#bottom line i think anybody who lets their kid get this far into a sport like this that it warps their thinking this much is kind of evil ??

[viktoriakomova]

idk i feel kind of conflicted about the whole issue of national team coaches (chow specifically, bc of recent discussion over him) not wanting to allow marta to be an abusive psycho toward their gymnasts but not standing up to her.... i want to draw a hard line and say “anybody who won’t say no to someone acting that way toward the children theyre responsible for is complicit” but i dont think its that simple in a system like this where the gymnasts appeal to marta’s authority to even be given the opportunity to compete internationally. i think its good that he shielded them from her as much as he could (although i dont think it was defensible that he allowed gowey’s asthma attack near-death experience to happen AT ALL, like if theres a time you should discard any fucks you have to give about what marta thinks it should be then, wtf?!) but the athletes are there because they want to compete at the highest levels of the sport, and whether chow OR the gymnasts like it or not, they have to be in marta’s good graces to do that. i think it just gets a lot blurrier the deeper you look into it, bc it gets into things about “is a medal worth it, for the gymnast herself OR her coach OR even her parents?” i would answer a resounding NO, but clearly these gymnasts who destroy their bodies before they even graduate high school, even at the JO level (not to mention their families who bankroll that participation in such a grueling activity to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars) would say they feel it IS worth it. if they didnt, they wouldnt make it to that level to begin with.

which also gets into another thing that has been discussed a bit in the last few months, about the role parents play and their culpability in abuse gymnasts experience in the sport. im talking just about american (and presumably other anglo/commonwealth sphere countries which mostly seem to operate similarly?) gymnastics, because the way the whole system is structured in countries with centralized training systems and developed ministries of sport, etc. creates a very different environment in terms of motives to continue the sport and family involvement. but american gymnasts’ families, by the system’s design, have to devote a tremendous investment of money and time to a child’s extracurricular activity for them to get to an elite level. so if you quit your job to be a full-time gym parent and literally PAY an abusive coach six figures over the course of maaaybe 10 years (?) to traumatize your kid for her entire childhood, you are absolutely responsible. at a certain point, the sunken costs incentivize turning a blind eye to horrendous treatment, because walking away is so devastating and obviously seems like a total waste. even if you wanted to find a new coach, unless you’re lucky enough to live in a place where there are multiple elite/L10 gyms within a reasonable driving distance, switching gyms means cutting your losses on everything you built in one place and spending another huge sum of money to relocate. 

i think it would be a lot different if a gymnast’s personal coach were acting the way marta did at those national team camps, or if the coach was following marta’s lead because “she wins!”... subjecting a child to that kind of treatment on a daily basis is basically torture lol like thats what we’re looking at, at that point. and if you rationalize it by saying “but my daughter WANTS to make this dream come true and i cant just say no to her!” you are an accomplice in your child’s abuse, regardless of your intentions or motives. but i think its different, in a way, for a personal coach who is great and tries their best to advocate for their gymnasts without pissing off the abusive people who could ruin their careers on a whim, and i think its easy to just call that cowardly behavior and wipe your hands of it. at the VERY least, chow’s gymnasts knew when they were at camps for a few days out of the month that they had someone who was in their corner and was willing to put up some kind of fight to protect them. and i think that emotional security is why his gymnasts so adamantly defend him and say he is totally blameless in the entire situation. because of the difference in treatment they seem to have externalized the camp environment and were/are painfully aware that its not business as usual, and so they recognized her for what she was instead of having a personal coach who incessantly kissed her ass giving them the message that “this is all perfectly okay and normal and healthy and i wont do anything to help you, so buck up kiddo”

[sleepdeprivedheretic]

Those Shoes (Ch.3)

Song Inspired: I Want You by Savage Garden

Notes: @youtubequeens Hope you stay hydrated and have a lovely time! <3 Here’s this bit for now :3

Warnings: Creepy people, not getting the hint that a person’s uncomfortable, unwanted flirting, and talk about emotions bc honestly what are they?

He smiled as Eijirou took a bite of his onigiri, Tamaki sighed softly at his younger brother, as said boy had specks of sticky rice on his face.

It was a lazy Sunday morning, the boys were home from school, and Taishiro was enjoying his day off.  

“Did ya have a good day at work, Papa?” The ruby-eyed boy inquired, and Tai smiled, ruffling his hair.

“Ya bet I did, kiddo.”

 He didn’t tell his boys what he had exactly did for a living, but he promised himself that he would, in the future. So far, all they knew is that he was a professional dancer.

“Dancing must be hard.” Tamaki broke the silence after chewing on his scrambled egg, and his father laughed.

“Nah. It takes a lotta practice. Did you boys had fun at yer day at school?” He pondered, sipping from his cup of coffee.

“Yeah! There was a nice new boy who was shy! There were some mean kids, but I protected him!” Eijirou rambled excitedly. Taishiro chuckled, and then looked at Tamaki.

“Mirio fell in a puddle. Face first. I had to take him to the nurse.” He shrugged, yet Taishiro didn’t miss the soft glint that speckled in his eyes. He smiled.

“That kid’s pretty resilient, huh? Anyways, eat yer breakfast, then we’ll head out to the park, alright?”

………………

It was a pretty November day. Skeleton trees hovered beneath the rich blue sky as your shoes crunched up against the fallen colorful leaves. Although it hasn’t been a week, yet, you were slowly re-adapting to your hostess job, and nit and tucking the dancer’s clothes.

You were surprised on how many had requested your services, staying absolutely still as you kept a cool facade, keeping the pointed needle from digging into skin as you measured, cut, and sewed loose fabric. You believed in your abilities, yet it felt as if it didn’t matter.

You weren’t good at holding the obvious flirty conversations that somehow were being thrown at you out of nowhere. They would giggle, and you had to still your hand so that you couldn’t accidentally jab their shaking bodies, whilst trying to be polite.

Where did the sudden interest come from? You wondered. Your mother, undoubtedly, was on high alert as she noticed it, too. The flirting, joking, the inquiring questions. Luckily, the fitting room had a camera, and thankfully, your patients had known it too, so they were extra careful in not doing anything that was against the regulations. Your mother was watching, you all knew.

Speaking of which, she did not try to make things better. She would wink, or make subtle little jokes, as she explained that it was good for business. You couldn’t help but press your mouth in a firm line.

You worked so hard, finding the perfect materials, ignoring your own discomfort as you bit the bullet and tried to focus on making the outfit snug and resilient, while the owners ignored your tense shoulders and set jaw. You were appalled, as they used alluring honeyed words, directed your attention to a “loose” fabric between their thighs, and so on.

You, feeling a surge of retaliation, growled out that it would cost extra for you to fix certain areas, and preferred that the outfit was on a mannequin, instead.

Your spitfire attitude had certainly weeded out a few of the unwanted customers, but, gained some more who thought it was a challenge. You didn’t miss the look of sheer pride from your mother, however, as she sported a wicked grin.

“That’ll teach them. Might make your blond a little less jealous.” She winked, and you paled in question. He was jealous? Of what? You were only doing your job, charging the dancers a certain amount, and giving your mother, your boss, a small part of the revenue as she requested. Although a thorn in your side, she was also a beautiful rose, and you knew that she was helping you in her own way, thus, opening your eyes more to the situation.

It didn’t take you long to realize, that yes, he was jealous, and you were too busy to acknowledge the possibility, until your mother had to basically tell you. So, you took your time to observe your surroundings.

Daggers for a stare had met each and everyone of the customers who had followed you into the fitting room, you’ve seen. While hosting, you started to take breaks to watch him, much to the oddly placed chagrin in the other dancers. His style was a little different, more suave and seductive, rather than downright dirty. Back against the pole, he slid up slowly as he jutted out his chin, staring at you through blond lashes while sucking suggestively at one of his suckers, hardly minding the crowd as he gave you a show that was basically personal.  

He was addictive, you couldn’t help but think. His outfits, dances, and downright attitude made the other’s shadow in comparison.

 It brought you back to the present. Your feet shuffled against the dirt as you pushed yourself on the swing, breathing out huffs of warm air that meshed with the chilly atmosphere.

 He didn’t make you feel too uncomfortable, either. He did make a request, to tuck in a few strings into his nurse outfit, you remembered it so clearly. He had strutted into your office around the right time, white fishnet stockings and heels blended in nicely with the light aqua blue fabric that left very little to the imagination.

“Jus’ some strings near the neck, Sugar. Might even give ya a sucker if ya behave.” He winked, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how corny it was, earning a smug smile and tinted cheeks. Although a little flirty, he stood perfectly still as you fixed the frayed mess that was near his clavicle, feeling his warmth resonate around you as you couldn’t help but seep it in. You hoped that he wouldn’t say anything about it. How you could feel a thundering, fast-paced heartbeat underneath your fingertips, despite his cocky facade, your face blushing immensely, or how the atmosphere seemed as if it might just break from underneath the metaphorical weight between the two of you.

However, true to his word, he began letting out pieces of information.

“We actually go to the same college.”

 You stopped to stare at him with full surprise.

“What? Really?”

“Well, ya graduated before I did, but I live near the campus. I…kinda saw ya every day. Not as a stalker!” He rushed before you could think of anything.

“-as in, my road to the school kinda passes your road, and I couldn’t help but not look away when ya were…ya know…It’s a very connected town, so I’ve seen ya…around.”

Then it hit you.

“Ah, so you must’ve seen me doing volunteer work?” You murmured, and he nodded.

“Well, yeah. You’re a familiar face. Couldn’t really ignore ya, ‘specially when you’re bein’ so wonderful half the damned time. Ya don’t know me, and I know it might be a lil’ creepy, but I promise ya that I don’t mean to be.” He babbled, face tinting a little more pink, and your ears burned from the forward acknowledged statement.  

So he noticed your volunteer work, and where you lived, and yet you didn’t really see him creeping around the bushes, or any tall figure of his build stalking around, for instance.

“So…is this why you have a sudden interest?” You asked, and you heard him swallow thickly.

“Pretty much. Doesn’t help that you’re kinda allurin’. Like a magnet.” He finished lamely, eyes shifting as he bit his bottom lip, and you couldn’t believe the shy signals that he was giving off as your own cheeks burned.

“Ah. Um…yeah.” You couldn’t help but say, and he snorted. You jutted your chin up and was about to give him a piece of your mind.

“We’re both kinda terrible at this. Anyways, that’s what I wanted to tell ya. Been seein’ ya around and makin’ the world a better place, an’ so I couldn’t help but like ya.” He waved off your short-lived glare as your expression softened.

“I don’t understand? You’re shy but not?” You questioned, nipping the small extra thread that you’ve already tucked in.

He shrugged.

“Emotions are emotions. Ya do things to me that I can’t explain, and I make ya into a flustered mess, and vice versa. I was at first too fuckin’ scared to really say or do anything, because the last thing I wanna be, is to be a creepy stalker in yer eyes.”

“I think I understand. As I don’t believe that you are a stalker…um…how do you? How did you-”

“Body language is a dead giveaway. Studyin’ to be a therapist. Plus, it’s relievin’ to get another validation that ya don’t find me creepy. ‘Specially after hearin’ my story.” He grinned, and your shoulders relaxed as you finished up your work.

“Ah, all done?” He pouted, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

“You have another appointments, as well as my number.” You reasoned, and his eyes lit up.

“So, I could call ya?” He asked hopefully, and you found yourself nodding before you could comprehend what he said.

“Awesome. I’ll see ya around, Chickadee.” He hummed, digging into his wallet as he paid you upfront, letting his hand brush against yours, and yet you didn’t mind. All too fleeting, he sauntered away, but not before giving you a final look.

“The ball is in yer hands, in whichever ya want this to be. Although, I gotta up my game, if I wanna keep the competition at bay.” He winked, and then turned to leave the room. The wheels in your head had seemed to stop, before whirling again with realization.

So, he was aware of it all? The flirting and unwanted attention that you were gaining? As if he had to compete against anybody, you couldn’t help but think.

He wasn’t like the other “suitors” who were more aggressive and rude, you couldn’t help but think, your chest fluttering at the idea of him being your partner.

It’s been three days after that. You did shoot him a text, and almost immediately, he responded. He was forward with his interest, and you were still in a bit of confusion, why he, still a stranger, had decided to pursue you so quickly. You couldn’t help but think that the stars must have aligned in the both of your favor, or that it must have been fate, for you couldn’t help but start to like him, as well.

His forward approach, his respectful nature, the duality of his emotions, on how he could be so forward, and yet somehow kind of shy, he hunted at a distance, not too close or disrupting your boundaries, while never failing to look for you, or put on a show.

An excited voice rambled you out of your thoughts, a very, familiar excited voice, and your attention snapped towards the direction at the upcoming person, or people.

……………………………….

He sucked. He was a sucker, and he let his emotions get the best of him. Why did he have to spill out everything? Now she knew that he was an eager fool, and he didn’t mention the most important part; his two boys. Although not biologically his, blood didn’t matter, they were his sons.  

Of course, while in his interest in pursuing, he was so caught up with classes, dancing, and raising his kids, a lot of things had passed his mind. He remembered laying in the darkness of his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling as his heart clenched.

What if she was only attracted to his dancing? The two of them had never made plans to meet outside of work, and if they did, would she be turned off by his more shy attitude? His more softer, meeker side? Unwanted thoughts swirled within his head.

He was making a mistake, he was putting too much time into a woman who he barely knew, and if she did like him, would she like his boys? They would always be his first and top priority, he could never lower their needs before a potential future partner.

Growling, he picked up his phone, searching for her contact. He began typing, and re-typing as he made sure that the sentence sounded perfect.

Me: I know it’s late, but do ya wanna go to the park, tomorrow around 9 am?

He bit his lip and pressed send. It’ll just be a hang out, he told himself. He’ll bring his sons, and if she reacted negatively, he would stop cold. Maybe move to another club. It was his fault for not mentioning that he had kids, and he didn’t blame her for not wanting to deal with him for not telling her in the first place. She was an adult, she could make her own decisions, and children might not be her priority, and he could respect that. The fated ding of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts.

Chickadee: Sure. It’s supposed to be chilly, tomorrow, so wear something warm.

His cheeks felt like fire as his heart warmed up from the thoughtfulness. A chuckle escaped his throat. Even while texting, she still used proper grammar, and he couldn’t help but find that adorable. He kind of hoped that she wouldn’t be upset that he had kids, and he wouldn’t force her into anything that she didn’t want, if he did break it to her that he wanted to see her as a partner.

He was a dumb mess, he told himself. However, he wouldn’t mind to have her as a good friend, if anything else. He couldn’t help but like her, and she had a blunt, straight to the point attitude mixed in with that sweetness.

……………….

    “-lunch lady?!” A voice gasped in shock, the three familiar figures caught your full attention. Time stood still as you recognized the two small boys instantly, and behind them, stood none other than Taishiro. Surprise had hit you, but you couldn’t help but feel joy as little arms wrapped around your leg as you stopped the swing, seeing Eijirou glanced up at you with a toothy smile and bright eyes.

You couldn’t help but smile, pinching his cheeks a little as he giggled.  

“Hey, um, small world?” Taishiro asked, breaking you out of your trance.

“I volunteered at the orphanage a while back. That’s amazing, I’m so glad to you two, again.” You explained, looking at the boys.

“It’s good to see you, as well.” Tamaki said softly, and you smiled at the slightly older boy who gripped Taishiro’s jacket.  

“Oh, that’s pretty neat. Ya were in dietary?” He asked, sitting down on the swing next to you, Tamaki following closely. You looked down a bit shyly.

“Um, yeah. They were kind of short staffed, that year, and I was a pretty familiar face, so they asked, and I said yes.” You rambled, and he chuckled.

“You’re right about the pretty part.” He winked, and you huffed out a surprised laugh.

“Do you ever not flirt?” You inquired, and he grinned.

“I don’t flirt as much as ya think. Anyways, I wanted to know, if ya like to hang out with us, for the day?” He murmured softly at the end, and you felt yourself smile a little.

“I’d like to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the boys. Although I missed the children, I couldn’t really stay, had college to go through, you know? It’s good that they’ve been adopted.” You rambled, watching Tamaki push Eijirou gently on the swing next to yours, the shyest of smiles graced the raven-hair’s features as the two were basically in their own little world.

“When I first came to this town, I didn’t really have anybody. So I took some time to think it over, and decided to adopt. They’ve been the light of my life for three years, now. Can’t imagine bein’ without ‘em.” He said softly, and you felt a burst of warmth envelop you.

“It’s good that they have a good dad. Do they know of your-?” You let the sentence hang, and he shook his head.

“Later. I doubt that they’ll judge, but I don’t want ‘em to know, just yet.”

It surprised you on how easy it was to make small talk, each of you opening up a little bit more. You fixed Tamaki’s coat, brushing the hair out of his eyes slightly when Taishiro had offered the group to get hot chocolate from the coffee shop that was near, chuckling as Eijirou’s eyes widened with pure glee.

Tamaki gripped your hand, Eijirou gripped Taishiro’s, and Taishiro held your free hand as the four of you crossed the street, and you couldn’t help but feel warmth at the domesticated atmosphere within your little group.

You wouldn’t mind if these sudden feelings stayed a little while longer.

[haddonfieldproject]

<<PREVIOUS⏺<<CONTENTS>>

1.2.21 HALLOWEEN NIGHT/NOVEMBER 1st AROUND SUNRISE

Haddonfield, Illinois

Rosalita craned her neck to see the time. There was no clock in the supply closet, no light now to see a clock if there was one, the power had gone off shortly after Sheriff Brackett had left her here. When that lightning hit, she thought. She knew the lightning had something to do with it. The Sheriff's daughter, who lay in a hospital bed that took up virtually all of the room in the storage closet, had an IV hooked up to her arm. On the pole that held the IV was a little box with all sorts of buttons and blinking lights and gauges of a sort. Rosalita of course, had no idea what it all meant or was for, but the box had a little display screen that cast a soft blue-green glow inside the closet, and gave her the only light she had. On the bottom right corner of the box was the time. ‪05:46‬. Next to the time was a battery symbol, it was red and flashing...just like the same kind of symbol on the box on Rosalita's IV had been as well before it died about thirty minutes ago and went dark.

