#built-in casework

[alittleveggies]

Dining Room Los Angeles

Enclosed dining room - mid-sized contemporary travertine floor and beige floor enclosed dining room idea with white walls and no fireplace

[ashxxgyu]

*eye twitches* group work really tests my patience.

[lilredbandit]

Toronto Transitional Entry Mid-sized transitional entryway design example with a black front door and white walls.

[gatheringbones]

[“Poverty is embarrassing, shame inducing. Misery (misère), the French sociologist Eugène Buret once remarked, “is poverty felt morally.”

You feel it in the degradation rituals of the welfare office, where you are made to wait half a day for a ten-minute appointment with a caseworker who seems annoyed you showed up. You feel it when you go home to an apartment with cracked windows and cupboards full of cockroaches, an infestation the landlord blames on you. You feel it in how effortlessly poor people are omitted from movies and television shows and popular music and children’s books, erasures reminding you of your own irrelevance to wider society. You may begin to believe, in the quieter moments, the lies told about you. You avoid public places—parks, beaches, shopping districts, sporting arenas—knowing they weren’t built for you.

Poverty might consume your life, but it’s rarely embraced as an identity. It’s more socially acceptable today to disclose a mental illness than to tell someone you’re broke. When politicians propose antipoverty legislation, they say it will help “the middle class.” When social movement organizers mobilize for higher wages or housing justice, they announce that they are fighting on behalf of “working people” or “families” or “tenants” or “the many.” When the poor take to the streets, it’s usually not under the banner of poverty. There is no flag for poor rights, after all.

Poverty is diminished life and personhood. It changes how you think and prevents you from realizing your full potential. It shrinks the mental energy you can dedicate to decisions, forcing you to focus on the latest stressor—an overdue gas bill, a lost job—at the expense of everything else. When someone is shot dead, the children who live on that block perform much worse on cognitive tests in the days following the murder. The violence captures their minds. Time passes, and the effect fades until someone else is dropped.

Poverty can cause anyone to make decisions that look ill-advised and even downright stupid to those of us unbothered by scarcity. Have you ever sat in a hospital waiting room, watching the clock and praying for good news? You are there, locked on the present emergency, next to which all other concerns and responsibilities feel (and are) trivial. That experience is something like living in poverty. Behavioral scientists Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir call this “the bandwidth tax.” “Being poor,” they write, “reduces a person’s cognitive capacity more than going a full night without sleep.” When we are preoccupied by poverty, “we have less mind to give to the rest of life.” Poverty does not just deprive people of security and comfort; it siphons off their brainpower, too.”]

matthew desmond, from poverty: by america, 2023

[ufoend]

∆ please help us

we can not afford any of our basic needs

i usually try to keep this as light as possible, but i have put this off for long enough that i have to post this. me and my partner desperately need help. we are just two gay people trying to make it alone here with absolutely no support system. *remaking because the first post died

who we are: im j (or jet), im 24 year old trans guy whose had this account since 2014. i married my partner in 2018, we even met on tumblr when we were younger, we've been together for years. my partner is disabled (diagnosed with autism and seizure disorder and others)

what we need: basic needs, help with vet care, dental emergency assistance and general support. our cat had an emergency surgery two years ago that means he needs to be on a prescription diet (hills urinary food) for his entire life. the vet suddenly said we need to bring him in again to get his prescription renewed and we cant order any more food for him until then, which he will not survive without, and he is not allowed to eat any alternative food without risking his life. we have less than half of a 8 lb bag of it which will not last him through the next month. with the vet, food, and ubers to get to the vet and to the only place they sell the food = 200

to try to summarize our situation, we were kicked out by family and made officially homeless for the first time last year. this is right after we moved across states (wa to az) to support my partners family upon their request, only to be subjected to abuse and kicked out directly due to homophobia in an unfamiliar state after a few months. this left both of us and all of our animals entirely homeless. we luckily have an apartment now but our situation isnt stable. we lost all of our belongings at this time, everything we had built, and have not been able to replace them as we have very fixed income. my partner is especially affected by this situation, as it was traumatizing, and they have just had to power through trauma after trauma because of poverty, more than i can say.

i also have severe and painful dental problems that are not covered by medicaid in az and i have no way to afford. this includes wisdom teeth, root canals, and many cavities that will turn into that crazy expensive treatment if i don't fix it. some may remember my post about this (+this) showing the work i need. i cant keep ignoring it, because they are worried about two of the cavities becoming root canals, and i want to prevent another infection, but thats at least 250 each i also lost a cap and need to replace it to save the tooth, but that's at least 600.

we are still not going to be able to afford rent in future months because our EBT was delayed last month and i had to spend money we don't have, and without student loan forgiveness, my partner will not have loans anymore so we are in serious jeopardy even affording rent, let alone bills. our pets (2 cats 1 small dog) also desperately need vaccinations, which is dangerous to keep going this overdue without with their health problems. our dog has also been limping for the past week and he needs to be seen when that is ever possible, at least 65 plus ubers.

any donations would go first to the vet appointment and cat food, then the other needs in order of priority. will keep updating this, i know its a lot and i really don't expect anything as i know it's well over 1000 for it all, i am begging for help with any of this.

we are both students, we are trying to work towards stability, while being stuck here. i do everything i can to bring in money to support us on my own. we make 200 less than rent is monthly. i am in school to become a caseworker so i am aware of a lot of resources in my area, and have applied for everything, but we can not do this alone which is why i have to ask for help. i am so sorry for having to do this but i appreciate any support that i do have because of this website. you guys literally save my life. helping out other poor people and getting helped out on here has been the most compassion ive ever been a part of. dollars, even pennies, worth of donations has kept my cat safe, has affected me in real ways. it actually matters to us, no matter the amount.

thank you anyone who reblogs, donates anything at all, or reaches out

*

p*ypal email (best): ptcustomcomp@yahoo.com

v*nmo: @tobler707

c*shapp: $tobler707

[creator-of-calm-queer-chaos]

CERULEAN SEA HAS A SEQUEL

I REPEAT

THE HOUSE IN THE CERULEAN SEA BY TJ KLUNE HAS A SEQUEL

It’s called ‘Somewhere Beyond the Sea’ and it’s Arthur’s perspective, life, and the events following Cerulean Sea. Here is the summary from Macmillian (Tor Book’s distributor):

“A magical house. A secret past. A summons that could change everything.

Arthur Parnassus lives a good life built on the ashes of a bad one.

He’s the master of a strange orphanage on a distant and peculiar island, and he hopes to soon be the adoptive father to the six dangerous and magical children who live there.

Arthur works hard and loves with his whole heart so none of the children ever feel the neglect and pain that he once felt as an orphan on that very same island so long ago. He is not alone: joining him is the love of his life, Linus Baker, a former caseworker in the Department In Charge of Magical Youth. And there’s the island’s sprite, Zoe Chapelwhite, and her girlfriend, Mayor Helen Webb. Together, they will do anything to protect the children.

But when Arthur is summoned to make a public statement about his dark past, he finds himself at the helm of a fight for the future that his family, and all magical people, deserve.

And when a new magical child hopes to join them on their island home—one who finds power in calling himself monster, a name that Arthur worked so hard to protect his children from—Arthur knows they’re at a breaking point: their family will either grow stronger than ever or fall apart.

Welcome back to Marsyas Island. This is Arthur’s story.

Somewhere Beyond the Sea is a story of resistance, lovingly told, about the daunting experience of fighting for the life you want to live and doing the work to keep it.”

Its publishing date is September 10th of this year, and you can preorder it from most everywhere you buy books!!

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Dr. Phil: States across the country have passed laws banning "gender affirming care" on minors. Our next guest is a queer woman who is married to a trans man. When Jamie Reed worked as a caseworker at the transgender centre at St. Louis Children’s Hospital, she thought she was saving trans kids' lives. But she claims what she witnessed there was so morally and medically appalling that she had no choice but to expose what was really going on.

Jamie Reed: I was working in a paediatric gender for 4 1/2 years, primarily responsible for patient intakes. The center followed this message that transition would solve everything. That it would solve a child’s mental health problems. There were very few written protocols or guidelines. One of the providers even said we were "flying the plane as we built it." Doctors are acting like they're God when it comes to medically transitioning children.

Children could identify themselves as transgender, see a therapist for one visit, see our endocrinologist for one visit, and end up with hormones that would impact and change their bodies for their lifetime. These were identities that were still shifting and changing, but the treatments were irreversible and permanent. I saw a young person who was begging to have their breasts put back on after having surgery.

We were encouraged not to make a big deal out of it and definitely not to tell other families. I couldn't continue to be silent on it. The medical harms and trauma that I saw with these teens just took over my life. I was told I could no longer raise concerns or even use the phrase, "I have concerns about a patient." I have no trust in this industry medically transitioning minors anymore.

Dr. Phil: Jamie, thank you for being here.

Jamie: Thank you for having me.

Dr. Phil: You describe yourself a queer woman married to a transgender man and you're a member of the LGBTQ community and you went there to do something good, something positive at this clinic in St Louis. What changed your mind?

Jamie: A number of things. We started to see patients who were experiencing very significant medical harms. Being rushed to the emergency room with lacerations requiring stitches. We had patients contact us who were begging to have body parts put back on within months of having surgeries. And the thing that kept happening is every time I would raise concerns and ask about the protocols and ask about the guidelines, this is just how the industry works. If a child says they're trans, there’s no questioning it, we just say, "yep, you're trans, what would you like?"

Dr. Phil: You’re telling me that a 12- or 13-year-old who can’t decide which pyjamas to wear can come in and say, "I’ve decided that I want to transition," and with no more than a couple of hours - or two visits, not even a couple of hours, two visits - they say, okay, start taking this, start doing this. Which alters their biochemistry in a way that you can’t come back from.

Jamie: Correct.

Dr. Phil: And you say you saw dramatic increases in teenage girls that had no previous history of gender distress and they suddenly declared themselves transgender and demanded immediate testosterone [and] blockers.

Jamie: When I started - so I was there for 4 1/2 years, and when I started, I maybe would have 5 to 10 new incoming patients a month. By the time I left it was close to 50 every single month. My background is in clinical research and so I started looking at the data, I wanted to know what the numbers told me. And towards the end of my tenure, 73% of the new patients coming to us were girls who were in their teen years, so in that really vulnerable age of like 13 to 16 where they are just exposed to so many social pressures and they’re so empathetic to what’s going on around them too, that they really pick up on what’s going on in their peer group. We had clusters where it would be a handful of one whole high school classroom would come in all trans identified.

Dr. Phil: Historically, this typically would be males and you would have a female how often?

