyone’s attention. Lie believed in a declarative style that would allow browsers to handle the processing — it was called Cascading Style Sheets, or simply CSS.

“CSS stood out because it was simple, especially compared to some of its earliest competitors.” — Jason Hoffman, A Look Back at the History of CSS

For a long time after, CSS provided design solutions for a single object — but it didn’t give an adequate response to the relationship between the objects.

Methods to address this were effectively hacks, and they weren’t able to handle a great deal of complexity. As sites evolved from simple documents to complex applications, web layouts became difficult to assemble. Instead of using a style in a declarative way as Lie designed, web developers were forced to use imperative programming.

A grid system based on the rules of Swiss designer Josef Müller-Brockmann that was customary in print from the 1940s seems like a distant dream when considering anything related to the Web.

Posters by Josef Muller-Brockmann. (Large preview)

Because of these layout limitations, no-code platforms were forced to add an abstract layer to perform backstage calculations. This layer causes a range of problems, including losing the semantic value of the objects, performance issues, bulky code, a complex learning curve, unscalability, and accessibility issues.

2. Browser Alignment

In the early days, browser makers were the ones who decided how to build the Internet. This led to the Web becoming a manipulative commodity. Competition between browsers led to unique “design features”. This forced the need to rebuild the same site several times, so it could be accessed from multiple browsers.

“Developers in the 90s would often have to make three or four versions of every website they built, so that it would be compatible with each of the browsers available at the time.” — Amy Dickens, Web Standards: The What, The Why, And The How

To offset the need to build websites that fit specific browsers, the World Wide Web Consortium (WC3) community was established at MIT in 1994. The WC3 is an international community working to develop functional, accessible and cross-compatible web standards.

When the standards were introduced, browser makers were encouraged to stick to one way of doing things — thus preventing several versions of the same site from being built. Despite WC3’s recommendations, it took a long time for browsers to meet the same standards.

Due to a lack of alignment between the browsers (Internet Explorer, I’m looking at you), CSS for a time was stuck and no new capabilities were added. Once a declarative language doesn’t support something, it requires you to lean on all kinds of imperative hacks in order to achieve that goal.

3. Data Binding

In the early years of the Web, sites were developed as a collection of static pages with no semantic meaning. When Web 2.0 arrived, it received the description “the web as a platform,” which led to a significant change — pages had dynamic content, which affected the connection to the data, and of course the semantic meaning.

“Sites in the 1990s were usually either brochure-ware (static HTML pages with insipid content) or they were interactive in a flashy, animated, JavaScript kind of way.” — Joshua Porter, Web 2.0 for Designers

Indeed, connecting to data using a no-code approach has existed for a long time — but the user experience was difficult. Additionally, the transition to semantic marking so content could be detected in no-code tools was difficult because of the mixing between declarative and imperative programming.

No-code tools didn’t mesh with those core tasks.

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Proto-Renaissance

On June 29, 2007, the nature of the Internet was changed dramatically. This was the day when Steve Jobs introduced the iPhone — a combination of mobile phone and media player that connected to the Internet and enabled multi-touch navigation.

When the iPhone was introduced in 2007, it was a turning point for web design. All of a sudden web designers lost control of the canvas on which we designed websites. Previously, websites only had to work on monitor screens, which varied in size, but not all that much. How were we supposed to make our websites work on these tiny little screens? — Clarissa Peterson, Learning Responsive Web Design

This created new challenges for web design development. Mainly, how to build a site that can be used on multiple types of devices. Many “hack” approaches to layout design simply fell apart — they caused more problems than they solved.

Everything needed to be reevaluated.

The No-Code Renaissance

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Browsers supporting WC3 standards (Chrome and Firefox ) have huge market share today, which has pushed more browsers to support the standards. The fact that all of the browsers support the same standard, enable alignment in the building of sites and ensure these capabilities would continue to work as standards and browsers evolve.

Methods such as media query, flexbox and grid — which are natively available in the browsers for layout design — have paved the way for flexible layouts, even when element sizes are dynamic.

“When CSS Grid shipped in March 2017, our toolbox reached a tipping point. At last we have technology powerful enough to let us really get creative with layout. We can use the power of graphic design to convey meaning through our use of layout—creating unique layouts for each project, each section, each type of content, each page.” — Rachel Andrew, The New CSS Layout

In this way, HTML became cleaner and it was able to achieve its original purpose: a semantic description of the content.

Finally, thanks to alignment between the browsers and new capabilities, no-code tools are backed by powerful, uniform technology. These changes created a clearer distinction between declarative and imperative. New possibilities were created to solve old problems.

“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” — Leonardo da Vinci

The Effect Of No-code On Designers

Editor X | David’s photo by Igor Ferreira on Unsplash. (Large preview)

The developments of the Internet over the years has led to a situation where the abstraction between design and code is constantly improving. This has implications for the way web designers plan and implement their designs.

1. Design Planning

While popular design tools use static content for dynamic web design, no-code tools allow designers to work with the web’s own materials.

“Photoshop is the most effective way to show your clients what their website will never look like.” — Stephen Hay, author of Responsive Design Workflow

If we have a complex design with different states, micro-interactions, animations and responsive breakpoints — by using no-code tools we can work in a more tangible way.

Additionally, the development of the web enables no-code tools to clearly separate content from the design (which allows designers to visually manage real content). Reflecting the dynamic content in the design (e.g. text, images, videos, and audio), gives designers a clearer understanding of how it will appear.

The advantage of working in the no-code workspace is that interactions appear immediately. This allows designers to quickly test their design choices and see if they work.

2. Design Implementation

After investing in design perfection, designers should explain the visual and conceptual decisions to developers through prototypes. Prototypes not only take time in terms of preparation, but their design is also often implemented incorrectly due to misinterpretations.

With no-code tools, designers are able to place objects on their display and handle their visibility and behavior with ease and speed. In other words, they can design the end result without depending on anyone else.

To use myself as an example, when the Coronavirus pandemic hit, I worked with a small team on a project to help connect young volunteers to isolated seniors. In just three days, myself and another designer built the website and connected user registration data to a database, while the team’s developer worked to integrate data from the site into a separate mobile app.

The Effect Of No-code On Developers

Will no-code tools completely replace developers? The short answer: No. The significant change is in the way designers and developers can work together to create websites.

In addition to the development of CSS, Javascript has also evolved in parallel and perhaps even more. The idea that frontend developers need to control all the abilities makes no sense. And yet, the development of no-code over the years has enabled designers to build their own designs.

It’s a win-win situation, in which  developers can focus on developing logic, and designers have more control over the user experience and styling.

The Effort Is Not Yet Complete

I don’t want to leave you with the impression that designers have complete freedom to design with no-code tools. There are still some missing style capabilities that CSS has not yet solved, and these still require imperative development.

Unlike in the Middle Ages, where art was considered as handicraft without a theoretical basis, Renaissance developments changed the status of the artist — who was suddenly considered a polymath.

No-code tools remove bottlenecks, which allows designers to gain more ownership, influence, and control over the experiences they design.

We’ve come a long way from the days when designers weren’t able to bring their designs to life. As the Internet evolves, browsers align, capabilities are added and the accessibility of technology becomes easier — designers are faced with new opportunities to create, think, and change their status with no-code tools.

The no-code movement not only affects how things are done, but by who.

Credits: Yoav Avrahami and Jeremy Hoover contributed to this article.

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