This one is gonna die too and soon I'll be in the dark, she thought to herself in her native Spanish, looking down at her newborn baby which she cradled in her arms. The Sheriff had left her, the baby, and his unconscious daughter more than an hour and a half ago. He said he was going to see “just what the hell was going on”. A part of her hoped he'd gone ahead and found it out—or was going to find it out soon— so she could get out of this god-forsaken closet. Another part of her hoped he didn't.

She knew what was going on.

When they had heard the gunshot, she had known right away it had come from Ole' Bitch.

The only thing Sparky Warner may have loved more than his shotgun was draining the cans of Coors Light he used to shoot with it...certainly not Rosalita. He abused his wife almost as much as he had abused the cans. At least when he was done with Rosalita he just rolled ahead on over and went to sleep, but with the cans, he liked to line them up on a log in the back yard and either take pot-shots at them with his .22 or sometimes, if he was in the real mood for some fun, he'd obliterate them with 'Ole Bitch'.

“I named it after your mama,” he had told her once as he pulled it from the back of his work van.

Rosalita knew who the shotgun blast was for too.

Whitey Grey had done a bang-up job on the new roof of the Warner home last year. Sparky had been real appreciative too, and knowing Whitey to be a stand-up guy, and having felt sorry for him because he had been on the outs with his high-school sweetheart, he had been all too willing to give Whitey some odd jobs here and there around the Warner castle in exchange for some cash from time to time.

“Chelsea Keane has always been a fucking bitch, ever since high school” Sparky had belched, crushing an empty beer can in his hand and tossing it off the front porch. “I'm surprised you stayed with her this long.”

Whitey had looked into the hole of the can of his own beer. “I've always loved her man. Ever since we were in six grade. I've always felt she was the one for me.” He had taken a swig. “You know, like my soul mate.”

Sparky had fished a cigarette out of his mouth and laughed, punching his friend in the arm. “You gotta be kidding me with that pussy shit.” He had said, putting a flame to the end of his smoke. “Naw man...you stay here with me. Make that bitch feel what it's like to miss you.”

“You think so?” Whitey had asked.

“Fuck yeah. Besides, I got tons of shit around here you can do in exchange for crashing on the couch.” Sparky had replied, the cigarette bouncing in his mouth.

“Your old lady won't mind?” Sparky had asked.

“Who do you think wears the pants around here motherfucker?” Sparky had exhaled a plume of smoke. “You see,” he had said, pointing the cigarette at his friend. “That's your problem. You always let that bitch run you over. You think I ever let my woman boss me around?”

Whitey changed the subject, “What do you want done around here?” He had asked.

“You're a handy motherfucker...lots of shit.” Sparky had smiled. “These gutters haven't been cleaned a month of Sundays. I've been meaning to pressure wash this driveway. I got siding on the side that's fucked up and could use replacing...and shit...that well in the back has been compromised by about three autumn's worth of leaves.”

Whitey had shrugged and taken another swig of beer. “That sounds cool.”

“Yeah!” Sparky had taken another drag, “And you know...odd job shit. Like bring the salt pellets in from time to time. That shit's heavy and God knows my old lady can't do it.”

They had laughed together at this. Rosalita had watched and listened to this conversation out of the window while she was doing the dishes. She remembered it well because moments after her husband had berated her to his best friend, she had sliced her finger on a steak knife under the soapy water. It had left a small car on the inside of her left index finger.

Rosalita felt that place in the darkness now, thinking.

Yes, Whitey had done a real good job around the house.

After all, Sparky was real busy. His little electric company hadn't taken off the ground as well as he had liked, and he found himself a corporation of one, working seven days a week, twelve hour days.

Anyone with half a brain would have known how this was gonna play out.

One of Sparky's job's on a ‪Tuesday morning‬ had re-scheduled. Rosalita had never found out why. Sparky had come home ‪at ten o'clock‬ in the morning to find Whitey Grey in his underwear making pancakes for Rosalita, who was also in her underwear...well...at least from the waist down. If it wasn't for a well-timed right hook by Whitey and an even better timed smack with the pancake skillet by Rosalita...Whitey and Rosalita would have probably gotten a taste of “Ole Bitch” right then.

Rosalita and Whitey had gotten a room at the Extended Day down in Russellville for awhile, after six months they snuck back into Haddonfield, renting a little apartment two blocks from the Bypass near Orange Grove. By then, Rosalita was sporting a little belly that everyone in town knew wasn't Sparky's doing, and word of mouth travels fast in a little Midwestern town.

So far though Sparky hadn't caused any trouble. Hadn't even called.

That didn't stop Rosalita from knowing that the shotgun blast had come from “Ole Bitch”. She knew it as well as she knew that the sun was gonna come up over Little Egypt ‪tomorrow morning‬ from the east and set over the corn fields and hills to the west ‪tomorrow evening‬. She knew it deep down in the marrow of her bones and the bottom of her soul and had now fought for the last hour and a half to shake the image of Whitey Grey, the father of her newborn baby, laying dead somewhere in the hospital with his brains splattered all around.

And Sparky was now coming for her.

Her and her baby.

Can't think about that now, Rosalita thought, looking down at her newborn baby boy. The Sheriff said he'd figure out what was going on, and he'll figure it out.

Sheriff Brackett had been the top deputy dog in the town as long as Rosalita could remember. If pressed she would say that she had always trusted him, and she would just plain have to trust him now.

The display screen on the Sheriff's daughter went dark. Rosalita couldn't see her hand in front of her face...let alone her baby.

Oh please God. She thought. Let somebody find me in here.

And then she caught herself.

Anybody but Sparky.

NEXT>>

[csykora]

https://slate.com/transcripts/c2JZaHhQeC9QMGlhdUFpUGEycnl0UnRnNUdJRmo5R0tCdG02ck5pTTRhTT0=

On this week’s Hang Up and Listen podcast, we talked to two members of the group, both from UCLA: Elisha Guidry, a rising sophomore defensive back from Long Beach, California, and Otito Ogbonnia, a rising junior defensive tackle from Houston. The following transcript of that conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity. The link to the full audio interview is at the bottom of this piece. —Joel Anderson

Joel Anderson: I guess the first question is: How did this group and the list of demands come together?

Otito Ogbonnia: It was something that we always knew, individually and teamwise, that this is a sentiment that most people felt. We were just waiting for an opportunity to get this whole thing going. And this started with some of the guys from Cal who used this as an opportunity to demand change and try to really get something done here. It was really Zoom that allowed us to do this whole thing, and being in a pandemic. It’d be very hard to coordinate a movement this big in normal times.

Elisha Guidry: Also, the social movement, or the civil rights movement really that’s going on in our country also inspired us. There’s a lot of inequalities that people are noticing. People are being awakened to seeing some of the things that go on in this world, and I feel like college football has many of them as well.

Josh Levin: Elisha, there are 17 demands on the list. What are the top line ones, as far as you’re concerned?

Guidry: For me personally, I feel like they’re all important. Definitely the players’ safety with the COVID, and ensuring that if a player decides to opt out, that his eligibility is honored, as well as getting insurance for players when they finish playing, because football takes a toll on the body and the mind. And I feel like once the player is done, they’re kind of just kicked out. They’re kind of just thrown in the world without a lot of guidance.

The image and likeness is very important because players deserve to be able to create wealth for themselves with this sport. I feel like a lot of players come from lower-income homes, a lot of players have struggles and football is kind of their way out. So just having an opportunity to be able to affect their families and affect their communities and people around them with their sport, even if they don’t make it to the NFL, is very important.

Stefan Fatsis: The demand that’s gotten a lot of attention is asking for 50 percent of revenue from the conference to be directed toward players. I mean, realistically, there’s no way that the Pac-12 leaders are going to agree to that immediately. So it does feel like by asking for it, you’re bringing this out into the open, the idea that athletes are aware of the inequities here and that we’ve got to move toward some system that helps compensate them in some way. Is that how you view it or are the ambitions higher among the group?

Ogbonnia: That’s exactly how we view it. I think when you exploit a group of people for this amount of time, it’s just kind of what you get. They had their opportunity to fix this, multiple opportunities. And one thing we, as a group, aren’t willing to accept is the idea that it’s not possible. This is a country which was brought up upon working hard and doing the impossible. And there are ways to get it done. Fifty percent of revenue is ambitious and it’s high and it’s asking a lot. But we live in this country, just like everybody else. And in regards to name, image, and likeness, why should we be the only citizens in this country who are denied making money off of who we are and our brand? And why is it that a kid at UCLA being a musician can go perform and make a couple hundred bucks off of their name, image, and likeness, but when it comes down to athletes, it’s a whole different story?

And I think that’s where that social justice kind of comes in, right? When you deny a group of people certain rights, you start to wonder why you’re doing it.

Anderson: A little more than a month ago, before even the We Are United movement, UCLA football players published their own list of demands related to coronavirus protections. So there was obviously an activist streak within the team already. And I just was curious to know, where is the team with that?

Ogbonnia: I forgot to mention about when you asked about the start of this movement, one thing those Cal guys told us is that they saw our letter to our university. They saw what we published and they kind of took that lead from us. So that was cool to see that.

And in regards to where we’re at now, for the most part, we’re doing well in terms of guaranteeing COVID protections. And we’re taking a very conservative approach to getting back to play in competition, if that’s even feasible.

[But] this is above UCLA. It’s above any one conference or any one school. It’s above any one person or any one culture or athletic department. It’s a conference thing. And the conference has the power to get some of these things done. As you’ve seen, the NCAA and the conference aren’t necessarily as conjoined as one may think. And a lot of times, they work separately in a lot of these matters.

Guidry: The Cal guys saw the things that we were asking for and they had to stop themselves—like, OK, we don’t have the same type of protection, and that’s something we want, because we feel like we’re taking this risk coming back to school and trying to participate in this game.

We all love football. We all spend so much time playing, since we were kids, and we want to do that as safely as possible, especially during this pandemic. Just asking around is what got everybody started and kind of got us all connected. And then we realized that there were more issues than just with the COVID-19 precautions.

Levin: I think it’s important for folks listening to this to understand how amazing and unusual it is what you guys are doing—even doing this interview. There was a story recently about the University of Iowa. They didn’t even let their players be on social media. The amount of control at these programs, about what they allow you guys to say, what they allow you guys to do in public, it’s so restrictive. And so the fact that you guys are talking to us about this, the fact that you put this message out, it’s an enormous deal. And we’ve already seen, there are varying reports about what’s going on at Washington State, in your conference, about potential repercussions for players there for joining this movement and for speaking out. [Editor’s note: According to a transcript published by the Dallas Morning News, Washington State coach Nick Rolovich told player Kassidy Woods that if Woods was a part of the Pac-12 unity movement, “that’s gonna be an issue.” Rolovich later said in a statement, “WSU football student-athletes who have expressed support for the #WeAreUnited group will continue to be welcome to all team-related activities.”] Are you guys at all concerned about potential repercussions from UCLA? And are you aware of the power imbalance? Your coach, Chip Kelly, was an NFL coach. He’s a multi-multimillionaire and you guys—you could have your scholarships taken away, potentially.

Ogbonnia: I think that’s something that a lot of people consider when they’re joining this movement. When you join something with this magnitude, you get the idea of what you’re getting yourself into and kind of make [peace] with that, with the consequences of what you’re doing. Of course, I would love to keep my scholarship and stay on the team. And our coach or our administration has never threatened us in that manner. And I don’t think they will. It’s been relatively positive and we haven’t seen any type of repercussion, retaliation from anybody from our school.

And it hurts to see that type of stuff being exemplified at Washington State, because you tell people to stand up for what they believe in in this world. When you want to support something, I think you should have the freedom to do it. And in regards to holding your tongue in a lot of these things, I think that’s where the conferences and the universities and college football as a whole gains their control over individuals. Because you start to feel a certain way after you’re done with football, when you’re in the system and you feel silenced, you feel like you can’t say anything, and that takes a toll on you. And it’s taken a toll on me until I kind of had a realization of who I am and who I want to be in this world. And that’s not somebody who’s silenced or who feels like they can’t be who they are because of what I’m doing.

I don’t think that’s what we sign up for. [It] doesn’t say that in our letter of intent. You shouldn’t bar anybody from freedom of speech. They should be able to say what they want without feeling like they may get cut or that they may get blackballed by their team or their coach. And that’s why that Washington State situation is very significant in our eyes in this movement. We’re well aware of what’s going on and we’re trying to do the best we can to help those guys out there.

Guidry: I feel like for real change to come, you’ve kind of got to put yourself out there. If I have to be sacrificed to have a greater movement come, then that’s something I’m OK with. If I got to sit out to help bring a change for my children or my friends’ children that are to come or the next generation, that’s something that, at the end of the day, it’s going to make things better. And if I have to be the one that has to be at expense for that, that’s something that I’m OK with.

[ororowrites]

Erik Stevens and OC: Could’ve Been - say yes (chap. 3)

Characters: Erik Stevens and Essence Jones

Warnings: smut and language 

Word Count:   2,484

Based on the song: Say Yes by Floetry 

Prelude - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

So sorry this took so long! I’ll try to get the next chapter out a bit sooner. :)

Essence should have stopped them. She had no experience, this was her best friend and they would regret this later. Even with her mind telling her to stop, her body and her heart wouldn’t allow it. 

Erik shifted them until Essence was on her back and he could comfortably rest between her legs. He wanted this and it quickly became obvious from the tent building in his sweats. Slowly pushing his tongue into her mouth, Erik deepened the kiss. A low moan slipped from Essence’s lips, the slow, tender kiss causing moisture to pool between her thighs. It was erotic. Leaving Essence panting when he finally pulled away.

Erik focused his attention on Essence’s neck, sucking the sensitive spot near her shoulder. The way her body responded made it seem like she wanted him to continue but he asked to make sure, “Want me to stop,” Erik quizzed, knowing he had left his mark already.

“No,” Essence replied softly. Following her request, Erik kissed her again. This time, nastier than the last one. That gentleness was gone and had been replaced with a feeling Essence wasn’t used to experiencing. For once, she felt like she could go all the way. Erik began to grind into her center, the size of his length making Essence’s stomach uneasy when Erik reached between her thighs, she placed a hand on his chest prompting him to stop. If she was going to go through with this, Essence thought it was only fair to let Erik know the truth. 

“You alright? What’s wrong,” he asked, pulling away.

There was one secret that Essence did not share with her best friend and she didn’t intend to share until tonight.

“Um...I’ve never…. I’ve never done this,” she stuttered, unable to look Erik in the eye. At 22, she hadn’t planned on still being a virgin but she hadn’t met anyone deserving to share that moment with. Most guys she met were trying to smash on the first night or their entire plan was to hit it and quit it. Essence wasn’t naive when it came to men and she let that be known when they tried to get in her pants with a few sweet words and lip bites.

“Shit, E. Why didn’t you say anything,” Erik exclaimed, moving back to his side of the bed. “I wouldn’t have gone that far.”

“I said I was virgin, not that I had never kissed anybody,” Essence argued, rolling her eyes.

“Nah, it’s not that. I just assumed… you know…”

“That I been out here fucking any and everything,” Essence countered when Erik stared at her as if she had grown two heads.

“I didn’t say that,” he came back.

“Sounds like you’re assuming it. I know it’s rare in this day and age but…”

“Essence that’s not what I was saying, damn. There’s nothing wrong with you being a virgin. I just...I’m trying to figure out why you would want me to be the one to take it. You sure about that?”

Essence played with her fingers, which was a nervous habit Erik had picked up on when they were kids. “Yeah. I’m sure, I guess,”

“You guess? You’re acting like this shit isn’t a big deal. You can’t get your first time back, so at least make it with someone worth a shit,” Erik explained. The thought of being anyone’s first time freaked him out but being Essence’s first was a different story. He didn’t want to take her virginity and then not live up to being the guy she wanted him to be, that’s if she even wanted him in that way.

“But you’re worth a shit. Barely, but you are,” Essence joked, in an attempt to lighten the uptight mood. “They say you know when you’re ready, right? Well, I feel like I am.”  

That still wasn’t enough to convince Erik that he was the right guy to take her virginity. “Nah, I don’t think you know what you want. You stopped to tell me you were a virgin for a reason.I’m respecting that. It’s cool.”

“I swear you’re the most annoying dude I know. I told you so you would go gentle on me,” Essence added, feeling like she was begging at this point. If they were seriously about to argue about who would take her virginity she would eventually dry up like the Sahara.

“Are you hearing yourself? You want me, a dude you aren’t even with, to take your virginity. See how crazy that shit sounds,” Erik argued.

“Oh my-would you fuck me! Is that what you want me to say, Erik,” she yelled, even shocking Erik who had been on the other end of her verbal attacks in the past.

They had been friends for years and knew almost everything about each other. Even during their beefs, Erik kept an eye on Essence without her knowledge. Simply, because he cared about her. Which was why he was uncertain about taking such a prized possession from her when it meant so much.

“You’re deadass, huh,” he said softly. Essence nodded calmly. “Alright, but if I hurt you we are stopping,  got it?”

“Just don’t ram that thing in me like you do other bitches,” Essence replied, eyeing the erection growing in his sweats. She gulped, thinking about him stretching her out and what that might feel like.

“How you know how I have sex with other women? You been watching me,” Erik laughed before turning serious. “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” He went back in for a kiss, softly pushing Essence back on the pillow.  He captured her lips again, gently. As much as Erik could barely contain himself, he knew he had to go slow.

Reading Essence’s body language, he began to undress her. Starting with her t-shirt and sports bra, each article of clothing mixing with his as he threw them to the floor. Suddenly, Essence felt self-conscious with her body on full display. Flashes from the television decorated her skin, leaving her open to Erik’s wandering eyes. She attempted to cover her chest as Erik bit his bottom lip.

“You don’t have to be shy, it’s just me,” Erik said, pulling Essence’s hands to the side. “Plus you’re so damn beautiful. Don’t hide.” He planned to explore her body in order to get acquainted with her likes and needs. They had all night and morning. He settled between her thighs, latching on to one perked nipple. The sensation of him drawing her into his mouth and massaging the other breast was overwhelming. Erik skillfully teased her until he was ready for the next task.

Heat rose to Essence’s cheeks when Erik moved towards her stomach, planting kisses as he made a path between her thighs. Essence didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until Erik hummed and peered up at her with that annoying ass smirk. Her center moistened when Erik’s beard grazed her clit. A hushed moan left Essence’s lips when he flicked the tip of his tongue against her.