Jamie: Oh, very rare. And also, the ages were different. So, it would usually be younger boys who seemed very feminine or had feminine traits to their family and their families would seek care trying to understand what’s going on for their young male child. This was never something that would start in adolescence.

And these girls were also learning on TikTok, Instagram, they would come in and they would almost have the exact same storyline too. Like they learned what to say from a video to explain, "oh no really, I’ve felt this way from early childhood." But a lot of their parents couldn’t remember anything like that.

And part of what’s going on right now is that if you question this at all, you are immediately called transphobic, you’re immediately called homophobic, you’re immediately considered a bigot. And it’s just not scientific reality.

Dr. Phil: Jamie Reed says that her goal was to support trans youth. Jamie says patients had no idea what they were going to be as adults, yet all it took for them to permanently transform themselves was one or two short conversations with a therapist. When you say short, what would you call short?

Jamie: One visit. I saw letters being written approving children for puberty blockers or cross sex hormones after a single visit with a therapist.

Dr. Phil: And how long would that visit be?

Jamie: 30, 40 minutes.

Dr. Phil: And you said that the clinic would actually provide them a letter that checked all the boxes for them to qualify for the treatment.

Jamie: It wasn’t the clinic, it was me. It was my job. I sent out the fill-in-the-blank letter. I sent it. It’s what we did. We sent it directly to the community therapist and said just fill this out, plug-in where you need to, and we’re good to go.

Dr. Phil: What kind of things would it say?

Jamie: At the end of all of the letters would say, "I am approving this patient for puberty blockers or cross sex hormones." "They meet criteria."

Dr. Phil: There were some emails that you saw that were very troubling to you and I’d like to look at these.

Email to Jamie from Parent Revoking Consent June 9, 2022

"Please be advised that I’m revoking my consent for this course of medical treatment. Grades have dropped, there’s been an in-patient behavioural health visit and now he’s on 5 different medications. Lexapro, Trazadone, Buspar, etc. Blank is a shell of his former self riddled with anxiety. Who knows if it’s because of the hormone blockers or the other medications. I revoke my consent. I want the hormone blocker removed."

Jamie: The mom, who is a legal guardian, sent us that email and we acted like we knew better than a parent. And we refused to remove the blocker.

[hezekiahwakely]

As anticipated, here are my extensive red string notes from the pilot:

God knows how relevant any of this will turn out to be, but I'm nothing if not a collector of trivial information

Very long text beneath the cut:

Page 1

The Magnus Protocol Pilot 10/25/23

Characters (in order of appearance)

Alice Dyer -O.I.A.R. employee -Dated Sam in uni -Jokester -Training Sam -Gets along with Colin

Teddy Vaughn -Retiring from the O.I.A.R. after 4 (?) years -Going into insurance field

Colin Becher -O.I.A.R. IT Manager -Vegetarian 🥬 -On the hook of "his nibs" (boss, male) -Sensitive about FR3-d1 app development, communicates w/politicians, trying for 2 years -Only gets along w/Alice -Knows computers are listening -Jokes about being killed

Lena Kelley -O.I.A.R. Team/Department Manager -Authoritative, follows protocol -Doesn't think Gwen is qualified for management

Gwendolyn Bouchard -O.I.A.R. employee -Backlog of casework -Dislikes Lena, wants her job -Dedicated to detail -Accused of nepotism by Alice -Thinks current job is beneath her -"Not like most people." *static*

Samama Khalid (Sam) -New O.I.A.R. employee -Dated Alice in uni -Wanting to 'get back on his feet' -Familiar with TMI -Didn't know what the Incidents were before hire!!

Page 2

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Listening Tech - Turns on by itself 💡

Dated computers (O.I.A.R.)

"Manager's speakerphone" (Lena's)

CCTV (O.I.A.R. breakroom?)

Cell phone (Alice's)

*O.I.A.R. formed in 70s? Accor. to Alice*

*Response Department no longer exists*

Still in onboarding paperwork, "Response 121"

Sam ticked this box

Tech Specs

O.S. = Windows NT 4.0 (modified) -Extended support for this O.S. was ended Dec. 31, 2004 IRL -Runs on workstations connected by LAN -Similar GUI to 95; comes w/Internet Explorer

FR3-d1 -Custom research software circa mid-90s -Flags Incidents and creates a database -Can search private/protected sources (email) -Alice claims no one has understood its workings for 15 years -Written in German source code

*1 Year = Average Employee Stay*

Page 3

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Classification System

Used in FR3-d1's database

Structure: CATXRXXXXX-XXXXXXXX-XXXXXXXX

CATXRX -> From reference table (CAT = Category?) First four digits -> Main subject of Incident DPHW (?) Next eight digits -> Date of Incident Last eight digits -> Current date

Example: CAT2RC1157-12052022-13012024* -First one we hear they file. "1157" is the "DPHW" for "dolls, watching."

*Jan. 13, 2024 is the date of Sam's onboarding/training (after Teddy's going-away party)

*as listed in transcript; in-show, it's quoted as 22102023, or Oct. 22, 2023

Page 4

Pilot notes (con.) 10/25/23

FR3-d1's Voice to Text/Text to Speech

Voices (named by Alice, which Gwen dislikes):

Neil = Alex

Chester = Jonny

(those two most common)

Augustus = ?

Neil's Incident

Occurs in "Cyberspace" via the transcript

"I'm so sorry. I should have listened. I just couldn't face the thought of the rest of my life never hearing him again, I had to try." First lines 😢

Email from Harriet Winstead to Darla Winstead, May 12, 2022

Recitations *can* be paused by pressing "space"!

Chester's Incident

Also occurs in "Cyberspace"

Topic: Magnus Institute Ruins.

On forum, user RedCanary, begins April 10, 2022. Explored 4/19-20/22.

Third floor gone. No old papers.

Suspicious, occult (?) graffiti, stains (!)

Took box with strange symbols (same as ones on walls/floors)

4/30/22 Posted image of gore/eyes, possibly of themself. Banned + did not return.

Page 5

Pilot notes con. 10/25/23

Early release video Case #: CAT1RA1353-03102023-22102024(listed as 202"3" on Patreon)

Video was posted 10/22/23.

Listed as "Incident" on Patreon.

According to transcript, the O.I.A.R. offices are located in Royal Mint Court.

Johson (sic) Smirke Building

Main building.

5 storeys, Grade 2 listed.

Designed by James Johnson, but constructed between 1807-1812 by Robert Smirke after Johnson died. To be used for mint.

Entrance lodge also built by Smirke, in front of building.

Page 6

Pilot - Public Release -TMAGP#001

Changes:

Sam's first incident number - today's date

CAT2RC1157-12052022-13012024 -> CAT2RC1157-12052022-09012024

Voice (first incident)

Neil -> *Norris*

Minor word/date changes in incidents.

Minor line read differences.

Descriptions of Incidents in new transcript:

Norris': CAT1RBC5257-12052022-09012024 Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]

Chester's: CAT23RAB2155-10042022-09012024 Transformation (Eyes) -/- Trespass [chat log]

[master-sass-blast]

Step By Step -Old Dogs and New Toys, Part Two.

Part One

Summary:

“That’s the problem!” Vi interjects, throwing up her hands. “Cait’s mom already thinks I’m this big, nasty burden on her daughter. If –if Cait has to get me the right clothes, and teach me how to dance, and eat, and talk, and drink, and everything, that’s only going to prove Mrs. Kiramann right. Plus, Cait’s up to her eyeballs in casework. I don’t want her to have to take extra time just to teach me the ropes. I just want to be able to show up, have everything down, and… and surprise her a little. And, well, you’re the only other person up here who doesn’t look at me like I just crawled out of a sewer grate–”

“I understand why you came to me,” Grayson assures her. “Can you make weekends work?”

“I’ll make it fit.”

or, alternatively, Grayson helps Vi prepare for the Snowdown Gala and lowkey-highkey adopts Vi.

Pairing(s): Grayson x Reader, implied Vi x Caitlyn.

Rating: G for fluff and worldbuilding.

Word count: 9.6k.

You’ve always said her precinct office is something of an archaeological exhibition. 

She agrees, but she thinks it’s because of the elaborate, gilded gold and blue trim everywhere –around the door frames, the windows, along the baseboards and crown molding, even along the built-in shelves that boast a scant few personal touches that she’s added over the years (a few potted plants that seem to live off spite alone, books, a couple pictures of you and her over the decades, and a couple trophies from shooting competitions). It’s regalia at its finest; a shrine to Piltover’s abundance and the institutions funded by it.

You maintain, however, that it’s because of the countless coffee mugs, case files, and old newspapers with half-finished crosswords scattered everywhere. “It’s like walking through history,” you joked the first time she’d shown you her office –though that had been a cubicle, way back in the day, when she was just a Sergeant. “Judging by the number of coffee cups and how dark the stains are, I’m going to guess the last time you slept was some time last year.”

She’d laughed then, and she laughs thinking about the memory now.

Grayson’s never been the tidiest person; she’s not terrible, but keeping up with menial cleaning when she’s knee deep in bureaucratic headaches and attempted coups by the Undercity just takes too much energy most days.

She has an assistant, now that she’s Sheriff. Lana keeps track of memos and calls, schedules her meetings, and clears coffee cups and old newspapers from her desk without complaint. Still, even with Lana’s help, her office still happens to be something of a disaster zone. Such are the hazards of often being hip deep in any variety of figurative shit.

So, when Lana opens one of the double doors that separate her office from the outside vestibule and announces that Grayson has a visitor, only for Vi to walk in, Grayson’s momentarily grateful that her office doesn’t look too disastrous. She doesn’t peg Vi as the type to mind clutter, but still. Standards, and all that.

The gratitude, however, fritters away to guilt when she catches Vi openly grimacing at all the filigree and expensive accoutrement. Can’t say I blame her. Grayson swallows, then offers Lana a smile and thanks before her assistant closes the door. “It’s good to see you, Vi. How can I help you?”

Vi jams her hands in her pockets and rocks back on the heels of her worn boots. “I need a favor.”

Grayson pauses, then pretends to glance over some paperwork Lana had laid out on her desk that morning. “Is it your sister?”

“No. It’s me.” At Grayson’s wary glances, Vi  holds up her hands in a reassuring gesture. “It’s not anything illegal. It’s that–” Vi snaps her fingers until the words come to her. “That snowfall party.”

Grayson blinks, then nods when she connects the dots. “The Snowdown Gala.” She sets the paperwork back on her desk, then checks her calendar. “That’s… at the start of next month.” Shit. That’s sooner than I thought. I need to make sure my tux still fits. “What about it?”

“I…” Vi swallows, throat flexing, then looks away. “I –I don’t know what to do for it.”

“...It can be a lot to take in,” Grayson agrees, trying to reassure her, when Vi doesn’t offer any additional information. She studies Vi for a moment, then leans forward and crosses her hands against her desk. “Not that I’m unwilling to help you, but I’m certain that Caitlyn would–”

“That’s the problem!” Vi interjects, throwing up her hands. “Cait’s mom already thinks I’m this big, nasty burden on her daughter. If –if Cait has to get me the right clothes, and teach me how to dance, and eat, and talk, and drink, and everything, that’s only going to prove Mrs. Kiramann right.”

Grayson grimaces, but says nothing. Unfortunately, she’s not wrong.

“Plus, Cait’s up to her eyeballs in casework,” Vi continues without waiting for Grayson’s prompting. “I don’t want her to have to take extra time just to teach me the ropes. I just want to be able to show up, have everything down, and… and surprise her a little.” She takes a moment to catch her breath, then continues explaining. “And, well, you’re the only other person up here who doesn’t look at me like I just crawled out of a sewer grate–”

“I understand why you came to me,” Grayson assures her. She leans back in her leather desk chair, considering. It could work, she reasons as she checks her mental calendar. There’s enough time for fittings and some dance lessons, provided it can wait for the weekend. “Can you make weekends work?”

“I’ll make it fit.”

Grayson nods and smiles. “Then my wife and I would be happy to help you.”

Vi’s eyebrows spike upwards. “You have a wife?”

“I do.” Grayson grins and gestures to the picture frames on the bookshelves, then grabs a pad of paper and writes down her address while Vi examines them. “We’ve been married for… oh, nearly thirty years now. And we’ve known each other closer to forty.”

“Damn.” Vi nods, approving, then offers Grayson a crooked grin. “You scored.”

She laughs. “That I did.” She tears off the piece of paper and holds it out to Vi. “We’ll start with dance lessons, that way you can practice during the coming weeks. That is my personal address, so I appreciate your discretion.”

Vi nods, expression solemn, and tucks the paper into the pocket of her red jacket. “What about suits and shit?”

“I’ll have to schedule an appointment for a fitting consultation,” Grayson says as she makes a note to do just that. “But I should have something booked by next week.”

“‘Consultation?’” Vi’s face scrunches up. “What, we can’t just… I don’t know, go and buy one?”

Grayson suppresses a smile. “It’s not that simple, no. Shall I see you around one, on Saturday?”

“Sure.” Vi nods, then turns and walks towards the doors. She stops halfway and turns around again. “Uh, Grayson?” When she raises her eyebrows in question, the younger woman ducks her head, then nods. “Thank you.”

Grayson smiles and nods in return. “It’s my pleasure.”

…

There’s a knock on the door at a quarter past one on Saturday.

Vi grimaces when Grayson opens the door. “Sorry for being late. Got turned around a couple times.”

“No apology necessary.” Grayson ushers Vi inside, then closes and locks the door behind her. “I’m sorry for not giving you better directions.”

Her apology goes completely over Vi’s head; the younger woman is too distracted by the inside of Grayson’s home. Vi pivots slowly, staring at the decor, plush furniture, and various paintings decorating the walls. “You live here?”

“For nearly forty years.” She only got this place to make a life with you, after all. Grayson motions for Vi to follow her, then starts walking deeper into the house once she’s got Vi’s attention. “We wanted something small.”

Vi lets out a quiet, shocked laugh behind her. “���Small.’”

Grayson grimaces, having caught her faux pas too late. “Relatively speaking.”

You’re in the back of the house, narrowing down record choices. You look up when Grayson walks into the room, then smile warmly when Vi follows. “Oh, good. I was worried you got lost.” You set the small stack of vinyls down, walk towards the two of them, then hold out your hand and introduce yourself. “You must be Violet. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Vi returns the handshake with a wary smile. “Everyone just calls me ‘Vi.’ And I’m sure the Sheriff has a few opinions about me.”

“Nothing negative, I promise.” You glance at Grayson, then wink teasingly before looking back at Vi. “Maybe a little exhausted at times, but that’s probably the caffeine withdrawals talking.”

“There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Grayson fires back with a smirk.

You laugh, then go back to your collection of records. “So, Vi, how much experience do you have with dancing?”

“Uh…”

You bite back a smile when Vi’s voice trails off, then put a few records back on the shelf. “We’re starting from scratch, then.”

Vi’s shoulders hunch up. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no, not at all!” You wave one hand, then pull a record out of its protective paper covering and place it on the gramophone. “It’s not a problem. We’ll just start with learning how to pick out rhythm in a song.”

Grayson peers over your shoulder. “Oh, ‘River’s Waltz.’ Good choice.”

“Well, I figured a waltz would be best,” you explain as you move the gramophone arm and set the needle in place. “They always play one at the gala, and it’s an easier dance to pick up.” You turn the gramophone on, then turn to Vi once the sound of melodious strings and horns starts flowing from the speaker. “Alright, so what you’re listening for is the beat of the song. That’s the measure you’ll use to pace yourself during the dance. All waltzes are in three-four time counts.” You start clapping your hands along to the beat to illustrate your point. “Each measure in music has four counts, but a three-four count only uses three beats, then leaves the fourth as a rest –so, one, two, three, rest. One, two, three, rest.”

Vi nods, head bobbing in time with your counts. “I can kinda feel it with how the music flows.”

“Good! Very good!” You motion for her to step into the space and have her stand next to you on the rug. “So, right now, we’re just going to get you familiar with feeling that beat. Can you feel the emphasis on the first beat of every measure?”

“A little.”

Grayson watches you for a moment with a soft smile. Such a natural.

But then, that’s why you’re the Professor and she’s the Sheriff.

She picks up a book and settles in her arm chair after a couple minutes. The last thing she wants to do is make Vi uncomfortable with her staring. (Though, if she happens to steal a glance every now and then and smile at your enthusiasm, or Vi’s earnest attempts, that’s between herself and her novel.)

…

By the time the day’s lesson concludes, Vi’s advanced from finding the rhythm of a song to practicing a simple waltz.

“You’re doing well,” you assure her when Vi seems discouraged. “You’re already good on your feet. Just keep practicing and you’ll have it down handily before the gala.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.” You pluck a record from your extensive collection, then hand it over to Vi. “This is the Snowflake Waltz. It was one of the most popular pieces written at the height of the jazz movement. It’s played every year at the Snowdown Gala as part of tradition. The steps we worked on today will work fine with the song.”

“Right.” Vi nods, looking somewhat shell shocked. She stares down at the record case, eyes wide, then swallows hard and nods again. “Right.”

“You’re going to be fine.” You place one hand on her shoulder and smile warmly. “Look, between the two of us, if Gray could learn how to dance, then you’ll be a master by the time of the gala.”

“Slander,” Grayson fires back with a grin. “I was more than adequate at the start.”

You glance at her, then back to Vi and shake your head before laughing. “You’ll be just fine. I promise.”

“If you say so.”

“You will,” Grayson agrees with a reassuring smile. She sets her book on the coffee table, then stands with a grunt. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the trolley.”

Vi blinks rapidly. “Oh –no, it’s fine. I can –thank you, but I–”

“It’s alright. Call it safety in numbers.”

Understanding settles over Vi’s features, followed by exhausted frustration. “Yeah. Thanks, uh, Sherriff.”

She chuckles as she heads towards the front door to grab her coat. “Grayson is fine, dear.”

…

The walk down to the trolley is brisk. Even with the sun still hanging in the cloudless sky, the late Autumn wind cuts through everything in its path.

Grayson winces when a particularly biting breeze tries to snake under the collar of her coat. “How is your sister?”

“She’s… coping,” Vi answers with a pained twist of her lips. Despite wearing significantly fewer layers, the younger woman seems practically unaffected by the chill; the gifts of youth, perhaps, or just standard Zaunite hardiness. “She’s gotten good marks at the Academy this term.”

“Good. Give her my congratulations.”

“Yeah –sure. Thanks.” Vi sidesteps a Piltovan man in a light gray suit that nearly bowls her over. She scowls and jams her hands in her pockets. “Asshole.”

Grayson glares over her shoulder at the man –not that he notices, since his back is to them both–then carefully places one hand on Vi’s shoulder. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine,” Vi answers quickly, automatically.

She doesn’t buy that, but a frigid stroll to the trolley is hardly the time or place to dig into one’s psychological well-being. Grayson files the topic away for later, then moves on. “I’ve scheduled an appointment for a tuxedo fitting this coming Saturday at nine in the morning.” She nearly gives Vi the address, then reconsiders. “Perhaps I could meet you at the trolley station around half past eight?” She watches as Vi tenses, chafing against the notion of having an escort (an Enforcer escort), then squeeze’s Vi’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I trust you. But you know how things are up here. I’d rather you not get in trouble over nothing.”

Vi scowls, nostrils flaring in irritation and disgust. “Yeah.” She glares at the ground for a few moments, then cracks her neck before asking. “Half past eight?”

“I think that would be best, yes.”

Vi works her jaw, then nods once. “Alright. Half past eight on Saturday it is.”

…

Progress Haberdashery is nestled into a towering, multi-story, sandstone behemoth in Piltover’s fashion district. Located on the first floor on the building’s front face, the window that boasts the shop’s name in elegant, swirling gold script seems like every other shop alongside it. If you aren’t looking for it, it’s easy to pass by.

Grayson knows the shop’s location by heart; she’s been a patron of the haberdashery for decades now, after all.

Agatha Wainwright is just as Grayson remembers her –short, stocky, with large, thick, round-rimmed glasses that give her an owlish appearance. Her short, steel-colored hair is neatly styled and smoothed down with pommade, and she has a measuring tape draped over the back of her neck and a pencil tucked behind one ear. She’s scribbling on a notepad, hunched over the desk behind the front counter when Grayson ushers Vi inside, but she lifts her head and turns around when the bell for the front door rings. “Grayson!” She perks up and smiles, then bustles out from behind the front counter.

Grayson grins easily, then accepts Agatha’s hearty handshake. “It’s been too long, old friend.” She glances over at Vi –who’s distracted, unsubtly gawping at the displayed suits, accessories, and photos–then gestures at the younger woman. “This is Vi. She’ll be needing a tux fitting today for the Snowdown Gala. Vi, this is Agatha Wainwright.”

Vi starts at the mention of her name, then recovers and shakes Agatha’s hand. “Hey. Uh, nice to meet you.”

The corner of Agatha’s mouth ticks up as she nods in return. “Glad to have you. Come on back with me.” She motions for Vi and Grayson to follow her, then turns on one heel and motors towards the back of the shop. “Remind me, Gray, the Snowdown Gala is considered black tie?”

“Technically black tie creative,” Grayson replies, lengthening her stride to keep up with Agatha’s quick clip.

“Oh, good.” She half turns, still walking, and gestures loosely at Vi. “I wasn’t liking black for her. That gives us options!”