No man had ever been this close to her in such an intimate way. Essence opted for pleasuring herself, which left out the wonderful sensation head could offer. Another flick of his tongue and then he gave her a little more, teasing around her clit before burying himself deeper. There was a bit of discomfort but the feeling was quickly dissipated.

“That hurt,” Erik asked, his voice thick with lust. The last thing he wanted to do was make this experience painful.

“I’m good,” Essence muttered, nodding her head.

“You taste good,” he added, dipping his tongue between her folds again. Over and over, he used the flat of his tongue to massage Essence’s sweetness. Her nectar coated his tongue only making him want a better taste. So he widened her legs, holding her thighs down with his elbows while he enjoyed his meal.

The Essence’s body began to react without her consent. Her legs shook under the weight of Erik’s bulky arms, her ass cheeks clinched with every suck and kiss. Gaining some control, Essence rested her hands on Erik’s shoulders.

Erik hummed, sending a slight vibration through Essence’s body, “Ohh shiiiit...Erik,” she squealed, not sure where she mustered up the words to express how good he felt. He drew her clit between his lips and sucked it gently until Essence came undone for the first time that night.

“There you go, baby,” he hummed, using his thumb to spread her juices. “Damn, your shit is wet as fuck.”

Aftershocks pulsed inside Essence’s body, causing her legs to close around Erik’s head when he continued to eat. She moaned loudly and exposed herself more when she arched off the bed. “I’m gonna cum,” Essence cried, pushing back against Erik’s forehead until he slammed her hand to the sheets and held it in place.

Squirming and cussing did nothing but make Erik suck harder, sending Essence into a sexual bliss that had her seeing stars. He figured he’d stop for now to give her a break before the main course.

“Oh my God, that felt amazing,” Essence panted, frozen in place as the climax paralyzed her body for a short moment before it wore off.

“Yeah? Well, I got something else that feels even better,” Erik bragged, holding himself in his hand. It was hard to read Essence’s expression but he promised her he’d be gentle. Not wanting to rush it, Erik continued foreplay to relax her body. They kissed, exploring each other’s bodies until Essence was comfortable with Erik’s fingers teasing her insides. He marked her neck as he slowly moved his fingers in and out, pulling guttural moans from his best friend.

“You ready for this dick, baby girl,” he questioned, holding his soaked fingers to his mouth before sucking them clean.

Essence nodded, her nerves returning even though she knew she was ready for this. Erik was just...large. “Go slow, please,” she begged when she felt his dick lined up with her center. Her eyes remained closed as Erik slowly began to push his length inside her tightness. “Ah!”

“We can stop… I don’t want to hurt you,” Erik offered.

“Nah, I’m good. It just burns a bit,” Essence bit her lip, hoping the burning sensation would be replaced with pleasure.

“Relax,” Erik coached her, pushing in bit by bit as she sucked a deep breath in and let it out through her mouth. “There you go. Just breathe.” When his length finally disappeared, Erik sat still, giving Essence time to adjust to his size. “How’s that feel? Still hurt?”

Imprints of Essence’s fingers would probably be left on Erik’s forearms with how tight she was holding on. “I don’t know, I can’t feel my legs,” she said, sending Erik into a fit of laughter. “Nigga, the shit ain’t funny!”

“I ain’t even done anything and your legs already jello,” he laughed, peppering her face and neck with kisses to make up for his joke.

“Erik shut the fuck up,” Essence giggled, happy that he wasn’t making this terribly awkward.

“But for real, I’m not trying to wreck your shit on your first time. So if I start hurting you, we can stop. Aight,” Erik repeated, kissing the tip of her nose. The discomfort began to fade when he gently moved his hips. That slight pain was replaced with a satisfaction Essence had never felt.

Stroke by stroke, her walls began to fall and the feeling of Erik inside of her felt better. For a moment, Essence allowed Erik to take her to another realm. With deep thrusts, he made love to Essence. Their bodies seemed to fit seamlessly as if this was how it was meant to be the whole time.

“Fuck,” Erik cursed under his breath and into Essence’s neck. It was hard not to cum too fast, but he held strong. When Essence’s nails dug into the skin of his back, he changed his pattern. Circling his hips, Erik was met with Essence’s sweet moans. “Talk to me.”

All Essence could respond with was a slew of expletives. Either Erik was good in bed or she has just been missing out on the blessing of sex. She sensed it throughout her limbs but mostly in the deep pits of her stomach.

“How’s it feel, baby,” he asked again, pinning Essence’s arms above her head. The sound of their flesh colliding filled the rooms, created an erotic song.

“Good,” Essence cried. “So fuckin’ good!” An even stronger climax was beginning to build but Essence wanted to hold on as long as possible. She wanted to hang onto this moment with Erik.

Everything they had been through began to flood Essence’s head, causing tears to escape and cascade down her cheeks. Seeing Erik in this way was different. He let his guard down with her but not in this way. She could actually see him and it was beautiful.

Erik leaned forward and kissed away her tears. He linked their fingers, pounding into her harder.

“You wanna cum,” he questioned, sucking her earlobe between his teeth. “How hard you wanna cum?”

“Erik, please,” Essence moaned in response, gripping his hands as a rush of sexual euphoria hit her like a ton of bricks. “Fuuuuuuck….”

“Answer me,” he demanded, his own thrusts becoming jagged everytime Essence’s pussy pulled him back.

That last thrust sent Essence spinning.  Her body floated away from her while she shook involuntarily under Erik’s weight. The smallest whimpers filled his ears as he filled Essence’s womb.

There was a mess between her legs, but they didn’t move for the next fifteen minutes. Erik ran a bubble bath when Essence complained about being sore. For the rest of the night, he tended to her until they fell asleep.

………..

One Month Later

After Essence had returned to Texas, things had gotten weird with Erik. They were fine with the idea of giving a relationship a try after college, but for now they remained friends. That was until Erik made a visit to Chicago. One of his boys was murdered by a gang member from the opposite side of town. Coincidentally, the accused murderer was killed in a shooting and Chicago police couldn’t find the suspect.

Essence tried to get into contact with Erik with no luck. Weeks had gone by without contact and she began to worry. Calling wasn’t getting her any answers, so she decided to make a trip to California.

To her surprise, Erik was no longer living in the apartment she had visited a month ago. There was a young couple moving in and they hadn’t seen the last tenant that occupied the space. Erik had disappeared once before but he seemed to be in a different head space now. Had he moved back to Chicago?

Essence tried calling Erik’s cellphone one more time before it went to voicemail.

Taglist: @chaneajoyyy  @theunsweetenedtruth @bakarisangel @supersizemeplz @itsjustshanie @turn-thy-paige

[cyb-by-lang]

Shell Game (16/?)

Kei debates the merit of drawing attention to herself, then decides to do it anyway.

The Sports Festival.

Kei had some serious mixed feelings.

On one hand: Legal freedom to use her “Quirk” to get ahead! As long as her Water ninjutsu could be successfully manipulated with enough flexibility to accomplish the task. And in the middle fiddly bits, Kei could punch people.

On the other: A media circus literally inconceivable in the world she’d spent her life in up until this point. The entire world’s eyes were on a bunch of high schoolers and their superpowers, with all the scrutiny that implied. And Kei was a sleeper agent.

On a third hand, possibly generated from Wood Release and flipping everyone off: There was a non-zero chance someone from home could see the competition. Obito and Kakashi would be off patrolling Hosu to make up for Kei being anchored to the UA event, but that still left people like Hayate, but Sensei’s demands since the USJ clusterfuck had included recordings in formats Konoha could process. So, with that thought in mind, Kei had to make any performance good enough not to embarrass the hell out of her team. She had no doubt whatsoever that Sensei, Kushina, and Naruto would get that chance, not to mention her teammates and all her friends. And the UA teachers had all seen her entrance video, so that was just a bit more pressure to not choke horribly with more cameras in play.

“You’ll have to be more passionate, more fiery, than anybody else there if you want to catch the audience’s eye!” Kayama-sensei had told them all, during announcements the day before. Which, given the general air of immediate deflation that swept across the room—with the only bastions of hope being Kei, Shinsō, and the two overworked class representatives Shingetsu Fukurō (Quirk: Head Rotation) and Homura Yui (Quirk: Fire Hair), didn’t seem to help much.

She tried, though.

It wasn’t until later that Kayama-sensei tracked Kei down and had a chance to chat with her, specifically.

“I know you have your own decisions to make,” Kayama-sensei said, with her flogging whip resting against one hip, “and that you’re possibly one of the least-passionate students I’ve ever had—”

She was hardly wrong.

“—but while I am going to be the chief umpire, I want to see you do your best out there. You and Shinsō-kun have been working hard, haven’t you?”

Kei blinked.

Kayama-sensei had seen Shinsō and Kei leave school together a few times. There was also a real chance the principal had told her about the bank robbers. And Kei had made a point of paying attention for the last week or so, which she was sure the other teachers would have noticed. She’d even asked questions. Such unheard-of developments made news headlines around the world.

“Yeah, I…” Kei scratched the bottom end of her scar, a little embarrassed. “Sort of? It’s been an interesting few weeks.”

“You were a little closed off before, but I understand why.” Nonetheless, Kayama-sensei winked and gave her a thumbs-up. “I’m glad you’re coming out of your shell, though! Kids your age need to live a little.”

“Thanks, Kayama-sensei. I think.”

That was an unfortunate pun.

Considering she’s in on this scheme, I think it’s perfect.

Ugh.

As a result of regulations and support items the Hero course students would otherwise have access to, what with being heroes and having costumes and shit, everyone in the UA Sports Festival was competing in their gym uniforms. Kei changed in the girl’s locker room with the rest and emerged into the waiting area while still picking at her sleeves for loose ends. Using chakra scalpels to cut the threats off was probably a waste of the precision Kei had worked years to gain, but waste not, want not.

She was still fussing with them when Shinsō stepped forward, because it was easier than worrying about what her boys were up to in Hosu. Leaving her phone in the provided locker went against about five different impulses.

“You seem nervous,” Shinsō commented, though he didn’t seem all that worried.

“Not about this,” Kei replied, finally giving up on her shirtsleeves and sighing. “Everyone back home’s gonna see me in this tournament.”

“…Is that a bad thing?”

Kei pinched the bridge of her nose. “Only if I lose badly.”

Shinsō made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, making Kei glance at him. “With an attitude like that…”

“If I lose to the explosion kid, I will never hear the end of it.” Kei sighed. “Ever.”

“Why’s that? He’s supposed to be the top contender out of all the first-years.” Shinsō, she noted, hadn’t tried to redirect her vague challenge to him. Maybe he was being more mature now, but Kei didn’t count on it. “Everyone’s aiming at that punk.”

That was a fairly long explanation. And it involved revealing that the explosion kid wasn’t the only person who’d ever blown something up by touching it with destructive intent. Kei probably hadn’t been making her contact explosives for as long as Bakugō Katsuki had been a hazard to public property, but she knew that kind of attack. That kind of pattern.

And best of all, that kid wasn’t using fūinjutsu.

Kei beckoned Shinsō slightly closer, so the two of them were slightly off in a corner of the room, then decided partial truth was bound to be funnier than an outright lie. She whispered, “I once blew up my teacher when I was thirteen.”

In that moment, Shinsō could have been carved out of granite.

“He shouldn’t have taught me how to make the stuff I used, and anyway he was fine. Teleportation Quirk,” Kei said, before Shinsō could look any more alarmed. “He started making fun of me afterward, and then said I could try again.”

“The more I hear about your school, the less I want to,” Shinsō muttered, while the other 1-C students started edging away from them. Kei just shrugged while Shinsō tried to incorporate possibly the second-most incriminating detail Kei had ever let him know about into his worldview. The first being the…practical training. And how Kei learned it. “Now I have a headache. Thanks for that.”

“You wanted to know why I was focused, and now you do.” Kei rolled her eyes when Shinsō glared slightly down at her. “There is no way Sensei would stop laughing if I lost to someone like that. He’d call it poetic justice or something and I’d hate him forever.”

“I’m starting to think I should be halfway across the stadium for deniability if you do anything,” Shinsō complained, but didn’t seem to mind too much. He hadn’t started running, after all. But that could mean he just didn’t believe her, which was probably safer for his sanity.

“Pff, no one could blame you for anything I do.”

Shinsō raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying this to the person whose Quirk is literally called Brainwashing.”

“Yep.” Kei was aware of the incongruity. She just didn’t care.

Shinsō settled for rolling his eyes. And then it was time to join the other classes in the opening ceremony.

The Sports Festival took place in what would have been an Olympic-sized stadium anywhere else, dwarfing the Chūnin Exam setup Konoha used. When she looked up, Kei could spot a massive dome stretching far overhead, stage lights off for the daylight event but nonetheless present. Thousands of seats lined the stadium walls, each of them filled with a person who wanted to see a bunch of fifteen-year-olds kick the snot out of each other. She liked the jumbotron-style screens, though she probably could have done without the reminder that everything from this moment forward would be broadcasted live.

Present Mic was the announcer. This was, perhaps, the most perfect job ever fucking devised. A guy with the Voice Quirk and endless capacity for hype generation and shouting. If Kei didn’t already know he was a DJ to end all DJs, she would have wondered if he moonlighted as an American football sportscaster.

General Studies entered second out of the department, announced collectively as “Next up, General Studies classes C, D, and E!” where the Hero classes got separate spiels. Made sense, though—flashy Quirks and ambition were concentrated in those forty students.

Kei just kept silent behind Shinsō, listening to their classmates lose heart. She could draw attention to herself later.

Kayama-sensei stood tall on the podium as the classes all gathered. Kei hung near the back, well behind the hero kids and most of her classmates, while Shinsō was closer to the front. Too many of the students had physical Quirks that obscured her view, so Kei settled for closing her eyes and expanding her chakra sense outward like a slowly widening net.

Nothing. Wider, then.

“Silence, everyone!” Kayama-sensei snapped her flogging whip, stepping up to the microphone. “And for the student pledge, we have Katsuki Bakugō!”

Kei could almost feel her classmates rolling their eyes.

The kid made his way to center stage, footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet.

And once he was up there…

“I just wanna say, I’m gonna win.”

Kei stuck her fingers in her ears before the crowd around her erupted in shouting. Off-hand, she could pick out the 1-A kids collectively before Iida got loudest, followed by the steel kid from 1-B. And then there was just more shouting, because nobody had bothered to tell the grade’s other resident delinquent that there was supposed to be a speech, not just a challenge.

Kei opened her eyes once Kayama-sensei got control of everyone again. She didn’t even need her whip this time.

“Without further ado, it’s time for us to get started!” Kayama-sensei called, microphone in hand and a smile on her face. “This is where you begin feeling the pain!”

So, is this—?

Please don’t say it.

“The first fateful game of the festival! What could it be?” Kayama-sensei held her arm up and a screen plunked down behind her, showing a single roulette spinning wildly until it came to a sharp stop. “Ta-dah!”

Obstacle race, huh?

“All eleven classes will participate in this treacherous contest,” Kayama-sensei went on, “The track is four kilometers around the outside of the stadium.”

Kei glanced at Shinsō, who nodded back. They wouldn’t team up, but they full expected to see each other in the next round. In this event, they would simply use every skill they had individually to excel.

It wasn’t like Kei could actually tell him not to use his Quirk and show it off. She certainly planned to do…something interesting.

“I don’t want to restrain anyone, at least in this game.”

Before I was rudely interrupted—

Isobu, no!

Kayama-sensei licked her lips, then grinned widely and said, “As long as you don’t leave the course, you’re free to do whatever your heart desires!”

Kei smacked both palms into her face. Kayama-sensei dresses like that every damn day, and now you’re breaking my acclimatization.

I am saying it.

Do what you want. Kei grimaced under her hands.

That is most definitely a dominatrix.

And now I can’t unthink anything about Kayama-sensei’s sex life that you just brought to mind. Absolutely none of it. Thanks for that.

“Now then, take your places, contestants.”

The entire first-year class gathered at a massive set of double doors. Kei glanced up, made a ballpark guess at the number of students versus the width of the opening, then sighed.

Three.

Two.

“What should we be paying attention to at this stage of the race?” Present Mic asked Aizawa-sensei, up in the media booth.

One.

And when Kayama-sensei screamed, “BEGIN!” Kei watched the inevitable rush that packed the entire place like a canning factory.

“The doorway,” said Aizawa-sensei’s grim voice.

Enthusiasm was rewarded to some degree, but so was planning. And unfortunately, the first years’ energy didn’t work out for the ones in the midst of the crush.

Shinsō was already gone, vanishing into the crowd. It was probably time for Kei to get moving, too.

From a standing start, Kei leapt.

No one in 1-C doubted Kei’s physical prowess, but neither could they explain it. Even as ice flowed toward the outside of the stadium, caused by somebody’s Quirk, Kei bounced off walls inside of the tunnel above the students’ heads. Water droplets splattered here and there, making the chill just that much worse as she ricocheted from contact point to contact point. To her fellows, it probably looked like she was using her control over water to stick herself to the tunnel walls and her athleticism to do the actual grunt work. Something, something, surface tension.

Chakra was pretty funny like that.

Cheating is all in the spirit of shinobi tradition, isn’t it?

Indisputably. Now make sure you place well.

Kei made it back into the light the instant after the ice froze most of the pack leaders of the race to the ground. She landed and rolled, crystals shattering half-formed along her back and snow caught in her hair. All around her, the students struggled in the ice she just brushed away, her gaze focusing forward to the two-toned head of one of the class 1-A students. Some people were frozen, others just slipping on the ice, and they were bound to see more of that as this kid made his way forward.

“Nice try, Todoroki-kun!” yelled one of the girls from class 1-A, as she and several of her compatriots fought their way past multiple waves of sheet ice.

Kei passed Shinsō, who was being carried by three likely-brainwashed students. She waved at him, then darted forward toward the lead position.

Traversing ice wasn’t really any harder than walking on water, no matter how much Todoroki made. It was mainly a matter of sticking to the surface instead of suspending herself above it. Purple spheres falling all over the place was her real concern—Obito had told her how the water villains during the USJ attack got caught, and Kei didn’t plan to repeat their mistakes. And if she passed Midoriya and Uraraka along the way, she at least spared them a friendly wave as well.

The first leg of the race seemed to be pretty tame aside from the other competitors. The obstacles were no-shows so far.

Cue the robots.