“I, uh–” Vi pauses to clear her throat. “I thought the rule was ‘black looks good on everyone.’”

“Yes and no.” Agatha turns on the light for one of her fitting rooms, then ushers Vi and Grayson inside. “Yes, black is a neutral color, which means you can pair it with any other color and it won’t clash. Yes, a lot of people wear it because that means it won’t clash with your hair, or eyes, or accessories. It’s an easy color to style with. But when you get into the chromatic value system–”

Grayson smirks teasingly when Vi shoots her a slow, wide-eyed look. “You just had to get her started.”

“Fuck off,” Agatha fires back with a grin. She rolls her eyes when Grayson chuckles, then returns her attention to Vi. “In fashion, there’s a whole system of color theory that relates to a person’s skin tone. It focuses on what colors look most flattering with which skin tones and undertones. And it’s not just about hue, but also the boldness of the color. Some people can wear really bright, bold colors, and they look absolutely wonderful in them. Some people, on the other hand, either wash out or get all shadowy in the face when they wear bolder colors.” She gestures to her own face to demonstrate. “Especially around the mouth and eyes, which ages them. And black, even though it is a neutral color, is a bold color. So, for people with such skin tones, more muted shades of gray are often more flattering.” She clasps her hands together, waits until Vi nods (albeit uncertainly), then continues. “So, in your case, just at a glance–” she gestures up and down Vi “–my immediate instinct is that black would probably look harsh on you, and that a dark gray would likely suit you better. Although…” She leans back on her heels, puts her hands on her hips, then glances at Grayson. “You said she was from the Fissure?”

“I grew up in the Lanes, yeah,” Vi answers, somewhat curt.

Agatha purses her lips, then sighs. “Black might be better, then. It’s more traditional.”

Vi frowns, upper lip curling in confusion and frustration. “I thought you just said black wasn’t a good choice.”

“If we’re working strictly off what colors best flatter you, then no, probably not,” Agatha agrees. “But it’s the most traditional choice; even though it’s black tie creative, a lot of people are still going to be in black tuxedos. A lot of people are still going to expect others to wear black tuxedos.”

“It might help deflect unwanted criticism,” Grayson adds when Vi scowls. “Think of it as a precautionary measure.”

“Do you really believe that?” Vi arches one eyebrow, then shakes her head and laughs bitterly when both Grayson and Agatha hesitate. “Let’s be realistic. The color of my damn suit isn’t going to do shit. They’ll just find something else to gossip about.” She smirks, frustrated, then gestures at herself. “I mean, it’s not like they’re lacking for choices.”

Grayson remains silent. There’s not much else to say.

“The only person I care about in all of this is my girlfriend,” Vi continues, facing Agatha. “The only reason I’m doing any of this is for her. All I care about is looking good for her and making her feel like she’s the only woman in the room that matters. Fuck tradition, pick the colors that look best.”

Agatha smiles slowly and nods. “I can respect that.” She directs Vi to stand on a wooden podium surrounded by mirrors. “First, let’s get your measurements.”

…

It starts off simply enough.

Granted, measurements aren’t generally the hard part (relatively speaking). Vi holds still, cooperates, even chats amiably with Agatha.

“Got a lot of bulk in the shoulders,” Agatha comments while scribbling on a yellow notepad. “That’ll make taking in the waist… interesting.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Vi asks, glancing between Grayson and Agatha.

Agatha shrugs. “Does your girlfriend think it’s a bad thing?”

Grayson smothers a chuckle when Vi smirks. “It just means the tailoring will be a more involved process.”

“But I am a professional,” Agatha assures Vi as she crouches to measure Vi’s inseam. “And it won’t be the hardest job I’ve ever done. You have very nice lines, by the way. Have you considered modeling?”

Vi goes wide-eyed, then looks over at Grayson. “Uh…”

Grayson merely smiles and waves one hand.

And then there’s choosing between tuxedos.

“They look the same,” Vi says with a shrug when Agatha lays out five different, dark gray sets of tuxedos, slacks, and vests.

“It might be easier to see the difference when you have them on,” Agatha assures the younger woman.

Vi, in fact, does not see the difference.

“They still look the same,” she declares after trying on the fourth suit. “I mean, they look fine, but they’re all just gray, right? I don’t know, why not…” She twists, then points at a mannequin dressed in a pinstripe gray suit. “Why not something like that? The stripes look cool.”

“Oh.” Agatha looks at the mannequin, then back at Vi. “Well, we can look at something with a faint pinstripe, if you want, but that particular one is a suit, not a tuxedo.”

Vi blinks, expression blank. “...Aren’t they the same thing?”

Agatha blinks, then turns on one heel and picks up the fifth tux. “I’m going to pretend she didn’t say that.”

“Don’t torture the poor kid,” Grayson admonishes the seamstress when Vi shoots her a panicked look. “The easiest difference to spot is the cut of the lapels. You see here, how the buttons come up higher?” She gestures to the suit on the mannequin and waits until Vi nods. “Now, look at what you’re wearing.” She traces the line of the left lapel with one finger. “This section is larger and angled differently from a standard suit, see?”

“There’s also a difference in the fabric,” Agatha adds as she takes the fifth option out of its protective plastic covering. “The lapels and pocket trim are made from satin, and the buttons are covered in satin as well.”

“And that… matters?” Vi asks, face scrunching up in confusion. She glances between Grayson and Agatha when the two older women nod, then sighs heavily and sets her shoulders resolutely. “Alright.”

Vi opts to let Grayson and Agatha pick the most flattering tuxedo (in terms of color, since Vi’s take is that all the tuxedos are “gray”). “Sweet.” Vi starts to shrug the tuxedo jacket off. “Is that it?”

“Uh–” Agatha goes a little wide-eyed and gets the jacket back on Vi’s shoulders. “Not quite. We need to do some pinning for alterations.”

Vi frowns, confused, and glances between her own reflection and Agatha. “It looks fine, I promise.”

“It will look much better tailored to you,” Grayson interjects. “Trust me.”

Vi sighs again, then straightens up and lifts her chin. “Okay.”

And then, part way through deciding what alterations need to be made, Agatha has a realization. “Ooh, it’s black tie creative! We can play with color!” She looks up from Vi where she’s adjusting the length of the slacks. “What color dress is your girlfriend wearing?”

“Uh…” Vi looks towards the ceiling, then shrugs. “I think she said blue?”

“...Okay.” Agatha waves one hand. “Powder blue? Royal blue? Progress blue?”

“...There’s a difference?”

“We’ll have a color sample the next time we come in,” Grayson interjects when Agatha pinches the bridge of her nose.

Eventually, the two of them leave in one piece, but Vi looks almost haggard.

Grayson takes one look at the younger woman, then smiles sympathetically and clasps Vi’s shoulder with one hand. “Would you like to get something to eat? It’d be my treat.”

Vi balks. “I wouldn’t have the money to pay you back, most likely.”

The response activates her mind’s eye; it’s a dim, but still visible memory of one of the first times she asked you out for coffee. She hums and slows her pace as she reflects. “You know, my wife said something similar to me the first time I asked her out for coffee.”

Vi glances up at Grayson –then, the penny drops and she does a double-take. “Is she from Zaun?”

“Yes,” Grayson says with a nod. “Her family lived on the Entresol level.” She stops and squeezes Vi’s shoulder. “I should clarify: I would like to spend some time with you outside of the fitting. That’s why I offered up lunch. If you’d rather not, you won’t hurt my feelings by saying so.”

Vi nods slowly, looking away while she mulls it over. After a bit, she looks back at Grayson and raises one eyebrow. “Nowhere too fancy?”

Grayson chuckles and grins. “I think I know a place you’ll like just fine.”

…

She takes the Vi out to the fringes of Piltover, where the City of Progress starts to blend into the Promenade levels of Zaun. Things aren’t near as modernized out here. The buildings are smaller, more humble establishments made out of white-washed bricks and granite. The roofs are still blue, but the edges and various trimmings aren’t capped in gold. The roads are rougher, not quite so neatly tended to as in the city’s main districts.

She takes Vi through a marketplace, stopping as Vi gets distracted to tell the young woman about what the various stalls boast. She buys a bag of dried mango for them to share, then guides Vi down a side street to a shop where the front door is painted green.

Cheriqui’s has been around since her parents were children. She can still remember her grandmother and mother bringing her here for traditional tea services and Farsi practice on Saturday afternoons.

Grayson inhales deeply as she sets foot inside the deli. She’s greeted by a veritable perfume of spices –saffron, cumin, garlic, ginger, cloves. She’s carried back to memories of home –of her family working in the kitchen–and she smiles.

“Wow.” Vi gawks, staring at the deli case of breads and pastries, the bins of bulk spices along the wall next to the deli case, and the shelves of various foreign goods not typically found at “traditional” Piltovan markets. She rolls up on the balls of her feet, then lets out a low whistle at the sight of meat roasting on vertical spits and the grills in the kitchen behind the deli case. “Damn.”

Grayson ushers her towards the deli case. “How’s your tolerance for spicy food?”

Vi shrugs. “Everyone blasts their food with hot sauce in the Lanes. It’s the only way it tastes like anything.”

Grayson nods, then straightens up when a portly man with tan skin and a thick, silvering mustache approaches the deli case.

“Grayson.” The man raises one bushy eyebrow teasingly. “And here I’d thought you’d forgotten us.”

“I’d be hard pressed to forget you and your family, Abdul,” she replies, slipping into easy Farsi. She introduces Vi and Abdul to one another, then returns her focus to Abdul. “We’re here for lunch. This is Vi’s first time trying Persian cuisine.”

Abdul nods, expression lifting in understanding before settling into serious contemplation. “How’s her tolerance for heat?”

“She says it’s good.”

Abdul shoots a wayward glance at Vi, clearly skeptical, then holds up one finger before bustling back into the kitchen. He returns a few moments later and sets a tray with little cups of soup and a plate with small pieces of meat and bread atop the deli case. “Try first,” he explains to Vi in heavily accented English, “and decide how well you tolerate it, okay?”

“Right.” Vi stares at the tray, then looks over at Grayson. “What am I working with here?”

“It’s traditional Persian food,” Grayson explains, gesturing to the tray. “It’s a bit of a melting pot; many countries fall into the fold of Persian culture, so there are many regional cuisines. These–” she gestures to two of the soup cups “–are adasi, or lentil soups. The yellow one is milder, and the red one will be spicier. This one–” she gestures to the third cup “–is aush, or a thick noodle soup.” She switches her attention to Abdul. “What’s today’s recipe?”

“Chicken and barley noodles with seasonal vegetables.”

“It’s good.” Vi nods along, already halfway through the cup of yellow adasi. “What’s the meat on the plate?”

“Lamb,” Grayson answers after checking with Abdul. “But they have goat and chicken as well, if you prefer.”

“Oh, I’m not picky.” Vi lifts the sample dish of red adasi and smiles at Abdul. “This is good!”

Abdul beams, then nods his head in appreciation. “Thank you.”

There’s a commotion in the kitchen –the sound of quiet chatter, followed by dishware clacking. Then, footsteps approach. One of Abdul’s sons-in-law, Badir, appears with a small dish of shawarma style chicken. He places the dish atop the deli case, on the tray with the other samples. “She should try shawarma.”

“One moment!” A few seconds later, Badir’s wife –a short woman named Shohreh—jogs out of the kitchen with a small plate of pickled and fresh vegetables. “You forgot the toppings, silly,” she admonishes her husband. She rolls onto the balls of her feet to set the plate on the crowded tray, then smiles at Vi. “You take the bread,” she explains in English, holding up her hand as an example, “and then you add the meat, and then the vegetables. There’s pickled onion and cucumber, sauteed spinach, and tomatoes.”

Vi nods along as she follows the instructions, then folds the flatbread around the meat and vegetables and crams a decent bite into her mouth. She chews, and then her eyes roll back in her head. She lets out a pleased groan. “Oh man.” She holds the back of her hand over her mouth, then continues once she’s swallowed. “I could eat this every day.”

Grayson finds herself smiling along when Abdul, Shohreh, and Badir all grin.

There’s more noise from the kitchen –and then Abdul’s youngest, a son named Hashem, pokes his head around the corner. “Do you want to try a goat eye?”

“For shame!” Shohreh hisses and swats at her younger brother while scolding him in Farsi. “Don’t gross her out. Have some sense!”

“Wait, like, actual goat eyes?” Vi’s eyebrows spike towards her hairline. She looks at Grayson. “They have those?”

“The practice is to use the whole animal –or as much as possible, at least,” Grayson explains. “So, when you have the head, you can roast it whole, then break it down afterwards. Jowl meat, tongue, and the brains are all fair game. The eyes are edible, but they’re not necessarily… common ingredients, as it were.”

“Huh.” Vi mulls it over, then nods and turns back to the counter. “Yeah, sure.”

Abdul, Badir, Shohreh, and Hashem all freeze.

Abdul recovers first; he blinks rapidly, then frowns cautiously. “Are –are you sure?”

Vi shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Hashem laughs and sticks his tongue out at his sister, only to get shooed and berated back into the kitchen. He returns a couple moments later, though, with a roasted, cloudy, glistening eye and still attached, cooked through ocular muscles on a small plate.

“It should have a meaty flavor,” Grayson says as Vi gives the eye a once over.

“Yeah, it's the same with fish,” Vi reasons. “Tastes like what it came from.” And, with that, she plucks the eye up with her fingers and pops it into her mouth. She chews, nods, and grunts with approval. “‘S pretty good!”

Grayson chuckles, then shares a shrug with a slightly stunned Abdul.

…

They wind up in the corner of the deli, sitting at a table clad in a fine, white linen tablecloth.

They start with some yellow lentil aush, taftun bread, finely sliced lamb seasoned with spices, and a side plate of fresh and pickled vegetables. Then, Badir comes out with shawarma style chicken and a small dish of borani for Vi to try. Another family member follows a few moments later with a dish of savory saffron rice. A few minutes later, Shohreh comes out with two cups of fragrant mint tea.

“You’re going to have to roll me out of here,” Vi jokes. She follows Grayson’s lead, loading up a piece of taftun with some shawarma chicken, greens, and borani as a sauce, then folds the bread around her fillings of choice and bites down. She groans, nods, then chews and swallows before saying, “Janna, this is fucking good. I gotta tell Cait about this place.”

Grayson swallows, then chuckles. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’d eat this for the rest of my life, if I could,” Vi says, unabashedly earnest. She takes a sip of her tea, then asks, “You’ve brought your wife here, yeah?”

“Many times,” Grayson answers with a nod. “She met my mother and grandmother here, and we’ve been here on several dates.”

“Oh, shit.” Vi glances at the reversed lettering on the front window, then frowns, confused. “Is this your family’s place?”

“No, no.” Grayson waves one hand dismissively. “No, the Cheriquis are just old family friends. My mother and her mother used to bring me here for tea and lessons in Farsi every week –to keep me connected with our culture.”

“Oh, okay.” Vi nods, mulling the information over. Then, she laughs and smirks. “Did your lady ever take you to Jericho’s?”

Grayson laughs and nods. “That she did.” She leans back in her seat and shakes her head. “It was… quite illuminating.”

“I bet,” Vi laughs. “Did you get sick after?”

“Like a dog,” Grayson answers with a grin. 

Vi cackles and shakes her head. “I bet. You gotta grow up with that shit, or it just goes right through you.”

“You aren’t kidding.” Grayson smirks ruefully, then shakes her head when Vi laughs again. “She took good care of me while I was sick. And it was a good experience, in sum. It was… eye-opening.”

“Yeah.” Vi leans back in her seat. She watches Grayson for a long moment, drumming her fingers against her thigh, then asks, “Was that your first time in the Lanes?”

“It was,” Grayson answers with a nod. This was bound to come up eventually. “It was my first time in Zaun, actually. I’d only been on patrol in the Piltovan shopping district before then.”

Vi’s jaw tightens. “Why’d you become an Enforcer?”

The venom dripping from the word “Enforcer” is palpable, but Grayson keeps her expression neutral. “To be honest, it was a way out.” She shifts her gaze to look out the window, towards the shoppers passing the deli by. “My family…” She grimaces, then lets out a tired laugh. “They were planning on having me marry well. Do all the things that daughters traditionally do.” She looks down at the table, gaze scanning the fine texture of the tablecloth. “My father hadn’t come around by the time I was eighteen, so I enrolled in the law enforcement academy.”

“...Did your father disown you?”

“No. However, things weren’t exactly happy for a long time.”

Vi nods, expression solemn. “Did you get what you wanted, in the end?”

“I did.” Grayson nods and smiles. “I met my wife, married her, had a life with her, a career… I don’t think I could ask for more.”

“So, your dad came around?”

She shrugs and chuckles faintly. “More like my mother put her foot down.” She grimaces, then sighs. “I don’t think their marriage ever really recovered.”

“Shit.” Vi shifts in her seat. “Sorry.”

“It’s old history,” Grayson assures her with a wave of her hand. She sits forward in her seat and starts filling her plate with rice and lamb. “And, once I was old enough to know better, I stopped worrying about what my father thought.” She meets Vi’s gaze and smiles ruefully. “Some people just aren’t worth the stress.”

Vi shrugs, then loads another piece of taftun with chicken and lamb. “What’d your mom think of your wife?”

“Oh, she adored her,” Grayson replies without hesitation. “I think my mother liked her more than she liked me.”

Vi laughs, but it trails off into a strained sigh. She spoons more borani onto her plate, then mutters, “I don’t think I’ll ever have that problem with Cait’s mom.”

Grayson goes still. She considers for a moment, then reaches across the table and places one hand over Vi’s. “For what it’s worth…” She waits until Vi looks at her, then smiles reassuringly. “Her father likes you.”

Vi’s face scrunches up. “How would you know?”

“Word gets around. Official functions, that sort of thing. And everyone on the council is a massive gossip.” She retracts her hand, but when Vi’s despondent, disbelieving expression doesn’t lift, she adds, “Besides, it’s clear that Caitlyn adores you.”

Vi’s face goes as pink as her hair. She ducks her head briefly, then grins, crooked and bright. “Yeah. Cupcake’s really something.”

‘Cupcake?’ She quickly bites back a grin, but still makes a mental note to tell you about it later. That is precious–

“How is everything?”

Grayson looks up, then bites back an amused smirk when she sees Abdul approaching the table with yet another plate in hand.

“It’s amazing,” Vi gushes. “At this rate, I might just move in.” She takes note of the plate, then leans forward and cranes her neck. “What’s that?”

“Goat kebabs.” Abdul lowers the plate so Vi can see. “Would you like to–”

Vi nods and starts moving plates and bowls to make room on the table. “Bring it on!”

Grayson helps make space, then waves to Abdul as he heads back to the counter. “Alright, so there’s an easy way to get the meat and vegetables off the skewer. Hold the kebab on one end–” She picks one up to demonstrate. “And then you take your fork and push from the base so everything falls on your plate.”

“Right.” Vi mimics her, then stabs a piece of meat and grilled squash with her fork before shoving the food into her mouth. She lets out a satisfied sigh and slumps back in her seat.

Grayson grins. “Good?” She chuckles when Vi lets out an enthusiastic groan, then adds some pickled vegetables and onions to her plate.

“I hope your wife knows you’re here, Grayson.”

Grayson turns in her seat, then smiles when she sees a squat, white haired woman clad in a flowing skirt and royal blue blouse with gold embroidery shuffling over to their table. “Aunt Roshie.” She stands, steps around the end of the table, and greets the elderly woman with a kiss on each cheek. “It’s so good to see you. How are you?”

Despite being nearly ninety, Roshanak Cheriqui’s dark eyes are still clear and bright. “It’s good to see you, too, kid. And I’d be a hell of a lot better if people stopped asking me how I am. It’s the only thing anyone asks you when you’re my age! It’s boring!”

Grayson chuckles, then turns and gestures to Vi. “This is Vi. I was helping her with a tux fitting for the Snowdown Gala today, and I thought it’d be nice to bring her here for lunch. Vi,” she says, switching to English, “this is Roshanak Cheriqui. She opened this place with her husband.”

Vi glances between them, then blinks a few times before standing. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Cheriqui,” she says, holding out one hand.

Roshanak shakes Vi’s hand, but scoffs all the same. “Everyone knows me as Aunt Roshie,” she insists in heavily accented English. She clasps Vi’s hand and pats the back of it warmly. “You are enjoying lunch, yes?”

“Oh –it’s amazing,” Vi confirms with an enthusiastic nod of her head. “Everything tastes incredible.”

Roshanak beams, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Good!” Then, she glances at Grayson before leaning towards Vi and smiling conspiratorially. “You know, I have known Grayson since she was this big.” She gestures to her knee. “She used to come here every Saturday with Mahshid and Nasrin for our traditional tea service.”

“Yeah.” Vi nods. “She told me about that.”

“Did she tell you that she hated the dresses her mother made her wear?”

Grayson sighs and places one hand on the back of her chair to steady herself. “Aunt Roshie, I don’t think we need to–”

“One time,” Roshanak continues, undeterred, “when she was three, Grayson decided that she had enough–”

“I don’t think Vi needs to–”

“–and she got halfway out of her dress at the table before her mother stopped her.”