[squidpro-quo]

A/N: this is mostly based on the discovery that Bakugo’s room is underneath Todoroki’s in the new dorms and Todoroki left the get-together because he was sleepy. then i couldn’t pass up the chance for a coda with bakugo’s feelings and todoroki’s questionable fashion choices

Bakugo sat on the edge of his bed as the sounds of the Dorm King judging party died off outside. He’d meant to sleep the whole bullshit of the first night’s excitement through but apparently their doors and walls weren’t built for the level of noise canceling needed where quirked teenagers were concerned. There was too much of a racket, the covers kept twisting around him, it was too hot; he could pick and choose the reasons for why he couldn’t get back to sleep. But sitting there, the room felt smaller in the dark, his vision tricking him with swirls of black-edged purple out of the corners of his eyes. He got up, refusing to give in to the urge to look behind him, and focused on figuring out how to open the window.

The view from his room was of UA’s glass building, close enough that it could cast a shadow on them in the evening but far enough away that they could kid themselves into thinking they weren’t being watched. Bakugo leaned out, staring at the trees below with his hands hooked on the sill, until water started dripping onto his head.

Fingers burning stars onto the newly painted ledge, he found the source of the irritation within seconds. Spikes of ice— now resembling knobs as the summer heat did its work—  protruded from the brick wall of the floor above leading up to the roof. Naturally he’d be the one stuck with Half n’ Half as the upstairs neighbor, that was just his kind of shitty luck.

His room was about as inviting as the festivities downstairs so he took a different route.

Starting from a crouch, he launched himself out the window and reigned in his fall with a contained blast. At one time, the force of the explosion would’ve been enough to shatter the glass behind him; now it was a quick ride up to the top with only the sound of a far-off and fading firework left behind.

Todoroki stood at the far end of the roof, looking away from UA.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Bakugo took notice of the grey pajama bottoms Todoroki wore as he stomped over, specifically the fact that they were covered in a pattern of misshapen cats, which broke his concentration on whatever rant he’d been about to start into.

“Those are the ugliest pants I’ve ever seen,” he said, running a hand down his face and refusing to admit to himself that that almost felt like a greeting.

“You won’t see them if you leave.” Todoroki continued to stare up at the sky, impassive as the stars.

“Can’t fucking unsee them now. Why the hell are you up here?”

“What’s it like to fly?”

Bakugo scoffed at Todoroki’s non sequitur, although by now he supposed he could have expected it. Not like the guy ever seemed to tap into what the mood was anyway. The light breeze up here cooled his hands and the height was calming too. He could move, see anybody coming for miles… and have the chance to actually fight this time. The unwelcome thought stoked his frustration.

“How would I know? Not like I have damn chicken wings for a quirk.”

“You flew up here, didn’t you? You flew when you escaped the League of Villains,” Todoroki said as matter-of-factly as if he were reading the ingredients off a cereal box. Bakugo scowled, wishing he had something to toss off the roof.

“You’ve got a wacked up understanding of flying. For all I know, your ice tracks are practically the same thing.”

Todoroki finally looked at him, sizing him up against some unseen variable. Reaching out he grabbed Bakugo’s hand before he could dodge and pulled him over the edge.

The ice that materialized underneath his feet was far slipperier than he’d expected, especially with the slightest incline, and he fought to stay standing as they slid further away from the roof. The drop on either side made him grip Todoroki back despite the knowledge that he could control his fall.

“The. Fuck. What was that for!?” he yelled, catching Todoroki staring at him intently again. His shoes were encased in a layer of frost, the cats on his right leg frozen over, and he just shrugged.

“How does it compare? To your flying?”

“Like a death trap, you piece of fried ice cream,” he muttered, focusing on planting his feet. With the initial spike of ‘oh shit’ waning, looking back on the experience appealed to his sense of risky decisions. Even if he’d blow Todoroki’s face off before admitting it.

“I’ve never had any.”

Bakugo looked up, eye catching on where Todoroki still held his hand firmly, and stared at him like the guy was offering to melt the ice out from under them.

“Any what?”

“Fried ice cream.”

“Good. It sucks, it’s disgusting,” Bakugo lied. “It tastes like greasy milk, Rocky Road is the worst flavor.”

Todoroki nodded, his pant leg now soaked from the evaporating frost.

“You going to wait until we fall through this shit or what?” Bakugo demanded, stomping on the ice and watching the lines of air bubbles fracture under the surface.

A tug on his arm and this time he held his balance as they slid along the ice. Cold air wafted from Todoroki’s right side and looking back at the suspended bridge they’d been standing on was almost unreal. Maybe by morning chunks of it would lie in puddles on the pavement below but until then, it stood as a bridge stretching out into midair.

“It’s good that you’re back.”

The words were quiet, as fleeting as the chill that passed through Bakugo upon hearing them.

“What did you say?” he barked.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Todoroki said.

“Damn, you got soft while I was gone.” He kicked at a chunk of ice, watching it shatter on the ground below, digesting the words after he’d shot them down. He was the one who’d been taken and it felt like another mark against him. He’d won the Sports Festival, by fighting someone who was holding back; he’d escaped the villains, while his classmates rescued him.

“Why did you do it?” He needed to know. “Deku can’t leave me alone, Iida’s got responsibility up to his ears, it was Yaoyorozu’s tracker and Kirishima’s, well, Kirishima. But you?”

“I couldn’t reach you in the forest. Before they left.” Todoroki clenched his fist in his pajama pocket, the cats stretching from the force.

Bakugo thought back, remembering the uncharacteristic look of desperation on Todoroki’s face as fingers closed around his neck and the void sucked him in. In the moment, it had been a chaotic jumble of relief at being in his body again, unease coiling around his pounding heart and the last he saw of the others were contorted faces swallowed by nothingness and how close Todoroki had been.  He hadn’t understood then and he didn’t understand now, what to say to that.

“We’re even now, so let it go,” he said gruffly, to cover any gratitude that might leak out. It wouldn’t be good if Todoroki made a habit of thinking he had to watch out for him. He walked back to the side above their rooms and stepped up onto the edge. The fall back to his room was over in a flash as he angled himself back towards the open window, a passing thought of how it did feel like flying sometimes made him briefly smile. In the split second before he landed inside, a shadow passed over him, hiding the moon above, and accompanied by a cool breeze. He didn’t have to look up to know what had caused it.

The shadows of his yet unfamiliar room welcomed him back, though the noise outside had passed into quiet chatter. Lying on his back, he waited for the same tension to seep back in from the dark, the restlessness that lurked when he closed his eyes and drifted. But as he lay staring at the ceiling, an unbidden layer of calm settled over him, enough to let his thoughts slow down. He knew where he was, at UA, free, and stuck underneath a walking, talking popsicle’s room. But that last piece was something he didn’t particularly mind at the moment.

If anyone’s got a prompt to suggest, let me know.

[bellewatches]

Apple Watch Series 5 review: the best smartwatch

Apple Watch Series 5 review: the best smartwatch Here it is. It's the new Apple Watch Series 5. It's-- you know what, it's great. I've used a lot of different smartwatches in my life, and this one is the best. If you have an iPhone and you can afford the $399 starting price, there is nothing better. So, like, I know. I gave away the whole review at the top of the video. But keep watching because I do want to tell you what's new in the Series 5 and also what's new in watchOS 6, but I also want to see if we can just figure out why no other smartwatch is even close to catching up to this. All right. So, what is new with the Series 5, at least, compared to the Series 4 from last year? Honestly, it's not that much, just three things, really. Okay, well, four if you count that Apple's offering more material options for the casing. You can get it in aluminum, steel, titanium, and ceramic. This one is aluminum, and physically, it's identical to the Series 4, which was already great. They have larger screens than the older models of the Apple Watch, and the screen is the second thing that's really new with the Series 5. It's always on. Finally. See, both the Series 5, and actually the Series 4, have a special kind of OLED screen that Apple developed. It's a low temperature, polycrystalline oxide, or LTPO for short. What does that mean? Well, it means, like, pixel and screen stuff like electron mobility. What really matters is that the Series 5 has a bunch of other chips that let it have a variable screen refresh rate, so the Series 5 can change the pixels on the screen as often as 60 times a second or as little as once per second. That lets this use radically less power than other screens. You know, your watch doesn't need to be refreshing that often when it's just sitting there in ambient mode, and that saves battery life. So now, instead of the screen just being off, it shows a dimmed version of your watch face, and it actually even still has some color, which other smartwatches don't do. And the, of course, when you raise your wrist up, it goes ooh, full color, just like any other Apple Watch. But all this means is you can check the time without being, you know, that jerk who obviously looks at his watch in the middle of a conversation with somebody. Now, the big question is does that always-on screen hurt the battery life? And my answer is that it doesn't seem to hurt much. Apple claims that this still gets the same 18 hours of battery life that every Apple Watch is supposed to get. And it does for me, even with kind of heavy usage. But it doesn't get much more than that. Last year, Series 4 actually outperformed that 18-hour claim. Bottom line, you should plan on charging the Apple Watch every day. And yes, I know that there are smartwatches that last weeks or even months, but none of them can do what the Apple Watch can. The third new thing is a built-in compass, and it works well and even gives you this neat thing called a confidence cone that gets narrower as it becomes more confident in where north is exactly. Now, if you have a magnetic watch band, that can mess with it a bit, but, you know, magnets. That's how they work. The fourth new thing is that there are more cellular bands on the cellular version, which means that it can do emergency calling internationally. Now, you should know that doesn't mean that it'll work for regular cell phone Apple Watch stuff, though. Apple still needs to make carrier deals for that to work. So, new materials, always-on screen, compass, and international emergency calling. All in all, that's a really minor update, but you know what? It doesn't matter because the Apple Watch is so far ahead of the competition. I think there's a few reasons for that. One is the processor. Apple is just way better at making processors for smartwatches than anybody else. Another is integration. Apple lets the Apple Watch do Apple stuff with the Apple iPhone that it won't let other companies like Fitbit or Wear OS or Samsung or Withings do, like replying to iMessages. Only the Apple Watch can do that. But also, watchOS is just really good. The new version here is watchOS 6, and it's gonna land on every Apple Watch except the very, very first one. Now, inside this, there are new watch faces, as usual. I like that you can set more of them to just be a single color. I do wish that there were more watch faces, or, really, that there were third-party options. I could get a pretty good face on this watch, but I can't get the perfect watch face for me. The biggest new feature in watchOS is the App Store, which lets you install apps without having to, you know, pull out your phone, except for the first time that you use the App Store on the Apple Watch, where you have to enter your password on your phone. And then sometimes, you install apps on the Apple Watch, and it needs its, like, parent app on the phone in order to work for the first time. It's not completely independent yet, is what I'm saying. Now, it is nice to be able to install an app in a pinch directly on your watch, I guess, but this big-deal feature is not really a big deal to me. Maybe when the Apple Watch gets a little bit more independent from the iPhone, it'll matter more. Then there's the cycles app, which lets you log and track menstrual activity. Now, this app isn't for me, but I will say that I wish Apple had paid more attention to women's health sooner. Still, though, talking to people at Apple, it's clear that they put some care into this app. It's scientifically cautious, and it's thoughtful in its design. So, it could help you track information that could be useful for you or for your doctor. But look, fertility can be a really hard thing, so if you're using it with kids in mind, you should talk to your doctor before doing anything with the information that it provides. Let's see. What else? Siri. Siri is here, and it can identify songs. It can also bring up search results from the web and lets you click into the webpages. And my favorite thing ever with the Apple Watch is still that you can load little tiny, itty bitty webpages on it. It's kind of fun. Oh, one other thing. There is an option for the watch to detect ambient noise levels and warn you if it's too loud for safety over a long period of time, plus I just like watching the noise meter go up and down. It proves to me that the train that I ride every day is too damn loud. The main thing that's missing for me is sleep tracking, which for me and my health is much more important than closing a standing ring or whatever. There are third-part apps, though. I use Sleep++, but it seems like a pretty obvious thing for Apple to add next year. Okay, so, why is the Apple Watch so far ahead? It's not that it has an LTPO screen or a noise meter or really any one of the features that I just mentioned in this review. It's the fact that I'm talking about features in this way at all. With every other smartwatch, and I'm not talking about the Garmin, Wilderness, Hiking, Sporting, Mountaineering, whatever watches. I mean, like, wrist computers. With those things, I usually have to check whether it can last more than 12 hours or whether it can open apps in less than 10 seconds or respond to a text message or if the software is buggy as hell. All that stuff was actually pretty bad in the very first Apple Watch, but it quickly got turned around, so now, Apple gets to work on filling out more advanced features. It's like the Apple Watch is in high school and is taking AP courses while everybody else is repeating the seventh grade for the third time. Sure, the Apple Watch hasn't reached anything close to its full potential yet, but right now, this thing is an overachiever. ♪ Ah, that's still going ♪ ♪ Ah, can't take the watch to it ♪ ♪ Ah ♪ (Laughing) Hey, everybody. Thank you so much for watching. Let me know in the comments if you're getting an Apple Watch, and if you're an Android user, let me know what you think you could do 'cause I don't have a good smartwach answer for you. Also, if you missed it, Neil and I reviewed the iPhones yesterday, and you should definitely check those videos out. here it is it's the new Apple watch Series five it's you know what it's great I've used a lot of different smartwatches in my life and this one is the best if you have an iPhone and you can afford the $399 starting price there is nothing better so like I know I gave away the whole review at the top of the video but keep watching because I do want to tell you what's new in the series five and also what's new and watch OS six but I also want to see if we could just figure out why no other Smart Watch is even close to catching up to this all right so what is new with the series five at least compared to the series four from last year honestly it's not that much just three things really ok well four if you count that Apple's offering more material options for the casing you can get it in aluminum steel titanium and ceramic this one is aluminum and physically it's identical to the series 4 which was already great they have larger screens than the older models of the Apple watch and the screen is the second thing that's really new at the series 5 it's always on finally see both the series 5 and actually the series 4 have a special kind of OLED screen that Apple developed it's a low-temperature polycrystalline oxide or LTP oh for short what does that mean well it means the pixel and screen stuff like electron mobility what really matters is that the series 5 has a bunch of other chips that let it have a variable screen refresh rate so the series 5 can change the pixels on the screen as often as 60 times a second or as little as once per second that lets this use radically less power than other screens you know your watch doesn't need to be refreshing that often when it's just sitting there in ambient mode and that saves battery life so now instead of the screen just being off it shows a dimmed version of your watch face and it actually even still has some color which other smartwatches don't do and then of course when you raise your wrist up it goes full color just like any other Apple watch but all this means that you can check the time without being you know that jerk who obviously looks at his watch in the middle of a conversation with somebody now the big question is does that always on-screen hurt the battery life and my answer is that it doesn't seem to hurt much apple claims that this still gets the same 18 hours of battery life that every Apple watch is supposed to get and it does for me even with kind of heavy usage but it doesn't get much more than that last year series 4 actually outperformed that 18 hour claim bottom line you should plan on charging the Apple watch every day and yes I know that there are smart watches that last weeks or even months but none of them can do what the Apple watch can the third new thing is a built-in compass and it works well and it even gives you this neat thing called a confidence cone that gets narrower as it becomes more confident to where North is exactly now if you have a magnetic watch band that can mess with it a bit but you know magnets that's how they work the fourth new thing is that there are more cellular bands on the cellular version which means that it can do emergency calling internationally now you should know that does it mean that it'll work for regular cellphone Apple watch stuff though Apple still needs to make carrier deals for that to work so new materials always on-screen compass and international emergency calling all in all that's a really minor update but you know what it doesn't matter because the Apple watch is so far ahead of the competition I think there's a few reasons for that one is the processor Apple is just way better at making processors for smartwatches than anybody else another is integration Apple lets the Apple watch do Apple stuff with the Apple iPhone then it won't let other companies like Fitbit or where OS or Samsung or Withings do like replying to eye messages only the Apple watch can do that but also watch OS is just really good the new version here is watch OS 6 and it's gonna land on every Apple watch except the very very first one now inside this there are new watch faces as usual I like that you can set more of them to just be a single color I do wish that there are more watch faces or really that there were third party options I could get a pretty good face on this watch but I can't get the perfect watch face for me the biggest new feature in watch OS is the App Store which lets you install apps without having to you know pull out your phone except for the first time that you use the app store on the Apple watch where you have to enter your password on your phone and then sometimes you install apps on the Apple watch and it needs it's like parent app on the phone in order to work for the first time it's not completely independent yet is what I'm saying now it is nice to be able to install an app in a pinch directly on your watch I guess but this big deal feature is not really a big deal to me maybe when the Apple watch gets a little bit more independent from the iPhone it'll matter more then there's the cycles app which lets you log and track menstrual activity now this app isn't for me but I will say that I wish Apple had paid more attention to women's health sooner still though talking to people at Apple it's clear that they put some care into this app it's scientifically cautious and it's thoughtful in its design so it could help you track information that could be useful for you or for your doctor but look fertility can be a really hard thing so if you're using it with kids in mind you should talk to your doctor before doing anything with the information that it provides let's see what else Siri Siri is here and it can identify songs it can also bring up search results from the web and let you click into the webpages and my favorite thing ever with the Apple watch is still that you can load little tiny itty-bitty web pages on it it's kind of fun oh one other thing there is an option for the watch to detect ambient noise levels and warn you if it's too loud for safety over a long period of time plus I just I like watching the noise meter go up and down it proves to me that the train that I ride everyday is too damn loud the main thing that's missing for me is sleep tracking which for me and my health is much more important than closing a standing ring whatever there are third-party apps though I use sleep plus plus but it seems like a pretty obvious thing for Apple to add next year okay so why is the Apple watch so far ahead it's not that it has an LTP OH screen or a noise meter or really any one of the features that I just mentioned in this review it's the fact that I'm talking about features in this way at all with every other SmartWatch and I'm not talking about the Garmin wilderness hiking sporting mountaineering whatever watches I mean like wrist computers with those things I usually have to check whether it can last more than 12 hours or whether it can open apps in less than 10 seconds or respond to a text message or if the software is buggy as hell all that stuff was actually pretty bad on the very first Apple watch but it quickly got turned around so now Apple gets to work on filling out more advanced features it's like the Apple watches in high school and it's taking AP courses while everybody else is repeating this 7th grade for the third time sure the Apple watch hasn't reached anything close to its full potential yet but right now this thing is an overachiever hey everybody thank you so much for watching let me know in the comments if you're getting an Apple watch and if you're an Android user let me know what you think you can do because I don't have a good SmartWatch answer for you also if you missed it and you know I reviewed the iPhones yesterday and you should definitely check those videos out Read the full article

[junker-town]

A taxonomy of all the fans you see at the Tour de France

Ryan Siu

The Tour de France has the most colorful cast of fans in the world. Here is one man’s attempt to categorize them all.

The Tour de France claims to be the most-attended sporting event in the world. It’s certainly the world’s largest arena. Anyone can walk up and claim a spot along 2,000-plus miles of roadside and see it live, for free, no ticket necessary. As a result, there may not be a more colorful cast of fans anywhere.

Here is a taxonomy of the people you might see next to the road of the Tour de France. It is as exhaustive as I could make it, but by no means complete. Please let me know if I missed a key subgroup in the comments. Or just @ me.

Locals

“Local” here is loosely defined as anyone who easily blends into the scenery. I reckon most of the people you see by the side of the road don’t come from far, but it’s a specific set who are so comfortable with the environment they can seem like a natural part of it.

Locals with furniture

Locals without furniture

Ryan Siu

Some people don’t think through their day at the Tour de France as much more than showing up, standing around for hours, snagging a free hat, yelling their asses off for the three seconds that riders are going by, and going home.

On the far end, some locals won’t watch the Tour go by except in utmost comfort, hauling out full living room sets by the side of the road so they can eat a four-course lunch, smoke cigarettes, snag a free hat, yell their asses off for the three seconds that riders are going by, and go home.

Man in a ditch sleeping at a 90-degree angle on a mountain

A surprising number of people like to sleep next to the Tour de France. While others are picnic-ing, drinking, chatting, or doing any of the things people usually do to pass the time before a sporting event, others are curled up on some nearby grass using a jacket as a pillow.

Something about the brutal climb up to La Planche des Belles Filles made one man supremely comfortable. He stuck his butt in the ditch next to the road, bent his body into a perfect ‘L’, and slumbered peacefully before the riders came by.

Keepers of the regional flag

Ryan Siu

Usually young men, these people have taken upon themselves the duty of reminding people where they are. It’s a noble task, given how quickly the Tour passes in and out of regions. A notable subset of these people are Bretons, who will show up anywhere and everywhere to wave Brittany’s flag.

Note: France’s regional flags are beautiful.

French local industry protestors

Either in favor of industry or against industry, and usually equipped with a spray-painted burlap sign. In the Vosges mountains it was against industry, namely loggers who had been clearing out the area. On rural roads everywhere, it was local farmers standing up against corporate mega-farming. A good reminder that the gorgeous scenery is made up of real places and doesn’t simply exist over the course of the 23 days we get to stare at it through our TVs.

Window creepers

I see you, peeking down at the road around a half-closed shutter.

Window flaunters

We see you, standing with a glass of wine and a cigarette with a perfect view down onto the finish line that everyone who’s mushed up against the barrier would kill to have.

Un-boozed

Banging on the plastic panels lining the final meters into the finish in an enthusiastic yet still-hinged manner.

Boozed

Ryan Siu

Just murdering that shit.

Cheeky old people

La Planche des Belles Filles was the first Category 1 climb of the 2019 Tour, at seven kilometers and gradients that tipped into 20 percent near the top. Its name translates to “The Plank of the Beautiful Girls,” and references the legend of a group of local girls who fled into the Vosges mountains to escape capture by Swedish mercenaries during the Thirty Years’ War. They committed suicide by throwing themselves off the mountain into the lake below rather than be taken captive.

Ryan Siu

This terrible story that gets repeated every time La Planche is featured in the Tour also set up this terrible exchange between a group of old friends sitting in folding chairs and me as I was mid-climb to the top, and very tired.

Them: “Keep going! The Belles Filles are at the top!”

Me: “Look for the plank, right?”

Them: “Oui!”

Fin.

Old guys just hanging out by themselves

Ryan Siu

LOTS of them. Just there to see what the hubbub’s about. Often reading a newspaper.

Seekers

What’s the point being at the Tour de France if you can’t get proof? And else are you gonna do when Julian Alaphilippe is suddenly two feet away from you? Leave him be? Don’t be stupid.

Autograph kids

At the start of every stage, every rider has to ride up to a big dais on a stage where an emcee is jabbering away in French to a crowd. On the way, they often have to ride along fencing where adorable children beg for autographs and look very sad when a rider goes by without stopping.

Which, in actuality, is surprisingly rare. Most riders stopped, especially if they were among the bigger names. I saw Geraint Thomas, Julian Alaphilippe, Thibaut Pinot, and Peter Sagan — perhaps THE four most popular riders in the 2019 edition of the Tour — all give their time to the kids who wanted their attention, despite being in the throes of one of the most competitive Tours in memory.

Autograph adults

Only got anything signed when they essentially shoved a pen in a rider’s hand and moved it for them.

People who will do anything for the Gram

Ryan Siu

Surprisingly few during the nine stages I saw in 2019, so I’d like to think the world is becoming a better place where people feel less and less compelled to document their every move, even to the potential physical detriment of themselves and others, in hopes of capturing fleeting joy of accruing internet points.

But I also wasn’t in the high mountains like I was in 2014, where Gram-happy fans were a pox.

People who will do anything for a polka-dot hat

Ryan Siu

Of all the iconic pieces of swag at the Tour de France — the hats, the kits, the flags, the signs — nothing is more sought after than any item with polka-dots on it. The dots represent the jersey given to the rider leading the King of the Mountains classification. More importantly, as far as swag goes, they aren’t flat yellow — which feels sacrilegious to wear — or green or white — which are far too boring.

When the caravane comes by tossing out polka-dot hats (brought to you by the fine people at Leclerc superstores), the barriers are crushed with fans. Better to politely ask someone who got two if you can have their spare.

People who will do anything for a glimpse of AlaPinot

As much as fans interfere with the riders of the Tour de France, and as taxing as it must be to deal with knuckleheads on a daily basis while also trying to stay focused on the unfathomably difficult race at hand, it is refreshing to see world-class athletes commune with the people who adore them.

Before each stage, team buses are typically situated near stomach-high metal fencing where fans might be able to stand within 15 feet of riders as they come off the team bus and mill around. For the biggest heros — the Alaphilippes, or Pinots — even just catching a glimpse of their kits through the photographers and journalists surrounding them is a thrill. After all, could you imagine ever getting so close to Tom Brady or Lionel Messi as they stretched?

For lesser riders, you can even have a conversation. And by “lesser” I don’t mean bottom of the peloton riders. I saw Rigoberto Uran, a pre-Tour yellow jersey contender and second-place finisher in 2017, walk off the Education First bus to a group of Colombian fans who had been chanting his name. EF isn’t having the strongest Tour, granted, but the scene was quiet around the bus compared to the French squads, and Uran stood with his arm up on the fence for a good three or four minutes, chatting and smiling with the people who came just to see him.

Then he popped his helmet on and prepared to put his body through hell.

Creatures

Unlike locals, creatures exist solely to stand out amongst the scenery. They’re there to be seen — photographers love them, and they love photographers. Whether anybody else gets a kick out of them is another matter, but also entirely besides the point.

Ryan Siu

Lapinou

Lapinou is a man dressed in a pink bunny costume. Lapinou holds a sign telling you he is Lapinou. Lapinou is the creepiest anthropomorphic bunny since Frank from Donnie Darko.

Zaza and Sasha

Zaza wears a gymnast uniform. Sasha is her brother. You know it’s them because above their camper is an enormous sign that says “ZAZA AND SACHA.” Vehicles in the caravane stop and talk to them on a daily basis.

The Devil

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Tales of this man’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. Didi Senft has been a fixture on the Tour since 1993. He’s stuck around long enough to become a mostly welcome sight for fans and riders. He was reportedly going to retire in 2014, but he has continued to attend the Tour, appearing on every stage thus far in 2019.

Bro in far too little clothing

Did you know that people are still busting out Borat mankinis for laughs? In 2019!

Color

Not necessarily a local, but not necessarily looking to be noticed, either, those who add to the color of the Tour de France are perhaps the best, most earnest subset of fans. They’re not trying to stand out, but they shine all the same by making the atmosphere undeniably better.

Belgians

Ryan Siu

The Grand Départ in Brussels showed me what cycling fanaticism truly means.

In many ways, Belgium embodies the Tour better than its eponymous nation. France likes to wield the Tour with a subdued sense of duty. Belgium, a country lopped onto France’s head like a brain slug, wields it like the sack of firecrackers that it is. Belgium regularly gets Tour stages, but not regularly enough to get used to the novelty. Saturday in Brussels will be the first Belgian start for the Tour de France since 2012, and the city is filled to the cracks with decorative yellow and green and polka dot nods to the race.

The people came in many varieties — there were the locals at a Flemish bar, a dad who knew Tiesj Benoot, two old ladies drinking beer in lawn chairs just off their curb — but they all wanted to tell you their best Eddy Merckx story, and they were all supremely friendly.

The people who cheer at everyone who rides a bicycle like they’re in the Tour de France

Before every stage, fans can ride the course on their own. And every one gets cheered like they’re Bernard Hinault. I probably heard “Allez Pinot!” directed 10,000 times to people who definitely weren’t Pinot, and it never got old.

The fans who brought every nation’s flag to the Tour

Louis Bien

An evolution of cheering everyone who rides a bicycle in the Tour de France is bringing a flag of every country represented in the Tour so that, when you find out where someone is from, you can bust out their flag and shout a former national hero at them, like the German man who got “Jan Ullrich! Jan Ullrich!”

The four fans claimed to be from Belgium, Luxembourg, Uzbekistan, and Romania.

Old woman in a bright green vest who blew kisses at every vehicle that passed by

She was miniscule, appeared to be in her 80s, and walking briskly up a mountain at the time.

Guy who spent 15 minutes blowing up an inflatable lobster

No notes.

Amateur cyclists, especially geriatrics with calves of coiled steel

Ryan Siu

A lot of people like to ride their bikes before the Tour de France: some in full kit, some in cargo shorts; some with a tow rope attached around their kid’s bike, some who look and ride like they once hoped to taste Tour glory.

They’re all heroes, especially those who brave the major climbs that the professionals will be taking on later in the day. But none are quite as awe-inspiring as the older set who have faces like your grandma and legs like Pawel Poljanski. They have never gone anywhere except via bicycle, and they are both inspiring and frightening.

Mega cycling legend stuffed in a suit

They will be hauled up on stage to shake hands and be gawked at. They will either appear extremely happy to be there, or extremely uncomfortable. And they will have a look that seems to wonder if perhaps the crowd could love them more.

Bros

Bros dominate the Tour landscape, from big groups of bros to intimate groups of bros, across all ages and levels of verve. Sitting around and drinking in a weird place has been a staple of brohood since the beginning of man, making the Tour perhaps the ultimate bro out event.

Bachelor party bros

Ryan Siu

Soccer is their favorite sport, actually, but the Tour was coming right by and how could you not? Heading to a music festival later.

Old man bros

Sittin’ ‘round a cooler that they hauled up in the trunk. Not into dressing up.

Young bros

Sittin’ ‘round a cooler that they hauled up in the trunk. Shirtless or wearing a team kit and cycling casquette, most likely.

Bros who fiercely stan one rider

Ryan Siu

Usually in groups while wearing matching T-shirts and exhibiting personality traits befitting the riders.

A sampling:

Dumoulin Fan Club: Respectful, demur, cool like the rider himself. Also thoroughly lost, given Dumoulin is rehabbing in another country.

King Küng Freunde, AKA the KKF: Loyal, pensive, and happy to be here.

Sagan Team: Won’t stop jumping up and down for one goddamn second.

Bros in a cycling caravan dragging mini kegs of Heineken down the road

Ryan Siu

Tempting to call them creatures, but their friendship is real and they charm the pants off everyone who stops and talks with them. Plus they make it all the way up a mountain on that contraption.

Campers

The hardest of the hardcore drive themselves to every stage and live out of an RV for three weeks. The people residing in them are a combination of the Locals, Color, and Creatures above. But there are some delineations worth discussing.

River bathers

Showerers

Ryan Siu

Perhaps the biggest distinction among the campers is how they take care of their personal stank. If you can afford it, you get a camper with a fully-equipped shower in it, in which you case you’re probably also the type who will be rolling out an incredible spread of red wine, paté, and fine cheeses on a card table before every stage.

If you can’t afford it, you’re showering at campsites when you can find them, or, in a pinch, rinsing off in a nearby body of water. Your spread will look more like a standard sporting-event fare of salty snacks eaten on top of a cooler, but you will still have a bottle of red wine because you’re in France, for God’s sake.

Caravaners

Ryan Siu

RVs traveling in packs of three or more are particularly impressive because that means sometimes spending hours the night before a stage hunting for the perfect spot big enough to accommodate everyone. Doing that every night for three weeks represents a level of dedication to friendship that is both touching and ill-advised.

DOGS

Lots of people bring their dogs to the Tour de France. They are usually better behaved than their humans, and they are all good.

Officials

People need to run and document this massive three-week enterprise. They walk around with badges and are only semi-sure how anything is supposed to work.

Cops

Ryan Siu

Lots of them! Enough to be their own subspecies. Briefly, we have:

Good cops (Will help you cross the course)

Bad cops (Is upset you asked to cross the course)

Clueless cops (Possibly from out of town, not sure where the course is)

Cops who are taking their jobs way too seriously (Will point you to the 30-minute drive you’re supposed to take to cross the course)

Cops who don’t have nearly enough to do (Will help you cross the course, but first wants to hear about your life for 30 minutes)

Cops who probably aren’t taking their jobs seriously enough (Too busy trying to get a polka-dot hat to help you cross the course)

People with badges and green polos

Tour pro tip: Show up to the course with a yellow lanyard and a plain green polo, and you’ll have free reign over the Tour de France. On race day, no one is more respected than the person who you think looks official.

Over-eager emcee

Simultaneously calling the race for fans at the finish line, while also keeping the atmosphere FUN and ENERGETIC and just, real quick, double checking that everyone is having FUN even though the riders are two hours away still. Incomprehensible except when he’s pronouncing every rider’s name like there’s a period between each syllable, so that Thibaut Pinot is actually TEE. BO. PEE. NO.

Journalists

Also get yellow lanyards. Allowed to wander in the fence sometimes. Have it pretty good, actually.

[sebeth]

Legion Of Super-Heroes #12

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

 Legion of Super-Heroes #12, “Rebirth”, by Keith Giffen, Tom & Mary Bierbaum, and Al Gordon.

The previous issue saw Roxxas ambush and decimate the newly-reunited Legion.

The Medi-Center of the Lightning Ring Plantation, Winath:

Brainiac 5 ruminates at Celeste’s bedside: “In a way, life makes perfect sense.  We open our hearts to the muses.  We follow our souls, find our own paths.  We respect the paths of others.  We celebrate their diversity.  It’s all so simple.  Life is good. Life works.  Yessir, Mr. Dox.  You’ve got life all figured out.  So how come you don’t have a clue about death?  Why does Celeste Rockfish have to die?  Why did Jo have to die?  How does any of this fit your neat little equation of life?  How can you apply a 12th-level intelligence for all these years…and still be so utterly incapable of dealing with death?”

Sorry, Brainy, death will remain the eternal mystery of life.

We see “Possibility of mystic treatment?  Powers of available mystics inadequate.”

Brainy’s grasping for straws if he’s willing to consult mystics.  I don’t think Mysa (the closest mystic) would be “inadequate” power-wise but she’s clearly unable to summon the mental focus a healing spell would require.

Brainy leaves the medi-center as a ball of green energy streaks downward.

Reep, clothed in the traditional Durlan robes, bemoans the Roxxas attack, believing it dooms the reformation of the Legion: “We just let him do it, we just let Roxxas waltz onto the plantation and slaughter us…we were so pumped up about staring down Mordru, we just lost our heads…we forgot that Legionnaires never stop being targets…now we’ll never get this damn group together.”

Rokk calmly interrupts Reep’s recriminations: “Listen, Cham, while you were under, we had to put together a plan of action so I split the team into two squads.  Most of us will protect the plantation.  Here’s the squad that’s gone after Roxxas (Ayla, Vi, Jan)”.

Reep is flabbergasted: “Bloody nass!  You sent them on a mission and they all went?”

“Absolutely.  We’re back, Cham.  The Legion is back.”

I’m going to put Cham’s defeatist attitude toward the physical traumua and extensive recovery ahead that he – and others - suffered at the hands of Roxxas – when has the Legion ever backed down from a challenge or given up after a defeat?

A comatose Celeste undergoes a few flashbacks.  It’s revealed Celeste is a cousin of Leland McCauley – she left the family and assumed the Rockfish identity because “we’re just not the same, Daddy…just can’t let money rule my life – like it has for you and Leland”.

Celeste went to an isolated planet after leaving the family.  A meteor, “or something”, hits the planet.  Celeste discovers an alien corpse with a familiar ring: “Some kind of weird ring…that glow…what’s happening to me?”

We switch to Kono and Devlin.

Devlin is under doctor’s orders to “lie low” until the allergic reaction subsides: “Those rose honey-bees pack a wallop, y’know.”

An impatient Kono wants Devlin to help find the missing Furball.

Devlin mentions the presumed deceased Ultra Boy.

Kono: “Jo? Dead? Nah. Couldn’t be. If he were gonna die, he’d a’ told me first.”

The green light flares through the building – heading towards Celeste’s room.

Kono and Brainy race to Celeste’s room.

Garth arrives and questions Devlin. Devlin informs Garth that Brainy has gone ahead to investigate.

Garth: “Well, then, we might as well just wait here. If anybody can puzzle it out, it’s Brainy.”

The green light dims and Brainy and Kono encounter a healed Celeste.

The location changes to the far side of the plantation. We see Furball for the first time in his human form: Brin Londo! The writers dropped hints in earlier issues but it is now confirmed.

Brin: “What is it…the phases of the moon…or what? Why does this happen to me? Ha! Some big mystery – the Zuunium. Dad had to play around with that damn Zunnium, had to use me as his guinea pig…Jo’s kept my secret this long. I’m not going to let them know now that their big, stupid Furball is really Brin Londo, the great Timber Wolf of the Legion of Super-Heroes! I don’t need their pity…don’t want to be another Legion tragedy.  I just want Ayla to remember me the way I was…They don’t need any help, not from their pet.”