Vi presses her lips together and nods, though she can’t quite stop the slight snort that escapes her.

“You didn’t stop there, either.” Roshanak grins, entirely amused, up at Grayson. “Once you were older, you kept trying to sneak your tights off and get rid of them in the bathroom trash.”

Grayson sighs, resigned, and grumbles under her breath in Farsi, “They were itchy and terrible.”

“So you kept saying.” Roshanak winks at Vi, then faces Grayson. “What is it about my deli that turned you into a stripper?”

Grayson stares down at the elderly woman (who looks like the cat that caught the canary). She can feel her eyes bugging out; if you were here, she knows you’d be falling over in gleeful laughter.

Vi, to her credit, is far better versed in stoicism. She coughs quickly and presses the back of her hand over her mouth. Her shoulders and chest jump in jerky movements, but otherwise she stays composed.

Apparently satisfied with the carnage she’s wrought, Roshanak turns back to Vi. “You come back anytime you want, okay?” Once Vi nods and promises that she’ll return, Roshanak turns to Grayson and pats her arm. “As for you, bring your wife here, soon. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her.”

Grayson briefly clasps the elderly woman’s shoulder as Roshanak starts to shuffle off. “Yes, Aunt Roshie.”

“And keep your clothes on!”

Grayson closes her eyes, inhales deeply, then lets out a ragged sigh. Decades of service to the city and devotion to my wife, but that’s going to be my legacy, isn’t it? She opens her eyes, then points at a red-faced, silently snickering Vi. “Not one word.”

Vi holds up her hands in a placating gesture, then sits when Grayson does. She giggles a little, takes a long drink of mint tea, then asks, “So… Butch from the start?”

“Decidedly.” Grayson shakes her head, then drinks some tea to soothe herself. “You couldn’t move in those damn dresses. I would’ve given my left eye for a pair of trousers.” She takes another sip of tea, then adds, “I cut my own hair when I was ten.”

“No shit.” Vi cocks her head to one side, like she’s trying to envision it. “Was it long?”

“It was down to my fucking ass. It took ages to brush and braid! It was completely impractical!”

“So, you just–” Vi mimes a pair of scissors with her fingers “–had at it?”

She nods. “I took my mother’s sewing scissors, snuck into the upstairs bathroom, and started cutting everything until it was above my ears.”

“Oh, I bet that looked great,” Vi teases with a grin.

“It looked terrible,” Grayson admits with a laugh. “I think I made my mother cry. She loved styling my hair when I was a young girl.”

Vi nods, then smirks. “I tried my first side shave when I was thirteen.”

“Oh, really? How’d that go?”

Vi laughs and shakes her head. “Well, I didn’t know to cut the part I wanted shaved first–”

“Uh-oh,” Grayson interjects with a grin.

“Yeah. And, to make things worse, the clippers I were using were real fucking old, so they kept dying, like, every five minutes!”

Grayson chuckles. “Oh, great.”

Vi snorts, then shakes her head. “Vander caught me halfway through. The entire left side of my head looked like it’d gotten caught in a blender, the sink was full of hair–” She cuts herself off with a laugh. “Vander helped me finish the job, in the end. It didn’t look half bad.”

Grayson nods and chuckles. Then, she lifts her cup and holds it towards Vi. “To unconventional style choices.”

Vi grins, then lifts her cup and lightly taps it against Grayson’s.

…

They finish lunch with saffron ice cream and bamie –deep fried dough soaked in sugar syrup. Once they’re done eating, Grayson leaves a semi-comatose Vi at the table and heads to the deli case to pay the tab.

“No, no.” Abdul holds up one hand and shakes his head. “I’m not going to charge you for what we brought out to you of our own accord. It’s dishonest business.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” she argues back in Farsi, “but we nearly ate the whole menu. It’s not reasonable–”

“As the person in charge of the business, I think I get to decide what’s reasonable.”

Grayson levels him with a flat look. “We both know that your wife decides what’s reasonable. If she didn’t, you’d still have those ridiculous sideburns.”

“They were perfectly stylish! Besides, Esther isn’t here, so that leaves me.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure that leaves your daughter.”

“Well, she isn’t part of this conversation.”

Grayson raises one eyebrow, then leans to the side so she can see into the kitchen. “Shohreh!” she shouts. “Come talk some sense into your father!”

“What?” Shohreh’s voice echoes out of the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Abdul shouts back. “Ignore this poor, senile old woman.” He grins when Grayson glares playfully at him. “She has dementia! She’s imagining things!”

“I’m not imagining those ugly-ass loafers you promised Esther you’d get rid of.”

Abdul purses his lips together, then shuffles closer to the deli case to better block any view of his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirks. “If you don’t want your wife to know what I’m talking about, let me pay the tab.”

Abdul places one hand over his heart and feigns a gasp. “Blackmail? From the Sheriff?”

“If we’re talking misconduct, what you’re doing could technically be construed as a bribe–”

“Oh, enough, both of you.” Roshanak shuffles to the front and fixes both of them with a stern, matronly glare. “I could hear you two from the pantry. Aren’t you two too old to be bickering like children?”

“Sorry, mama.”

“Sorry, Aunt Roshie.”

Roshanak purses her thin lips as she looks between the two of them –apparently none too satisfied with their unrepentant expressions–then scoffs and waves one hand. “Brats, the both of you. And as the co-founder of this establishment–” she turns her focus to Grayson alone “–I say our hospitality is ours to give.”

Grayson relents with a sigh (and makes a mental note to put what’s left of the tab in the tips jar Hashem has out for his Academy fund). “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

Roshanak nods, then sets a pale yellow, square box on the counter with the family name in dark green on the side. “And these are for your wife.”

Grayson peeks through the cellophane window on top of the box –more bamie and baklava–and smiles. “Thank you. She’ll enjoy these.” She considers, then says, “But I am paying for these.”

Roshanak shakes her head. “No–”

“She would want me to,” Grayson insists –because you would. She smiles when Roshanak relents with a sigh and a wave of her hand, then turns back to Abdul. “Now, what does this leave us at?”

…

She walks Vi back to the trolley, then takes a longer route home. It does a world of good –if only because she’s less likely to pass out on the couch from the sheer volume of food she ate for lunch.

You’re in the back of the house, where the two of you keep the bulk of your books and the record player. You’re curled up in your arm chair –a plush, quilted emerald green seat–with a book in your lap and a cup of tea on the end table between your chair and hers. You smile and look up when she walks in –then your jaw drops when you see the box tucked under her arm. “You went to Cheriquis?”

“I took Vi there for lunch,” Grayson defends herself. “She was a bit overwhelmed after the initial tux fitting –speaking of, don’t let me forget to sleuth out the color of Caitlyn’s dress; Agatha needs a swatch to work with.” She walks over to your chair, bends to give you a kiss, then holds out the box to you. “Aunt Roshie sent these home for you.”

“Oh, bless her.” You slide your thumbnail through the sticker holding the box shut, then lift the lid. You select a perfectly round bamie, bite through half of it, then close your eyes and let out a blissful groan. “I haven’t been to Cheriqui’s in forever and a day. And, if we’re on the topic of reminders, don’t let me forget to book a reservation there for my senior’s final’s study group.”

“I’ll do my best.” She sits in her chair with a muted groan. “How has your day been?”

You wave one hand dismissively. “Literally nothing has happened. I’ve been utterly unproductive.” You grin when she chuckles, then finish off your bamie before holding the box out to her.

Grayson holds up one hand to turn you down. “Gods, no. We practically ate the whole damn menu.”

“Oh.” You blink, then smile. “Oh. Was it Vi’s first time trying Persian food?” When she nods, you laugh lightly. “That was a dangerous admission to make. I nearly passed out the first time you took me to Cheriqui’s.”

“Vi was in a similar state to you when we left,” Grayson says. “But she enjoyed herself –and the family enjoyed her, too.”

“I can’t fathom how she wouldn’t. I’m glad they liked her, though!”

“I’ll say.” She smirks. “I think they were all impressed when she ate a goat’s eye.”

Your eyes widen, and your brows spike towards your hairline. “Yeah, that’d do it.” You laugh. “How’d she handle it?”

“Apparently, she’s familiar with fish head stew, so it didn’t faze her.”

You nod. “The food in the Lanes is definitely rustic.”

“You don’t say!” She grins when you laugh, then shakes her head. “She met Aunt Roshie, too –she wants you to stop by soon, by the way.”

“Oh, twist my arm. What did Roshie think of Vi?”

“I think she liked Vi –but I think she liked telling Vi stories about me trying to get out of my dresses and tights as a kid.” She pauses when you snicker, then sighs and adds in a resigned tone, “And she definitely liked asking me ‘what about her deli turns me into a stripper’ in front of Vi.”

You burst into delighted cackles and clap your hands together. You rock back in your chair –hard enough that your chair scoots back slightly. “She did not!”

“Oh, she did.” Grayson grimaces. “In English.”

“Oh, Janna!” You clutch at your sides as tears of mirth stream down your face. “Bless that woman. I absolutely adore Roshie.” You wipe your cheeks, then your eyes, all while giggling. “Oh, I wish I could’ve been there for that!”

She can’t help but smile, exasperation aside. “I don’t doubt it.”

Once you regain some coherency, you shift so you’re sitting properly in your chair once more and look at her. “How’d the fitting go?”

“It went alright. I think Vi was overwhelmed, though.”

“By Agatha, or by the process?”

“By the process.” Grayson drums her fingers against the arm of her chair. “I mean –I know how things were for you, at the start. You certainly know how they were for you.”

“I do,” you agree while nodding slowly. Your expression is grim, lips pressed into a tight line. “I also know that they don’t always get better on a bigger scale.”

“I know.” She sighs, weary, and folds her hands in her lap. And Vi doesn’t seem like the type to take the route of “blending in.”

The first few years of your relationship had been a brutal, rude awakening. Not just in seeing the destitution of Zaun for the first time –and being lightly hazed with what Jericho thought was passable as food–but realizing just how much Piltovans hated anyone from the Undercity.

You’d had to scrape and fight your way through university; she hadn’t witnessed it personally, but you’d told her horror stories about professors docking points because you didn’t have a surname to list on your assignments. Or marking you down during presentations because your accent was different. Or refusing to let you attend office hours without security present because they were “concerned” for their “wellbeing.”

She’d heard stories about you getting harassed at work by colleagues and bosses, only for human resources to do nothing. She’d witnessed the harassment once –one of your male coworkers had slapped you on the ass–and she’d had to go up the chain of directors and presidents as a Captain in the ranks of the Enforcers before any recourse was afforded.