Jan, Ayla, and Vi, along with the Science Police, are searching the Bloomfield District of Winath for Roxxas.

Vi finds Roxxas beside a pile of burning corpses. Roxxas’s face is sporting a “Harvey Dent” appearance after his encounter with Jo at the plantation.

Roxxas faints at the sight of the Legionnaires.

Jan: “Wow. Jo must have really pounded him.”

Ayla: “You know, if we don’t do something, he’s going to die right there.”

Vi: “After what he did to Blok and Jo, I really don’t think I give a damn.”

Ayla: “It is better than he deserves.”

Jan: “No. This isn’t about him, or his atrocities. Or even justice. It’s about us and how much of us would die in this room with him.”

Jan is too good for this universe. The intense discipline it must take not to murder Roxxas on sight! Roxxas is not only responsible for Blok’s murder and the Legion ambush – he massacred Jan’s entire race!

The missing Jo has realized he’s not on Winath anymore: “Vegetation’s all wrong…Constellations are out of whack…the moons are out of place.”

Jo discovers a vehicle: “Bloody grief! A Khundish 306 transport! I’ve only seen fossils of this baby! Must be a mockup…”

Jo encounters the owner of the vehicle: “Hmm…some kind of Khundish dialect. And those ears – maybe I’m on a Khundish outpost or something!”

Jo needs answers: “What the grief. Take me to your leader.”

The 5YL series does a great job of establishing Joe’s cunning and intelligence. Before this series, Jo was considered a powerful but not so bright hunk.

The news of Roxxas’s capture makes the interstellar news. Much to the dismay of the Dominators: “You – you and your discrete agent!”

Cham, on the other hand, has a much different reaction: “We did it, by damn!”

Cham congratulates Rokk: “Yeah, I gotta hand it to you, Rokk. You knew what you were talking about. We just picked up right where we left off.”

Cham shows Rokk the new uniforms he had Marla design.

Rokk: “These are not bad at all, Cham, but do you really think we’re gonna get anybody to wear ‘em?”

Cham: “Listen, Rokk, if you wear yours, they’ll wear theirs.”

The writers’ establishment of Rokk as the backbone of the Legion would carry on into the next three reboots.

Quarantine: The Persuader is attacking the lower levels. The Science Police hope the “ex-Legionnaire” can stop him.

The readers are introduced to Richard Kent Shakespeare, a.k.a. DC’s original Impulse.  Kent and Bart debuted very close within a year or so of each other. Kent pretty much never used his code name.

Kent has a super-strength, heightened durability, and regenerative healing powerset. He’s also a medical doctor.

The Persuader asks Kent to step aside: “I’m not after the Ranzz kid”.

Kent: “You know I can’t let you hurt anyone else, not as long as I’m still standing.”

Captain Gim “Hands On” Allon of the Science Police, aka Colossal Boy, arrives on the scene. Science Police Command isn’t thrilled when Gim goes all “Colossal Boy” during cases but he insists he’s “permitted a little discretion”.

Gim started out as a recruit for the Science Police. It makes sense he returns to the Science Police after the Legion disbanded.

The issue ends with the Persuader poised to behead Kent: “Give my regards to all the heroes on Shanghalla.”

The ending pages are a memo between Marla Latham and Murphy Caldwell – the production manager of the company that produced the new Legion uniforms. Cham’s notes are highlighted on the memo. Bottom line: “Just tell them to do it the way we told them to do it.”

The final page is an all points bulletin on Nyuen Chun Ti a.k.a. the Persuader.

Highlights of the A.P.B.:

The Persuader is the prime suspect in the murder of Char Burrane (a.ka. Starfinger II).

Underworld contacts have contracted the Persuader Char Burrane Jr, the son of the second Starfinger. Char Jr. is currently an inmate at the Luc & Perla Ranzz Memorial Clinic on Quarantine.

The Science Police suspect, but can’t prove, that Molock Hansom, the third Starfinger, is the individual who ordered the hits on the Burranes.

Burrane Sr. is believed to be behind the murder of Lars Hanscom, the original Starfinger.

This is a lot of death and vendetta for the lame moniker of “Starfinger”. It’s not even a good name.

Burrane Jr is believed to have a ring that contains the weaponry and data storage of the Burrane Family Crime Empire.

The Science Police believe the Burrane family has connections to the “Black Dawn” case on earth.

The Persuader is considered “extremely dangerous”. He has been convicted for “murder, extortion, racketeering, and other felonies”.

The Persuader obtained the Atomic Axe in mid 2960s at Minerstown settelement in the Rimborian asteroid belt. The Persauder killed Wolf Benback, the previous owner of the axe.

The Persuader became a mob enforcer and later joined the Fatal Five.

The Science Police state the Persuader stayed loyal to the Fatal Five due to his feelings for Sarya of Venegar, aka the Emerald Empress: “Suspect’s actions are more irrational and sadistic since the death of Sarya in 2989.”

[annamaetion]

Independence Day: Downtime

Dikembe Umbutu -Congolese Warlord Floyd Rosenberg -Government Accountant

The harvester queen had been vanquished and the sphere was secure. Finally some time to relax and to finally catch their collective breaths.

Floyd could hardly believe that he'd survived, but he put off those thoughts for now. He sat on a soft patch of soil out near where he'd defended Area 51 with Warlord Umbutu just a bit earlier. Umbutu sat with him, watching as Floyd contemplated the gun he'd been handed.

"Do you think they'll let me keep this?" He asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

"You have the heart of a warrior." Umbutu said, seemingly out of nowhere.

Floyd looked pleased but was somewhat shocked. "That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me."

Umbutu shrugged, "You remember that I brought that blaster --you have-- with me from Congo? The one they gave you was taken back by the doctor."

"Are you asking for it back?" Floyd asked smiling, "Or--"

"I am saying that if anyone here tries to take that blaster from you they'll have to go through me as well."

"Neat. Best present ever." Floyd smiled with unbounded glee, "Thanks man..." Floyd canted his head slightly, "So... odd question. What do I call you? Dikembe... Umbutu... I'm not sure which of your names I'm supposed to call you."

"When talking to me you may call me Dikembe, but introduce me as Warlord Umbutu to those who don't know me if I should come up." Dikembe angled slightly more towards Floyd, "What name do I call you by? I remember Director Levinson called you Rosenberg, but I'm not sure I remember if you were addressed by any other name?"

"You can call me Floyd."

Dikembe stuck out his right hand. "Apologies Floyd." He said, his pronunciation of Floyd's name slightly clumsy but getting there, "I judged you quite wrongly during our first meeting and I mistook your enthusiasm as-- misplaced."

Floyd took his hand and shook it, "Well to be fair to you, before today I hadn't ever had any real experience fighting with weapons." Floyd withdrew his hand and shrugged, "By the way, that alien mind thing? That looked super painful, I was scared that you'd somehow got struck by a laser or something..."

"And I was very concerned how, at first, the sphere seemed to be 'eating you' the hive mind fears it after all... and so too do I.  It is the shade of their fear, but I cannot shake it."

"Maybe you're just anxious, because I know I am."

"I do not know this word, 'anxious'."

"Uh. Unsure about the future? Worried about could happen-- but like a background baseline feeling?" Floyd shrugged, "Wanting something to do...also? It's a complicated feeling."

Dikembe nodded, "Anxious sounds like what I am feeling."

They again lapsed into a comfortable silence, both casually watching Area 51 personnel scurry about to clean and collect the shield generators. The school bus still sat where it had been nearly crushed. The children had long since been placed in the bases' mess hall, both Dikembe and Floyd were glad to see that the kids looked more or less okay.

Suddenly a nearby radio crackled to life. "Hello-- uh this is Julius Levinson. Director Levinson's father-- er one of the kids is missing his backpack, could someone check the bus and let me know if you find one on it? Uh-- over."

Floyd exchanged a glance with Dikembe "Well I was planning a trip to the mess hall anyway, you want to come with me?"

Dikembe nodded, "It will be interesting to see what they have for food on this base."

Floyd grabbed the radio and they headed over towards the bus. The backpack was quickly located under one of the back seats and one of the kids' rabbit hats lay on a nearby seat as well.

"Floyd to Julius, come in Julius." "Yeah-- Julius here." "Located backpack and a hat, you guys are still in the mess hall right? Over." "Yes we're still there...over." "Headed your way, over and out."

They handed the backpack and hat to Julius upon entering the mess hall, he grinned and handed the stray articles to the kids that they belonged to.

"Thanks, I guess I should have thought to do a final check, but with all that's been happening I guess it completely slipped my mind."

"Of course, glad to help. Anything good to eat around here?"

Julius sighed, "Military rations and MRE's mostly."

Floyd contemplated a nearby set of three vending machines. He quirked an eyebrow, "Well, I've got an idea. Dikembe would you help me move these machines away from the wall?"

"Yes of course."

Once the machines had been moved forward Floyd set to fiddling with the bottom of the first one, "Thanks, now lets see here—yup. You'd think an Area 51 base vending machine would be more secure than your average one. Nope, totally a commercial model."

The vending machine whirred to life and started turning each spiral in quick succession. Bags of chips and various other treats rained down into the collection area.

"Tada!" Floyd said grinning widely, "Don't go overboard or anything though don't want to be responsible for any tummy aches." Floyd then moved on to the drinks machine.

Julius laughed, "How'd you learn to do that?" "Well, I've got a broad electrical knowledge and programming know-how. It was one of the requirements for me being Director Levinson's accountant. Gotta have someone to simplify the technology expense account for the military higher ups."

The kids were happy clamoring over the pile of goodies and collecting drinks grinning and laughing. The eldest of the kids remembered her manners by turning to Floyd and thanking him. The other kids chimed in with a flurry of thank you's and yeah's nodding happily.

"No problem, glad to help. Hey pass me a package of funyons?"

One of the myriad of kids tossed him a bag of the fried onions.

"You a fan of onions Dikembe?" "Yes?" "Toss a bag to him too."

Another bag was thrown, but this time to Dikembe.

"They're battered and fried onions. Try them and tell me what you think."

Dikembe opened the bag and sniffed tentatively at the contents. Extracting one he brought it to his mouth and tossed it in.

He chewed slowly and nodded, "It is very unusual. You Westerners put a lot of salt on your foods however, is there a water bottle that I might have?"

The elder blond girl walked up and handed Dikembe a water bottle. "Here you go sir."

"Thank you." Dikembe said simply.

Suddenly Director Levinson was at the door to the mess hall, "Hey Dad- Uh Rosenberg... kids. Warlord... Umbutu."

"Hello David," Julius greeted his son with a hug that was shyly received, "What did they say about when we can leave here?"

David wobbled his hands in a so-so gesture. "We're still working on re-establishing the communication networks, it could take a while before we can get ourselves organized enough to wrangle the kids' parents."

The group cast glances at the kids collected around the far table in the corner munching on their snacks.

"For now I guess they'll have to stay here. We'll have a better time getting them some real food in Area 51 after the dust settles a little."

"Good. I guess we should figure out where they'll sleep then."

"There's some barracks a ways off from the main barracks. Should be space for them there."

Julius nodded, "Okay kids we'll be heading off. Follow us to the barracks we gotta to get you guys some rest."

The kids muttered their agreements and started collecting their respective things.

Floyd turned towards Dikembe, "Are you headed back to Congo anytime soon?"

"Not tonight, the pilots are in need of rest, and the planes we do have are in need of refuel or repair. I will have to remain here for now."

"Right yeah- I guess I should have figured." Floyd scratched the back of his head as he watched the kids file out of the mess hall. "Maybe we should follow them, so we know where the barracks are?"

Dikembe nodded, "And we should also help make sure the children are looked after as well."

"Yeah, that many kids is bound to be something even Area 51 isn't really equipped to deal with." Floyd brought up the rear of the line of kids with Dikembe following right behind him.

—    —    —    —    —    —    —    —    —    —

The school bus kids, the ones that had originally been with the bus that is, had numbered 22 before Julius had joined them with the three kids he'd traveled with. 25 kids was a lot to keep tabs on, but Floyd gladly teamed up with Dikembe to help Julius with the task.

Soon the number began to dwindle as families or relatives of the kids were located. Two weeks passed with Floyd beginning to wonder when Dikembe would leave back to his kingdom (is it called a kingdom if his official title is warlord?)

He didn't want him to leave, so he didn't ask. Dikembe called him his 'Warrior Brother' and ate every meal with him. Floyd would miss looking after the gaggle of kids, which he lovingly thought of as the jackrabbits because of their hats.

He'd especially miss Dikembe, his cool and aloof demeanor was the sort any action hero would be proud to sport. Basically he was too cool for him to be associating with a nerdy government accountant like Floyd.

Those tallies on his arm and machetes on his back were pretty badass too.

One morning a few days after the last of the jackrabbits now being looked after by family Floyd worried that he'd be left behind in Area 51 with very little that he could do that he was qualified for.

Floyd sat sullenly in a corner of the former barracks and pondered this. Maybe he should follow Dikembe to Congo?

Julius appeared at the door to the room and brightened upon spotting him.

"Floyd, there you are." "Hey Julius. What's up?" "Umbutu was looking for you? Something about The Congo?" "Oh?" "Yeah he was looking for a ride or something, he's in the main hanger- he asked if anyone had seen you." "So he hasn't left yet?"

"Like he'd leave without saying goodbye to you?" Julius laughed, "You two have practically been joined at the hip these past few weeks."

Floyd shrugged, "I guess you're right, thanks for finding me."

Floyd stood and strode out of the room.

The entire walk to the main hanger filled Floyd with a mounting dread. Was this goodbye? He supposed that it was long past time for Dikembe to head home to Congo (he was the warlord after all).

The main hanger was a livelier bustle than it been the previous week, now that communication channels had been re-established, there were now ways to organize the supplies that needed to get ferried about.

Honestly Floyd wasn't really up on the latest thing that Area 51 had decided on. There should be more meetings, or maybe there could at least be a memo?

Dikembe was always easy to spot in almost any room, tall and looming. So Floyd found him easily.

"Hey, heard you were looking for me?" "Yes Floyd, it is high time for me to return home. I would like it very much if you would accompany me." "I-I uh, sure yeah- that'd be awesome..." "What bothers you?" "I-I don't think I'd really fit in. I mean: 'Dangly, pale, bespectacled English man." He said pointing at himself derisively, "Yeah that’s totally the guy who would fit into a tribal(?) African warrior culture. He'll fit right in."

Dikembe rested his hand on Floyd's shoulder, "You would make an excellent addition. As an ambassador to the western world and and English teacher-- if nothing else. Though you're a warrior if ever I saw one."

"Ah. That's a good point actually. About the ambassador to the Western world, I mean."  Floyd shrugged, "After all Dr. Marceaux is staying here to figure out the sphere."

"Indeed, the good doctor did act as our ambassador for a while." Dikembe said nodding, "But even if she were wanting to return with me, I still would have requested you come."

"Well, okay." Floyd said smiling widely, "When are we leaving?"

"The pilot is ready now."

"Awesome. Let's go then."

—    —    —     —     —     —     —     —    —

The Congolese people seemed a little put off by Floyd, but eventually settled their concerns after getting used to him.

Well, for the most part.

Dikembe's council of fellow warriors shot looks at Floyd and grumbled derogatory things in their native tongue behind his back. They had only tolerated the female doctor because she only was interested in her studies of the aliens' language.

She had never overstepped her welcome by being so foolish as to correct their English! He should be more respectful.

Dikembe overheard these men from time to time, wanting very much to throttle them the first few, and growing increasingly more worried with the frequency of the complaints. Could his council not see Floyd's worth?

They mocked his name and his pale skin, called him weak to his face!

Dikembe felt troubled, maybe if they could see Floyd as the warrior that he was underneath the layer of their own underestimation?

Floyd didn't seem to let it get to him, he'd known there would be some push-back. In truth he'd expected a lot more derision from the council of elders.

It wasn't until a conflict with a group of harvester aliens, that Floyd was able to prove himself. (pod... swarm? What's the collective term for the harvester aliens?)

Floyd only had minor abrasive cuts whereas other established warriors said they owed their lives to Floyd as he had provided much needed cover. The warriors said of him, 'Calm, and vigilant. Seemingly seeing enemies mere moments before their attacks.'

This quieted the descent from the elders, finally, Floyd had secured the reputation of a warrior amongst his people.

"Of all the things you've got to worry about on a daily basis, the aliens are almost the most predictable." Floyd murmured, "I think this pocket of them must have gotten desperate to ambush us though. They've mostly stayed hidden and stuck at night on small groups or lone travelers."

"Yes... or children." Dikembe offered somberly.

"They- the children aren't allowed to leave the secured perimeter until the last of the aliens' are cleared out." Floyd said confused, "There hasn't been a kid attacked since I've gotten here, and it's going to stay that way if I've got any say in it!"

Dikembe sighed. "Before, with my Father in charge— he said that children had to be trained from an early age to be warriors— to learn to fight on their own." Dikembe slowly gestured to his younger brothers' photo on the wall.

"Oh." Floyd said simply, "I see."

"When I took over, I vowed to avenge my younger brother." Dikembe shook his head, "a part of me wonders if we've really made a dent if that was only one of the harvester queens."

"Well the sphere did say no one had ever killed a harvester queen before," Floyd noted, "so we've showed the resistance that it's at least possible."

Dikembe nodded, "It is a start."

—  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —  —

A year passed, and the aliens left on earth were estimated to be less than 100 worldwide. Absolutely none left in all of Congo or in the surrounding countries thanks to the sizable efforts of the warriors and citizenry.

There were celebrations being planned all over, one year anniversary of the defeat of the harvester queen, and the Twenty-first anniversary of the original attack's win.

"Floyd. Warrior brother?" Dikembe was puzzled, Floyd had not made it to breakfast that morning, it wasn't like him to sleep in. Today was special— they were supposed to celebrate the anniversary of the win together after all.

Dikembe knocked on Floyd's door, "Are you in there?" A light groan emanated from behind the door.

Floyd opened the door slightly, "Good morning Dikembe— sorry I slept in, but I was just so comfortable this morning."

The door shifted slightly revealing a bare chested Floyd, "I figured if I couldn't sleep in— today of all days— when could I?" Floyd chuckled at his own joke, very much unaware of the assessing look that Dikembe was sweeping over his bare chest.

"What?" Floyd said, having finally noticed Dikembe had yet to say anything. Upon realizing he was being stared at Floyd began to shrink back and he nervously placed his arms in front of his chest.

"Uh— I'll just go get dressed --now."

Dikembe silently entered the room and closed the door behind him, "No need to dress yourself on my account— you have no need to be ashamed of your bare chest."

Dikembe noted the tally marks on Floyd's left arm. The small black lines on his upper arm, standing in a stanch contrast to the pale skin, were very far above where his tan line started.

"You would even hide your tally?"

Floyd shrugged, "Well, sort of?" He shrugged shyly, "It makes sense to start at the top of the arm and work down it... I sun burn easy, so long sleeves are just to be practical."

Dikembe took a step toward Floyd and traced the small tallies with his right hand, "You have made great progress this past year," he counted out the tally in his head, "You are nearing a count of seventy."

Floyd arm was smooth to Dikembe's rough callused hand as he clasped his hand over his shoulder. Floyd still wasn't looking Dikembe in the eye. Dikembe realized that Floyd was shaking slightly.

"Why are you shaking?" Dikembe asked confused. It was not cold in the room... maybe Floyd had caught a chill, and that was the true reason for him sleeping in.

Floyd's eyes darted around, only briefly meeting Dikembe's gaze. However, it was enough for the seasoned warlord to recognize fear and uncertainty.

"What troubles you?"

Floyd sighed, "Didn't sleep well last night if I'm honest, the one year anniversary is technically only because the twentieth anniversary was interrupted by another invasion." Floyd's gaze finally settled on Dikembe, "The aliens seem to really like attacking on significant dates...is what I'm saying."

Dikembe nodded, "This is true, but the downed alien ships do not stir— and I feel nothing of the hive mind."

Floyd offered a watery smile, but the first genuine one he'd offered that morning.

Something shifted between them, and a very fragile— very small— moment hung in the air. A moment that was more of a feeling. A feeling, one year and many battles in the making.

A warlord of Congo, fighting since birth, for his brother— fighting against his fathers decisions about the recruitment of children.

A pale British man, former government accountant, who went from working in liaison with the military to fighting alongside the military. Then chosen to become the Congo's ambassador to the West.

The differences of their backgrounds and cultures were too many. The moment—the feeling— was surely too fragile.

                                                       But.

Where others, might have faltered. Where so many other possibilities branched from the conclusion of this conversation... so much easier possibilities with less far reaching consequences...

Both Dikembe and Floyd simultaneously  reached into the feeling and listed in the direction of the other.

The kiss was short and chaste, barely a brush of their lips.

It shook both men to their cores. The kiss changed everything.

It was a silent admission of what had been growing between them in the past year, and was perhaps more fragile than the moment previous.

Neither man said anything, the only sound in the room was their breathing.

Then Floyd tilted his head to the side, imploring Dikembe with a seeking question in his look.

Floyd then purposely surged forward and kissed Dikembe.

Dikembe's hands grasped at Floyd. The right hand gripping his shoulder harder, and his left hand found itself at the small of Floyd's back.

They lost themselves to the moment. Their pasts and titles were no longer barriers between them. Or, maybe, they never really were any barriers— other than the shallow ones, imagined and then taught by society.

When they finally broke apart Floyd smiled self-deprecatingly, "You could do a LOT better than me. I can't be worth all the problems that I know—"

Dikembe silenced him with a deep kiss.

He parted only a sliver of distance between their mouths to reply, "I still do not understand how you do not see your own worth. I made the mistake of not seeing it when we first met, and since having been proved to be wrong I have had to fight to make others see it."

Dikembe kissed him again, even more deeply than the last time. Passion ramping up with each kiss, with his hands and arms set to holding Floyd close. Another pause as Dikembe continued his line of thought.

"Now I will fight to make sure that you see." Dikembe clasped Floyd's face with his right hand, "I will see to it that you no longer have cause to so disparage -the man— I have found cause to love."

"L-love?" Floyd was both visibly elated and shocked in equal measure. How could a Congolese Warlord possibly-?

He wasn't Warlord Umbutu to him- no, he'd long since been just simply, Dikembe.

Floyd smiled wide and surged forward into Dikembe's proffered kiss.

[readbookywooks]

PART I "THE SPARK"

1. I clasp the flask between my hands even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the frozen air. My muscles are clenched tight against the cold. If a pack of wild dogs were to appear at this moment, the odds of scaling a tree before they attacked are not in my favor. I should get up, move around, and work the stiffness from my limbs. But instead I sit, as motionless as the rock beneath me, while the dawn begins to lighten the woods. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months. By noon they will all be at my new house in the Victor's Village. The reporters, the camera crews, even Effie Trinket, my old escort, will have made their way to District 12 from the Capitol. I wonder if Effie will still be wearing that silly pink wig, or if she'll be sporting some other unnatural color especially for the Victory Tour. There will be others waiting, too. A staff to cater to my every need on the long train trip. A prep team to beautify me for public appearances. My stylist and friend, Cinna, who designed the gorgeous outfits that first made the audience take notice of me in the Hunger Games. If it were up to me, I would try to forget the Hunger Games entirely. Never speak of them. Pretend they were nothing but a bad dream. But the Victory Tour makes that impossible. Strategically placed almost midway between the annual Games, it is the Capitol's way of keeping the horror fresh and immediate. Not only are we in the districts forced to remember the iron grip of the Capitol's power each year, we are forced to celebrate it. And this year, I am one of the stars of the show. I will have to travel from district to district, to stand before the cheering crowds who secretly loathe me, to look down into the faces of the families whose children I have killed... The sun persists in rising, so I make myself stand. All my joints complain and my left leg has been asleep for so long that it takes several minutes of pacing to bring the feeling back into it. I've been in the woods three hours, but as I've made no real attempt at hunting, I have nothing to show for it. It doesn't matter for my mother and little sister, Prim, anymore. They can afford to buy butcher meat in town, although none of us likes it any better than fresh game. But my best friend, Gale Hawthorne, and his family will be depending on today's haul and I can't let them down. I start the hour-and-a-half trek it will take to cover our snare line. Back when we were in school, we had time in the afternoons to check the line and hunt and gather and still get back to trade in town. But now that Gale has gone to work in the coal mines - and I have nothing to do all day - I've taken over the job. By this time Gale will have clocked in at the mines, taken the stomach-churning elevator ride into the depths of the earth, and be pounding away at a coal seam. I know what it's like down there. Every year in school, as part of our training, my class had to tour the mines. When I was little, it was just unpleasant. The claustrophobic tunnels, foul air, suffocating darkness on all sides. But after my father and several other miners were killed in an explosion, I could barely force myself onto the elevator. The annual trip became an enormous source of anxiety. Twice I made myself so sick in anticipation of it that my mother kept me home because she thought I had contracted the flu. I think of Gale, who is only really alive in the woods, with its fresh air and sunlight and clean, flowing water. I don't know how he stands it. Well ... yes, I do. He stands it because it's the way to feed his mother and two younger brothers and sister. And here I am with buckets of money, far more than enough to feed both our families now, and he won't take a single coin. It's even hard for him to let me bring in meat, although he'd surely have kept my mother and Prim supplied if I'd been killed in the Games. I tell him he's doing me a favor, that it drives me nuts to sit around all day. Even so, I never drop off the game while he's at home. Which is easy since he works twelve hours a day. The only time I really get to see Gale now is on Sundays, when we meet up in the woods to hunt together. It's still the best day of the week, but it's not like it used to be before, when we could tell each other anything. The Games have spoiled even that. I keep hoping that as time passes we'll regain the ease between us, but part of me knows it's futile. There's no going back. I get a good haul from the traps - eight rabbits, two squirrels, and a beaver that swam into a wire contraption Gale designed himself. He's something of a whiz with snares, rigging them to bent saplings so they pull the kill out of the reach of predators, balancing logs on delicate stick triggers, weaving inescapable baskets to capture fish. As I go along, carefully resetting each snare, I know I can never quite replicate his eye for balance, his instinct for where the prey will cross the path. It's more than experience. It's a natural gift. Like the way I can shoot at an animal in almost complete darkness and still take it down with one arrow. By the time I make it back to the fence that surrounds District 12, the sun is well up. As always, I listen a moment, but there's no telltale hum of electrical current running through the chain link. There hardly ever is, even though the thing is supposed to be charged full-time. I wriggle through the opening at the bottom of the fence and come up in the Meadow, just a stone's throw from my home. My old home. We still get to keep it since officially it's the designated dwelling of my mother and sister. If I should drop dead right now, they would have to return to it. But at present, they're both happily installed in the new house in the Victor's Village, and I'm the only one who uses the squat little place where I was raised. To me, it's my real home. I go there now to switch my clothes. Exchange my father's old leather jacket for a fine wool coat that always seems too tight in the shoulders. Leave my soft, worn hunting boots for a pair of expensive machine-made shoes that my mother thinks are more appropriate for someone of my status. I've already stowed my bow and arrows in a hollow log in the woods. Although time is ticking away, I allow myself a few minutes to sit in the kitchen. It has an abandoned quality with no fire on the hearth, no cloth on the table. I mourn my old life here. We barely scraped by, but I knew where I fit in, I knew what my place was in the tightly interwoven fabric that was our life. I wish I could go back to it because, in retrospect, it seems so secure compared with now, when I am so rich and so famous and so hated by the authorities in the Capitol. A wailing at the back door demands my attention. I open it to find Buttercup, Prim's scruffy old tomcat. He dislikes the new house almost as much as I do and always leaves it when my sister's at school. We've never been particularly fond of each other, but now we have this new bond. I let him in, feed him a chunk of beaver fat, and even rub him between the ears for a bit. "You're hideous, you know that, right?" I ask him. Buttercup nudges my hand for more petting, but we have to go. "Come on, you." I scoop him up with one hand, grab my game bag with the other, and haul them both out onto the street. The cat springs free and disappears under a bush. The shoes pinch my toes as I crunch along the cinder street. Cutting down alleys and through backyards gets me to Gale's house in minutes. His mother, Hazelle, sees me through the window, where she's bent over the kitchen sink. She dries her hands on her apron and disappears to meet me at the door. I like Hazelle. Respect her. The explosion that killed my father took out her husband as well, leaving her with three boys and a baby due any day. Less than a week after she gave birth, she was out hunting the streets for work. The mines weren't an option, what with a baby to look after, but she managed to get laundry from some of the merchants in town. At fourteen, Gale, the eldest of the kids, became the main supporter of the family. He was already signed up for tesserae, which entitled them to a meager supply of grain and oil in exchange for his entering his name extra times in the drawing to become a tribute. On top of that, even back then, he was a skilled trapper. But it wasn't enough to keep a family of five without Hazelle working her fingers to the bone on that washboard. In winter her hands got so red and cracked, they bled at the slightest provocation. Still would if it wasn't for a salve my mother concocted. But they are determined, Hazelle and Gale, that the other boys, twelve-year-old Rory and ten-year-old Vick, and the baby, four-year-old Posy, will never have to sign up for tesserae. Hazelle smiles when she sees the game. She takes the beaver by the tail, feeling its weight. "He's going to make a nice stew." Unlike Gale, she has no problem with our hunting arrangement. "Good pelt, too," I answer. It's comforting here with Hazelle. Weighing the merits of the game, just as we always have. She pours me a mug of herb tea, which I wrap my chilled fingers around gratefully. "You know, when I get back from the tour, I was thinking I might take Rory out with me sometimes. After school. Teach him to shoot." Hazelle nods. "That'd be good. Gale means to, but he's only got his Sundays, and I think he likes saving those for you." I can't stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It's stupid, of course. Hardly anybody knows me better than Hazelle. Knows the bond I share with Gale. I'm sure plenty of people assumed that we'd eventually get married even if I never gave it any thought. But that was before the Games. Before my fellow tribute, Peeta Mellark, announced he was madly in love with me. Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta. I'm not sure what it was for me. But I know now it was nothing but painful for Gale. My chest tightens as I think about how, on the Victory Tour, Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again. I gulp my tea even though it's too hot and push back from the table. "I better get going. Make myself presentable for the cameras." Hazelle hugs me. "Enjoy the food." "Absolutely," I say. My next stop is the Hob, where I've traditionally done the bulk of my trading. Years ago it was a warehouse to store coal, but when it fell into disuse, it became a meeting place for illegal trades and then blossomed into a full-time black market. If it attracts a somewhat criminal element, then I belong here, I guess. Hunting in the woods surrounding District 12 violates at least a dozen laws and is punishable by death. Although they never mention it, I owe the people who frequent the Hob. Gale told me that Greasy Sae, the old woman who serves up soup, started a collection to sponsor Peeta and me during the Games. It was supposed to be just a Hob thing, but a lot of other people heard about it and chipped in. I don't know exactly how much it was, and the price of any gift in the arena was exorbitant. But for all I know, it made the difference between my life and death. It's still odd to drag open the front door with an empty game bag, with nothing to trade, and instead feel the heavy pocket of coins against my hip. I try to hit as many stalls as possible, spreading out my purchases of coffee, buns, eggs, yarn, and oil. As an afterthought, I buy three bottles of white liquor from a one-armed woman named Ripper, a victim of a mine accident who was smart enough to find a way to stay alive. The liquor isn't for my family. It's for Haymitch, who acted as mentor for Peeta and me in the Games. He's surly, violent, and drunk most of the time. But he did his job - more than his job - because for the first time in history, two tributes were allowed to win. So no matter who Haymitch is, I owe him, too. And that's for always. I'm getting the white liquor because a few weeks ago he ran out and there was none for sale and he had a withdrawal, shaking and screaming at terrifying things only he could see. He scared Prim to death and, frankly, it wasn't much fun for me to see him like that, either. Ever since then I've been sort of stockpiling the stuff just in case there's a shortage again. Cray, our Head Peacekeeper, frowns when he sees me with the bottles. He's an older man with a few strands of silver hair combed sideways above his bright red face. "That stuff's too strong for you, girl." He should know. Next to Haymitch, Cray drinks more than anyone I've ever met. "Aw, my mother uses it in medicines," I say indifferently. "Well, it'd kill just about anything," he says, and slaps down a coin for a bottle. When I reach Greasy Sae's stall, I boost myself up to sit on the counter and order some soup, which looks to be some kind of gourd and bean mixture. A Peacekeeper named Darius comes up and buys a bowl while I'm eating. As law enforcers go, he's one of my favorites. Never really throwing his weight around, usually good for a joke. He's probably in his twenties, but he doesn't seem much older than I do. Something about his smile, his red hair that sticks out every which way, gives him a boyish quality. "Aren't you supposed to be on a train?" he asks me. "They're collecting me at noon," I answer. "Shouldn't you look better?" he asks in a loud whisper. I can't help smiling at his teasing, in spite of my mood. "Maybe a ribbon in your hair or something?" He flicks my braid with his hand and I brush him away. "Don't worry. By the time they get through with me I'll be unrecognizable," I say. "Good," he says. "Let's show a little district pride for a change, Miss Everdeen. Hm?" He shakes his head at Greasy Sae in mock disapproval and walks off to join his friends. "I'll want that bowl back," Greasy Sae calls after him, but since she's laughing, she doesn't sound particularly stern. "Gale going to see you off?" she asks me. "No, he wasn't on the list," I say. "I saw him Sunday, though." "Think he'd have made the list. Him being your cousin and all," she says wryly. It's just one more part of the lie the Capitol has concocted. When Peeta and I made it into the final eight in the Hunger Games, they sent reporters to do personal stories about us. When they asked about my friends, everyone directed them to Gale. But it wouldn't do, what with the romance I was playing out in the arena, to have my best friend be Gale. He was too handsome, too male, and not the least bit willing to smile and play nice for the cameras. We do resemble each other, though, quite a bit. We have that Seam look. Dark straight hair, olive skin, gray eyes. So some genius made him my cousin. I didn't know about it until we were already home, on the platform at the train station, and my mother said, "Your cousins can hardly wait to see you!" Then I turned and saw Gale and Hazelle and all the kids waiting for me, so what could I do but go along? Greasy Sae knows we're not related, but even some of the people who have known us for years seem to have forgotten. "I just can't wait for the whole thing to be over," I whisper. "I know," says Greasy Sae. "But you've got to go through it to get to the end of it. Better not be late." A light snow starts to fall as I make my way to the Victor's Village. It's about a half-mile walk from the square in the center of town, but it seems like another world entirely. It's a separate community built around a beautiful green, dotted with flowering bushes. There are twelve houses, each large enough to hold ten of the one I was raised in. Nine stand empty, as they always have. The three in use belong to Haymitch, Peeta, and me. The houses inhabited by my family and Peeta give off a warm glow of life. Lit windows, smoke from the chimneys, bunches of brightly colored corn affixed to the front doors as decoration for the upcoming Harvest Festival. However, Haymitch's house, despite the care taken by the grounds-keeper, exudes an air of abandonment and neglect. I brace myself at his front door, knowing it will be foul, then push inside. My nose immediately wrinkles in disgust. Haymitch refuses to let anyone in to clean and does a poor job himself. Over the years the odors of liquor and vomit, boiled cabbage and burned meat, unwashed clothes and mouse droppings have intermingled into a stench that brings tears to my eyes. I wade through a litter of discarded wrappings, broken glass, and bones to where I know I will find Haymitch. He sits at the kitchen table, his arms sprawled across the wood, his face in a puddle of liquor, snoring his head off. I nudge his shoulder. "Get up!" I say loudly, because I've learned there's no subtle way to wake him. His snoring stops for a moment, questioningly, and then resumes. I push him harder. "Get up, Haymitch. It's tour day!" I force the window up, inhaling deep breaths of the clean air outside. My feet shift through the garbage on the floor, and I unearth a tin coffeepot and fill it at the sink. The stove isn't completely out and I manage to coax the few live coals into a flame. I pour some ground coffee into the pot, enough to make sure the resulting brew will be good and strong, and set it on the stove to boil. Haymitch is still dead to the world. Since nothing else has worked, I fill a basin with icy cold water, dump it on his head, and spring out of the way. A guttural animal sound comes from his throat. He jumps up, kicking his chair ten feet behind him and wielding a knife. I forgot he always sleeps with one clutched in his hand. I should have pried it from his fingers, but I've had a lot on my mind. Spewing profanity, he slashes the air a few moments before coming to his senses. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve and turns to the windowsill where I perch, just in case I need to make a quick exit. "What are you doing?" he sputters. "You told me to wake you an hour before the cameras come," I say. "What?" he says. "Your idea," I insist. He seems to remember. "Why am I all wet?" "I couldn't shake you awake," I say. "Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta." "Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there's some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. "Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch's knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It's not until he's handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. "Would you like a piece?" "No, I ate at the Hob," I say. "But thank you." My voice doesn't sound like my own, it's so formal. Just as it's been every time I've spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. "You're welcome," he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." He's right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I say is, "Take a bath, Haymitch." Then I swing out the window, drop to the ground, and head across the green to my house. The snow has begun to stick and I leave a trail of footprints behind me. At the front door, I pause to knock the wet stuff from my shoes before I go in. My mother's been working day and night to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking up her shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside when she's there, holding my arm as if to stop me. "Don't worry, I'm taking them off here," I say, leaving my shoes on the mat. My mother gives an odd, breathy laugh and removes the game bag loaded with supplies from my shoulder. "It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?" "Walk?" She knows I've been in the woods half the night. Then I see the man standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. One look at his tailored suit and surgically perfected features and I know he's from the Capitol. Something is wrong. "It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there." "Someone's here to see you," says my mother. Her face is too pale and I can hear the anxiety she's trying to hide. "I thought they weren't due until noon." I pretend not to notice her state. "Did Cinna come early to help me get ready?" "No, Katniss, it's - " my mother begins. "This way, please, Miss Everdeen," says the man. He gestures down the hallway. It's weird to be ushered around your own home, but I know better than to comment on it. As I go, I give my mother a reassuring smile over my shoulder. "Probably more instructions for the tour." They've been sending me all kinds of stuff about my itinerary and what protocol will be observed in each district. But as I walk toward the door of the study, a door I have never even seen closed until this moment, I can feel my mind begin to race. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so pale? "Go right in," says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway. I twist the polished brass knob and step inside. My nose registers the conflicting scents of roses and blood. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book. He holds up a finger as if to say, "Give me a moment." Then he turns and my heart skips a beat. I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.