She’d had extended family members sit her down for countless interventions when she’d proposed to you. They’d cited rampant crime and drug abuse in the Undercity, how you’d bring unbearable baggage with you, how your reputation and “status” would harm her career and ability to climb the ladder. Hell, she’d had ex-girlfriends come crawling out of the woodwork and try to interfere with your relationship, only to later find out that several meddling aunts had orchestrated the whole nightmare. She’d married you anyway –and sent them all notices in the mail that they were not invited to the wedding or reception.

People used to nearly walk over you in the streets. Men would catcall you, or call you a “bitch in lady’s clothing.” Women would whisper to their companions and laugh at you, regardless of whether you were in earshot or not. People would come up and talk to her without once addressing you, or even looking in your direction.

There was one glorious incident, shortly after she’d been promoted to Lieutenant, when she’d gotten a call from her patrolmen about a drunk and disorderly complaint. She’d shown up at a local shop, only to find you in cuffs –and utterly sober, no less.

She doesn’t remember much of what she said while dressing down her patrolmen. She’s heard, however, that she made one man throw up afterwards, just from sheer terror.

It’s not as bad as it used to be. The people who remember you as an Undercity hopeful aren’t really around anymore. You’ve got the right clothes, a respectable career, and several awards and accreditations in journalism under your belt. People know you as a professor now. As her wife.

Somehow, I don’t think Vi wants to be known just as Caitlyn Kiramman’s wife, she thinks to herself.

“Gray.” You squeeze her hand. “Where’d you go?”

She inhales sharply as you drag her out of her reverie. “Nowhere, really.” She clears her throat. “I was thinking about how things were for you when we first got together. How… how hard it was.”

You smile reassuringly. “It wasn’t all bad. I had you.”

Grayson smiles back, then takes your hand in hers. “I’m flattered, but we both know it was terrible.” When you wince, but don’t say anything else, she continues. “I suppose I’m worried that Vi will have a harder time of it. You…” Her voice trails off, and then she grimaces. Shit. How do I say this without being insulting?

“I blended in better?” you surmise with an arched eyebrow and a smirk.

“I don’t see Vi adopting popular hairstyles or covering her tattoos,” Grayson allows in an attempt to be tactful. “Or attending university.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” you point out.

“I know,” she agrees. “I just…” She sighs, then squeezes your hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt powerless like this. I haven’t missed it.”

You coo softly and cock your head to one side. “You’ve become very fond of her.”

“She’s a good kid,” Grayson admits, emphatic. “She has a good heart. And I’d hoped this city had grown out of its prejudices over the past couple of decades, but…”

“But it hasn’t,” you finish, soft and sympathetic, when her voice trails off.

“But it hasn’t,” she echoes wearily. She rubs the bridge of her nose with her other hand. “I’m so tired of the fucking bureaucratic bullshit.”

“Easy, love.” You rub small circles against the back of her hand with your thumb. “Focus on what you can do, not what you can’t.”

I’m the Sheriff of Piltover. I should be able to do whatever I damn well like. She huffs, but sets aside the mental grousing for more productive lines of thinking. “I might get a new tux for the gala.”

You blink a few times, then frown. “...Okay?”

“Vi went with a charcoal colored tuxedo,” she explains. “In all due fairness, Agatha recommended it.”

“Ah.” Your confused expression settles into a small, melancholy smile. “A non-traditional color choice.”

“I think I’ll pick up something non-traditional, too. Just so Vi isn’t the single odd duck out.”

Your eyes crinkle around the corners as your smile grows. “That’s sweet of you. What color do you think you’ll get?”

She shrugs. “Maybe silver. It’d be a winter color, at least.”

“Ooh.” Your eyes light up. “You’d look good in silver. Very distinguished.”

She grins at you. “I’m glad you have your approval.”

You grin, then wink. “I bet you’ll look good out of it, too.”

Grayson laughs, heartfelt. Then, she leans over and kisses you.

[haggishlyhagging]

The question of suitable employment is raised persistently within the welfare system: what is to be expected of women with children? should they work or stay home? what kind of work are they offered or forced to take? is that work entirely determined by prejudgments as to their nature—what can and should be expected of them because they are female, female and black, female and white, female and poor, female and unmarried? In New York City, women on welfare say that they have been strongly encouraged by welfare workers to turn to prostitution, the threat being that the individual woman may in the future be denied welfare benefits because the caseworker knows the woman could be making big bucks on the street; or in emergencies, women on welfare are told to raise the money they need by turning a trick or two. In Nevada, where prostitution is legal, women on welfare have been forced off welfare because they refused to accept the suitable employment of prostitution; once it is a legal, state-regulated job, there is no basis for refusing it. Prostitution has long been considered suitable employment for poor women whether it is legal or not. This is particularly cynical in the welfare system, given the fact that women on welfare have been subjected to "fornication checks"—questioned about their sexual relations at length, questioned as to the identity of the fathers of so-called illegitimate children, questioned as to their own sexual habits, activities, and partners—and have been denied welfare if living with a man or if a man spends any time in the domicile or if having a sexual relationship with a man. Their homes could be inspected anytime: searches were common after midnight, when the welfare workers expected to find the contraband man; the courts put a stop to late searches but daytime searches are still legal. Beds, closets, and clothes were inspected to see if any remnant of a male presence could be found. Sometimes criminal charges of fornication were actually brought against the mothers of illegitimate children; the purpose was to keep them from getting welfare. For instance, in one typical case, a New Jersey woman was convicted of fornication and given a suspended sentence; she was forced to name the father, who went to prison. Welfare workers were allowed to interrogate children concerning the social and sexual habits of their mothers. Women on welfare have even been required to tell when they menstruate. Women on welfare have had no rights to sexual privacy; and in this context, turning them toward prostitution goes right along with refusing to allow them private, intimate, self-determined sexual relations. Prostitution is the ultimate loss of sexual privacy. Gains made in the courts in the 1960s to restore rights of privacy to these women are being nullified by new welfare policies and regulations designed to control the same population in the same old ways—practices that reappear in new guises but are built on the same old attitudes and impinge on the welfare population in the same old and cruel ways. The state is a jealous lover, except when it pimps.

-Andrea Dworkin, Right Wing Women

[celestialastronmy]

Lucifer Season 1, Episode 9 "A Priest Walks Into A Bar this has to be my favorite episode from season 1 it really stuck with me.This episode marks a critical dramatic turning point in the overarching narrative of the first season through the introduction of Father Frank Lawrence, a compelling new character serving both plot and thematic functions.Father Frank's initial involvement in the episode's casework components allows for insightful observations concerning detectival procedurals. However, it is his interactions with Lucifer Morningstar that furnish the most meaningful character revelations.

It comes as a surprise to observe the bond that forms between the pious man of faith, Father Frank, and the fallen angel known as Lucifer. At first glance, these two individuals seem unlikely compatriots given their opposing roles in the cosmic order. However, upon closer inspection, one sees that beneath the surface differences lies a common desire for empathetic communication. Father Frank shows a remarkable ability to listen without prejudice, drawing out Lucifer's long-held burdens and moving tale of family disruption. Where others offer only condemnation based on reputation, the good Father offers compassion. Through respectful dialogue, these disparate figures develop a rapport built on sincerity rather than superficial image. Frank appears to understand that even Lucifer wishes to unlade his soul and find a place of acceptance. In their conversations, humanity can be seen humanity's universal need for willing ears and unbiased regard and support. Father Frank, like Lucifer, carries great sadness in his heart. For Frank, it's the pain of feeling he has let down his flock by not always living up to his ideals as a priest. This has made him question what he stands for. Through their friendship, Father Frank and Lucifer help each other to understand life's difficulties better. While Frank's devotion to God remains strong even in death, Lucifer finds himself deeply upset by Frank's sudden passing. In that moment, the Devil reacted not with his usual coldness but with real grief - as someone who saw the unfairness of loss and who treasured Frank's acceptance. Both Frank's willingness to aid others in need and Lucifer's growing care for humanity show there is healing to be found in sincere relationships rather than isolation. By opening our hearts to one another, even in small ways, we can all work to overcome life's challenges. When we make an effort to empathize with people different from us, hope has a chance to take root. For those who suffer alone, reaching out a hand of fellowship, as Father Frank did, may be the first step to finding peace. Long story short: Lucifer's interactions with Father Frank externalize the show's central themes: the power of forgiveness, opening up to others, questioning dogma, but not morality itself. Their kinship demonstrates Lucifer Morningstar's thematic journey towards embracing his capability for righteousness when apart from righteous trappings.

[theamd426]

Potential JATP WIP. Working title is Together I Think That We Can Make It.

Basically in this fic Reggie is a foster kid who get's diagnosed with Leukemia over summer break. Victoria works in the cancer ward at the LA Children's hospital, and will eventually try and persuade Ray to take him in once he gets out of the hospital.

This is a WIP fic, and I want to wait until it's completely done to post on AO3, but I'd love some feedback so far. Also if you're interested in being a beta reader let me know!

Reggie sighed as the elevator rang, reaching the 5th floor. The doors opened and he was quickly wheeled inside the cancer ward at the Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. Reggie’s caseworker, Todd gave him a comforting smile as one of the nurses wheeled Reggie into the ward.

“It doesn’t seem so bad here,” Todd said as Nurse Victoria wheeled Reggie into his room.

The room itself still looked like a hospital room, but it wasn’t completely bare and sterile. The walls were painted a nice crisp white, and there were built in wood cabinets surrounding a big tv that helped give the room some warmth. Right under the window there was a small seating area with an arm chair and a green couch, that most likely turned into a pullout bed in case a patients family slept over.

“You can decorate however you like,” Victoria said, with a smile. “With discretion I might add. This is still a children’s ward. So please no pictures of drugs or naked girls.”

“Not even if they’re scientific,” Reggie said, bitterly.

Todd gave nudged Reggie’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Watch your attitude please,” he said, slightly annoyed.

“Sorry,” Reggie mumbled. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t really have anything to decorate with.”

Victoria gave Reggie a sad smile, knowing his situation. She knew first hand how hard it is to witness a family member go through cancer, and she witnessed countless kids and their families fight everyday, but she never imagined how hard it would be to fight this battle as a kid with absolutely no one in your corner.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, trying to not act upset about what Todd said to Reggie.

He was a foster kid who had just been abandoned by his last foster placement and was now getting treated for cancer. He had every right to be bitter and upset.

Todd set Reggie’s trash bag of belongings on the floor next to his bed. He then turned to Victoria and gave her a fake smile.

“Is there anything I need to sign before you get started with his treatment?” He asked, glancing down at his watch.

“No, I think we’re good. We’ve already gone over his treatment plan with you guys and we will contact you again if anything changes.”

Todd nodded his head and pulled out his phone to check his text messages. After sending a couple of texts, he put his phone away and gave Reggie a very fake smile.