[sorayahigashikata]

Chapter 90: "LIKE A COCKROACH."

[simplemlmsponsoring]

New Post has been published on http://simplemlmsponsoring.com/attraction-marketing-formula/attraction-marketing/reframing-the-risks-of-entrepreneurship-or-how-i-learned-to-stop-worrying-and-love-probability/

Reframing the “Risks” of Entrepreneurship: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Probability

Entrepreneurship is inherently risky, right?

After all, there are no guarantees in business and the stats on failure are grim.

Yet, as any investor knows, with great risk (sometimes) comes great reward.

These are opposite sides of the entrepreneurial coin.

But here’s the thing…

There’s a BIG difference between risk and uncertainty.

This distinction is crucial for aspiring entrepreneurs who want to make strategic investments when growing their business.

So, what’s the difference…

In The Signal and the Noise, famed statistician Nate Silver explains that risks can be calculated, whereas uncertainty cannot…

Risk is like a game of poker: the rules are well-defined and the chance of success is quantifiable (i.e., measurable). Uncertainty, to borrow Silver’s analogy, is like an irrational fear of “monsters” lurking in the dark, where the possibilities and outcomes are undefined, unknowable, and uncontrollable.

As you can imagine, most people can navigate risky situations, while they are often paralyzed by uncertainty—after all, who really knows what might happen!?

Now, you might think you know how this applies to your business, but you’re probably wrong.

Because many times, what you think of as uncertainty (those scary things that go bump in the night) are actually just risks you haven’t fully measured and quantified (and thus haven’t psychologically prepared for) yet.

Need an example? Perfect, because I have one…

The “Risky Business” of Going into Overtime

Perhaps one of the best examples of well-quantified risk comes from the world of football.

Don’t fret, non-sports fans! I’ll keep it brief.

Picture this…

It’s the fourth quarter. Your team just scored a touchdown on the final play of the game as the clock runs out.

Yet the scoreboard stares you down, 20-21.

What happens next?

You have two choices:

Kick the extra point to go into overtime, or… Go for the two-point conversion and put the game into the history books!

Which do you choose?

Because if you screw up the two-point conversion, it’s game over.

Angry fans and egg on your face.

Meanwhile, the average extra-point completion rate in the NFL sits around 85%, which is pretty dang close to a sure thing.

The choice to force overtime seems like the right choice, doesn’t it?

Sure, you still have to WIN with overtime—but at least you’ve got time to breathe, regroup, and put together a plan to come out ahead.

So what’s the correct choice?

Well, Nobel Prize-winning economist Richard Thaler (along with colleagues from Cornell and the University of Chicago) wanted to crunch the numbers to see which was statistically the “best” choice of action based on real-world data.

He dug through a decade of NFL games to figure it out.

Thaler’s findings were nothing short of fascinating.

He discovered that teams went for the “safe bet” of kicking an extra-point and forcing overtime a staggering 90% of the time.

However, those teams only ending up winning the game 40% of the time.

On the flip side, the measly 10% who took the road-less-traveled and went for the 2-point conversion won 50% of the time!

Now, that might not seem like much of a difference at first glace, but it actually means you’re 25% more likely to win by making the “riskier” choice—that’s HUGE!

But only 10% of teams do so because of the threat of immediate failure.

This is what Thaler calls “sudden death” aversion; players FEEL more uncertain about the outcome and thus wish to postpone any feelings of “what-if” and find more comfort in the less-safe choice.

This isn’t a conscious decision, of course, but here’s what’s especially interesting about this…

NFL players are no strangers to high-stakes decision-making; after all, the average play only last 4 seconds!

Yet the bias against going for the 2-point conversion persists, despite the increased probability of winning.

Kinda crazy, right?

This is a classic case of psychologically mismanaging risk and behaving irrationally in response to perceived uncertainty as a result.

The Big-Picture Perils of Risk Aversion

Listen: people are hard-wired to be risk-averse.

It probably dates back to the “caveman” days where daily life was fraught with danger.

But for a more contemporary example, look no further than the investing habits (or lack thereof) of Millennials.

Growing up during the “Great Recession,” they’re wary of the market where sharp declines impacted the portfolios of the older generations.

Some stats say that approximately 70% of Millennials have the bulk of their assets in cash.

Which, while maybe their fears are understandable, will come back to bite them when it’s time to retire.

Oh, and before you get too hard on “the kids these days”…

This behavior is a repeat of the generation that came of age during the Great Depression of the ’30s.

History has a way of repeating itself, after all.

And this speaks to a bigger point…

Despite decades of data showing that market returns are predictable, despite short-term peaks and valleys, people let their irrational fears over the present detrimentally impact their long-term success and security.

This is what happens when you let fear dictate your future!

Life will FORCE you to make choices, sometimes too late to have a meaningful impact on the outcome.

And just like the risks of investing in the market, maybe you find yourself feeling uncertain about any potential loss of time or money when it comes to getting your business off the ground.

If that’s the case take a moment to appreciate the biggest risk in the room…

That is, the risk of not taking a risk at all.

The Risk of Making a “Safe” Choice

Jim Carrey has a brilliant personal story to illustrate this.

During a now-famous commencement speech from 2014, Carrey spoke about his father who he was adamant could have been a great comedian, much like himself.

However, Carrey noted that his father chose not to act on his ambitions.

Rather than pursue comedy, the elder Carrey decided to become an accountant, something perceived as the “safer” career path.

Yet he ended up losing his accounting job while Carrey was a teenager, resulting in the family living out of a van and doing whatever they possibly could to make ends meet.

In other words, even a “safe bet” isn’t free from risk.

If you need a much-needed dose of inspiration, you should hear it from Carrey himself in this clip from Jim & Andy: The Great Beyond:

This begs a few bigger questions…

What “risks” are you avoiding right now? Are you choosing a “certain” path that might not be so certain at all? Have you taken the time to quantify the potential outcomes of your current course of action?

Look, the future will always be unknown, but that doesn’t mean it’s uncertain.

We can, after all, make informed decisions about our probability of success (more on that in a moment).

So rather than allowing yourself to be paralyzed by fears and “what-ifs,” it might be time to rethink what you currently perceive as a risk.

And that actually leads us to our last point…

Not All Risks are “Risks” at All

As you’ve learned in this post, there’s an important distinction between risk and uncertainty.

And many people are guilty of conflating the two, confusing what can be managed (risks) vs. what is uncontrollable (uncertainties).

Thus, we need to reframe our psychological relationship with risk.

Because, here’s the deal…

Risk represents well-defined probabilities.

So while most people think of risk in a negative light, risk is, by definition, well-defined and calculable.

Which doesn’t sound all that “risky,” does it?

Now, let’s apply this insight to entrepreneurship…

Kinda like going for the 2-point conversion attempt, starting a business isn’t about flying blindly.

Simply by doing your homework to find a time-tested, proven business playbook means you’re setting yourself up to win.

After all, you can look to successful business models, used by people who’ve “walked the walk,” and replicate those strategies yourself.

And while you might not get the exact same results, your probability of success is far from uncertain.

In fact, you might even say it’s a “risk” that’s practically not a risk at all.

Ready to take a calculated risk with a strong probability of success?

Then I strongly recommend signing up for Elite Marketing Pro’s FREE 10-Day Online Recruiting Bootcamp, where you will discover a proven business-building strategy called “attraction marketing,” which has a decade-plus track record of creating well-quantified success stories.

You’ll learn about about the specific tools and techniques you can use to connect with prospects online, so you’ll never have to act desperate, chase down or strong-arm anybody to make a sale, or deal with cold calling and rejection, ever again.

These methods allow you to build your business automatically—where prospects reach out to you (instead of you having to reach out to them).

The bottom line is that, in today’s age, you don’t need to be pushy, obnoxious, or overly-aggressive to build a successful business!

So if you’re ready to get started…

Click here to access our 10-Day Online Recruiting Bootcamp today!

  Sincerely, Andrew Draughon Director of Content Elite Marketing Pro

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The post Reframing the “Risks” of Entrepreneurship: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Probability appeared first on Elite Marketing Pro.

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[maysoper]

Wisconsin Losing Its Stripes

There's probably never a wrong time to post this, but we're getting close to a number of sports kicking off their seasons at the high school and amateur levels so it's very topical that a report out of Wisconsin came out today regarding a referee shortage hitting the sport of football in that state. What should alarm everyone reading this is that it is happening in every sport - hockey, football, soccer, basketball - where officials are being abused by coaches, players, and, most notably, parents and fans that these young officials are quitting the job of officiating. In most cases, they quit for good, and that's not a great outlook for sports that require officials to keep the games going. In saying this, let's have a discussion once more about the treatment of officials since I'm an official over the summer. Let's start with the report from WKOW Channel 27 in Wisconsin.

As stated in the report, "more than 70% of refs quit the job within the first few years. Jameson says the 2-3 year mark is typically when most hang up their whistles." That's a particularly damning statistic when you think that seven of every ten registered officials quits after two or three years due to the largest factor being abuse of officials. Wisconsin football was the subject of this study, but hockey isn't getting off easy on this page. If you're keeping up with your statistics, officials in hockey quit at an alarming rate as well. According to a 2012 report from the the Clinical Journal of Sport Medicine entitled Violence in Canadian Amateur Hockey: The Experience of Referees in Ontario, the study found that more than 90% of the 632 referees who responded to the survey said they were recipients of aggression and anger. Around 46% said that referees are threatened by physical violence. Hockey Canada has approximately 30,000 officials registered to officiate minor hockey games every year, and they state that approximately 10,000 fail to return every year. In perhaps the scariest and most tragic of incidents in the last few years, a soccer referee in the US was killed when he threatened to eject a player from an adult-league soccer match in suburban Detroit in 2014. Abuse of officials is a far more common incident of abuse than one may think. Verbal abuse and physical abuse are seen at far greater instances than ever in the past, and it begs the question as to where we, as a society, began to lose our common decency to plummet towards this inexcusable behaviour? Look, I understand that one may get caught up in the moment, but being in the moment also requires a sense of understanding that there are still lines that cannot be crossed. NHL players, for an incensed as they can be, understand they cannot scream vulgarities at an official or touch an official without some sort of retribution coming their way. They're literally playing for glory and a pay cheque; you, in the stands, are simply making someone's day or life a little more difficult with the barrage of insults being hurled at them. And why? Because they missed a slash on the opposite side of the rink that your eight year-old barely noticed? I'll refer to Adam Proteau's words from The Hockey News on November 28, 2013 when he wrote,

Let me speak directly to these cretins for a moment: Look, I know you think you're sticking up for your kid or a child you coach when you unload two lungs-full of air on an official. But you’re not doing anybody a scintilla of good. You're embarrassing yourself and your child and you're damaging someone who is officiating not for money or glory, but because they love the sport. You're demonstrating to everyone within earshot of your obscene squeals that the best way to address an injustice isn't by overcoming it, but by folding your arms across your chest, sticking out your bottom lip and reprehensibly shifting the blame to a person who doesn't play for either team. In short, you're hurting hockey much more than an official ever could. So either rein in your pathetic ranting or stand outside the arena and ask one of the other parents to provide Twitter play-by-play of the game you're obviously not emotionally mature enough to watch in person. If the tone of this message seems overly harsh to you, I don't care. We've tried to go the polite route on this for years now. We've tried to connect with you by posting bluntly stated rules about your unacceptable behavior. But it's still continuing and the reasonable among us have to look at new, more effective methods to control braying and bleating from insensitive oafs whose selfishness knows no bounds. Some minor hockey associations already have parental codes of conduct as part of their programs. But if that's not enough, it's time for guerrilla war tactics on people who won't change their ways. For instance, maybe sane hockey parents have to start videotaping abusive fans and posting them online in social media forums for their employers to see. Maybe if more people faced repercussions beyond the hockey world for their actions within it, we'd force them to wise up, grow up and shut up. The choice for amateur hockey is clear: demand more restraint from all participants, or face a future where the number of officials shrinks every year until nobody wants to call a game and subject themselves to this garbage. Only by getting rude and in the face of people who get their kicks from being rude and in the faces of referees and linesmen will we do the right thing and push them out of a world they don't deserve to participate in. I'd rather have zebras making mistakes the ice than a herd of jackasses letting their mouths run amok in the stands.

I stand with Adam. I'm not suggesting to cause a confrontation with those who are overtly rude towards officials, but, as Adam suggested, it may be time to start making examples out of these people as the type of fan that your hockey organization doesn't need. Officials are there to help players get better by enforcing the rules and to keep games moving smoothly by ensuring that incidents don't spiral out of control. Parents and fans who launch a barrage of insults and verbal diarrhoea towards officials are counteracting both of those goals. As an umpire, I have made mistakes. I will fully admit I'm not perfect, and to err is to be human. If I blow a call, so be it. I'm pretty sure you're not batting 1.000 all season, so let's compare success rates if you like. I guarantee I make wrong calls far less than players hit into outs. At the very worst, I have made umpiring calls based on not knowing a specific rule as well as I should have, and that's on me to be better an umpire. I am fully aware I'm not an encyclopedia of rules, but I'll do my best to mitigate the negative impacts that may be caused by my lack of knowing every line of the rule book. The one thing I don't need help with is your "interpretation" of the rules whether I make a bad call or I make an error on a rule. You're welcome to have a discussion with me as to what I saw or my understand and/or interpretation of the rules, but yelling like a buffoon about the mistake I made from the bench or stands will only result in my patience being worn thin. I've taken my fair share of heckles, and I certainly can understand why some of these younger officials walk away from the game based on some of the stuff I've heard. Being on the other side of the coin and wearing the official's uniform, it has become very apparent that officials are doing the best they can and they rarely, if ever, are involved in the deciding plays that result in wins and losses. If you believe the officials are out to get you or your team, it might be time to look at why your team is under the microscope with the officials. Rarely do officials care one way or another who wins as long as everyone has fun and the rules are being followed. If you decide to make a mockery of the game, the other team, or the officials, chances are that your team will earn that special attention through reputation and word-of-mouth among the officials so that whatever mockery has happened doesn't occur again. I'll say it here and now: I stand with any and all young officials across the sports spectrum. I will not let fans, parents, coaches, nor players disrespect you while I'm in attendance nor will I stand for third-party accounts of abuse of officials when I hear about them. Please speak to whomever oversees the sport in which you officiate if you feel like someone crossed the line between cheerful banter and hurtful comments. You never deserve the abuse received while doing your job in keeping the games going. It's important to remember that without you, there are no games. And we clearly need more passionate, good people like yourself than the vile, disgusting people who feel it's easier to chirp from the sidelines than it is to don the stripes. Fans, parents, coaches, and players, I urge you to remember that these young officials want to keep the games going so that the next generation of players can possibly be the next wave of great officials. I was inspired by a couple of great umpires who took the time to talk with me about umpiring and why it's important as a player to get the perspective from their side of the game. I fully understand that perspective now, and I don't let a bad call or a wrong call affect me nearly as much as it did in my younger days. I encourage you and your kids to do the same when it comes to the officials in your chosen sport or your kids' chosen sports. These are good people doing a tough, thankless job, so even just a thank-you goes a long way for officials and their work. In my position, I get to chat with catchers and pitchers most often, so I do develop some chemistry with the battery just as they understand why my strike zone is what it is. What I find more rewarding anything else is the conversations that don't pertain to baseball: how was your weekend, what's new, how's the season going. I respect the trust levels that I have with some catchers who discuss everything under the sun with me as they get ready between innings, and I generally enjoy that they know that they have my trust when it comes to them making jokes and comments in jest with me. While I would never tread on that trust to sway my decisions to affect an outcome, I truly believe they understand that I will be as fair and impartial as possible. All it took for these relationships to be built is a little conversation.

We're all human, folks. No one will remember that call that I screwed up in the bottom of the third inning on July 24, but people will remember that guy who went ballistic because a ball that was pitched for strike-one was a hair outside. It's just a game, folks. No one is going to the big leagues, and your child, as talented as he or she is, has a less-than-one-percent chance of making the millionaire pro athlete ranks. What will lower that percentage even more is having a parent who is disrespectful to officials because no college, university, junior, or professional team tolerates that kind of behaviour from its fans. I'll refer you to this PSA put out by Hockey Canada as I end this article. Keep this in mind the next time you feel the urge to explode into a rage of obscenities and insults because the person in stripes did something you didn't like.

Until next time, keep your sticks on the ice! from Sports News http://hockey-blog-in-canada.blogspot.com/2018/08/wisconsin-losing-its-stripes.html