“Okay, well you have my number if you need anything,” he said, before turning and walking out of the hospital.

“Too bad I don’t have a phone,” Reggie said, plopping down on his bed.

“I’m going to go grab you a hospital gown and then we’re going to get you ready to get your port,” Victoria said, trying to lighten the mood. “When was the last time you had anything to eat or drink?"

"I got a take home lunch yesterday at school, and I had some water last night around eight thirty," he said.

"You didn't eat dinner" Victoria asked kind of shocked.

Reggie just shook his head and started to remove his worn-out converse. If he was going to be stuck in this ward for the next few months while he went through chemo then he was at least going to be comfortable.

Victoria looked over the skinny teenager and realized he was probably starving, that combined with his worn-out clothes led her to think that he was possibly neglected in his last placement.

"Okay, then after we insert your port I’ll bring you anything you want from the HBO café downstairs,” she said handing him the menu that was on the dresser. "Dr. Isaac said you don't need to go on a neutropenic diet just yet, so if I were you I'd take advantage of the greasy options now."

“Thanks,” Reggie said, taking a deep breath out.

Victoria paused for a moment before reaching for the trash bag on the floor.

“We need to wash your clothes to make sure that everything is sterile,” She said, sympathetically. “Do you have anything in that bag that doesn’t need to be washed - photos, trinkets, or books maybe?

“No,” Reggie shrugged. “It’s all Goodwill clothes.”

“Okay then,” Victoria said picking up the trash bag. "Dumb question, but do you want the bag back?”

“Will you guys give me something to put my clothes in when I leave?”

“Yes, of course,” Victoria said, trying not to tear up.

"Then yeah go ahead and toss it. I've been using that bag for a about a year anyway."

Victoria picked up all of Reggie’s belongings and brought it over to laundry management. She tried her best to keep her composure until she was completely alone. She knew good and well that she was about to start several jars in the break room to raise money to not only buy Reggie a damn suitcase, but to also get him some decent clothes and decorations.

Victoria was going to be damned if this kid survived cancer and had to leave with all of his belongings inside of a plastic hospital bag.

As Victoria was off getting everything ready for Reggie to receive his port, Reggie laid back on his hospital bed and did his best to fight back his tears. All he wanted at the moment was for his two best friends to come and be with him. But it was the first day of Summer break, and Reggie didn’t have the heart to tell either of his friends that he was diagnosed with Cancer, and now he didn’t know if how he’d be able to reach out to them without a phone or tablet. Basically he was stuck watching cable all day long.

Maybe Alex was right. Maybe they shouldn’t have forged his foster parents signature so that Reggie could donate blood.

****

“I’m not doing it,” Alex, Reggie’s best friend and bandmate, said after throwing away his blood drive form.

“But you and Luke haven’t even done it,” Reggie said, looking back and forth between Alex and Luke, Reggie’s other best friend and bandmate. “You guys haven’t done it yet right?”

“No, we haven’t had sex yet,” Alex said, rolling his eyes as he playfully pushed Reggie. “But, it’s complete bullshit that we’d be banned for life the second we do. It’s homophobic.”

Reggie sighed knowing this was going to mean he’d be giving blood alone. Luke was terrified of needles and Alex was apparently now protesting the matter.

“I don’t know,” Reggie said, sadly. “I kind of wanted to know my blood type.”

Alex’s face softened. He knew Reggie didn’t know much about his genetics. His birth parents gave him up for adoption when he was a baby, and then when he was 10 his adoptive parents dissolved his adoption. The now 16-year-old has had 13 foster placements ever since.

“You should still do it then,” Alex said, nudging Reggie’s shoulder. “We probably wouldn’t be scheduled for the same class period anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Reggie said shrugging his shoulder. “I doubt Caleb would even sign the permission form.”

“Who says he has to sign it?” Luke said, smirking.

“No, no, no!” Alex said, stopping in the middle of the hallway. “Do you know how much trouble he would get into if he forged his foster dad’s signature?”

“I don’t know,” Reggie said, shrugging his shoulders. “Worst case scenario, he kicks me out. Which, might I add, will probably happen in the next month or so anyway.”

Alex sighed and shook his head.

“I’m still totally against this plan and if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

“Yeah, but out of the three of us, you have the best handwriting,” Luke pointed out.

“Please,” Reggie begged. “I may not get this chance again until I’m 18.”

“Bobby has way better handwriting then I do,” Alex said, pouting. “Just ask him tonight at band practice.”

“He has to go to his brother’s softball game tonight,” Reggie reminded him. “And the permission form is due tomorrow.”

“Stupid private school,” Luke grumbled. “It’s not fair that he get’s to go to Los Feliz and we don’t.”

“To be fair, my parents offered to send me to Los Feliz, but I wouldn’t dare to leave you idiots alone,” Alex said, smirking.

“I uh… I actually was offered a scholarship,” Reggie said, blushing. “But I won’t be able to go unless they can find a foster home closer to the school.”

“Your joking?” Alex said, shocked.

Reggie shook his head.

"It's not going to happen though," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Los Feliz is full of rich families. They don't foster, and if they do, then they're just doing it so they can get a baby with no trauma."

"So your stuck here with me?" Luke said hopeful that his two best friends weren't leaving him behind.

"Yeah, your not getting rid us that easy," Reggie said with a smile. He then turned to Alex and gave him his best puppy dog eyes. "Please? For a kid who doesn't know where he came from?"

“Fine,” Alex grumbled. “I’m going to kill both of you if we get caught though.”

“Dude relax,” Reggie said, smiling. “We’re not going to get caught.”

****

Reggie felt unusually tired the day of the blood drive, and he couldn’t figure out why especially since nothing in his routine had changed in the past couple of days. He did go to bed a little later than he usually did since his foster father Caleb caught him coming in after curfew. He spent the better half of the night listening to his foster father yell and berate him before locking him in his bedroom. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, so he couldn’t understand why he was so exhausted.

“You look tired,” Alex said, leaning on the locker beside Reggie’s.

“Caleb was in a big mood last night,” Reggie said, yawning. “I’m probably getting moved after we finish exams.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, sympathetically. “Maybe your next placement will be better?”

Reggie slammed his locker shut and shrugged his shoulders. He had been moved so much lately that it didn’t really bother him.

“I doubt it,” he said, walking to class. “No one voluntarily takes in teenagers, especially ones who have been rehomed.”

Alex bit his lip, he wanted to ask his parents if they could take in Reggie, but he knew Reggie was openly bi and he didn’t want to subject Reggie to their homophobia. It was already bad enough hiding his own relationship with his parents, he didn’t want to force Reggie to do the same if he found someone he really liked.

As the two got closer to their first period pre-calculus class, Alex perked up and immediately started to reach in his book bag.

“I almost forgot,” Alex said, pulling out a breakfast sandwich. “My mom said that you should never give blood on an empty stomach.”

“You told your mom I was giving blood?” Reggie asked.

“Well… not exactly,” Alex said, blushing. “My dad gave blood for our church’s blood drive last month and my mom made a big scene about him eating a big breakfast that morning.”

“You do know I get free breakfast and lunch right?” Reggie asked, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah, but school food sucks,” Alex said, shivering at the thought. “I honestly don’t know how you and Luke eat it everyday.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Luke eat worse,” Reggie said, giggling. “Last weekend I saw him put mashed potatoes on a waffle. It was disgusting.”

“Yeah, that checks out,” Alex agreed. “I still don’t know how you do it though.”

Reggie just shrugged his shoulders and took a bite out of the breakfast sandwich Alex gave him.

“I don’t know… I guess when the alternative is not eating you kind of just get over the taste.”

Alex looked at Reggie with sad eyes as the two walked into class and took a seat at their desks. Reggie quickly finished his sandwich and started to open his worn-out notebook.

****

Reggie was scheduled to give blood right at the beginning of 3rd period, which means he was missing music with Alex and Luke. Luke wished Reggie good luck at the end of chemistry, and Reggie made Luke promise to grab a review packet for him for their final next week. He didn’t have access to private music lessons like Luke or Alex, so music class was the only chance he had to learn theory.

When Reggie arrived in the gym for the blood drive there weren’t as many students as he imagined. Most of the students were volunteering for the blood drive for their nursing classes. He assumed that more students would be willing to donate, but the gym was practically empty, meaning that they will probably stop doing blood drives next year.

Once he was at the front of the line to check in, one of the nursing students took his permission slip, that Alex did a pretty good job forging, and started to take his vitals. Reggie was a bit worried that he wouldn’t pass the weight requirement, since he hadn’t been eating as much as he normally does. His weight did drop, but he was still above the required weight and height for donating blood so he was let through.

After his passing his initial check up, Reggie was finally brought over to the area where students were waiting to get poked. Reggie waited five minutes and was then escorted to a chair.

His nurse, Gloria, gave him a big smile as she started looking for veins. Once she was sure she found a good vein she told Reggie to relax his arm and turn his head so he didn’t have to look at the needle going into his arm. But Reggie didn’t. Instead, Reggie just stared at his arm as the needle went in.

“Wow, you didn’t flinch at all,” Gloria said as she taped Reggie up.

“It’s not the worst pain I’ve been in,” he said with a smirk.

Gloria gave him a sad smile and handed him a stress ball. Reggie started to squeeze the ball allowing his blood to come out quicker.

“Okay, I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” Gloria said, taking her gloves off. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll try not too,” Reggie said, sarcastically.

Reggie gently squeezed the stress ball, but after a few minutes of squeezing his hands started tingling, his limbs started to feel heavy, and he started to feel really tired. He blinked for a bit and did his absolute best to keep his eyes open and stay awake.

“Come on,” he said, focusing on his blinking. “You can fall asleep when you get home. Don’t cause a problem.”

Reggie’s eyes continued to flutter for a few moments longer before he couldn’t feel anything and everything went completely black.

****

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

Reggie groggily opened his eyes to the steady sound of a heart rate monitor letting everyone know that he was still alive.

He looked around the room and saw dozens of nurses and doctors walking around the ER triage center as they assessed different patients. He looked around the room and furrowed his brows when he saw pictures of kittens and clowns on the wall. The sound of a toddler crying only solidified his hypothesis. He was in the ER at the Children's Hospital of Los Angeles. Reggie groaned and started looking for a way to quietly remove the wires that were hooked up to him. Butt after one accidental bad move, the monitors went off and an ER Nurse came rushing in. She looked over him for a minute before giving him a comforting smile.

“It’s good to have you back in the land of the living,” the nurse said as he started to check Reggie’s vitals. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine,” Reggie said, rubbing his eyes. “What happened?”

“You passed out at a blood drive,” he said, seriously. “Do you know what happened? Did you just forget to eat maybe?”

Reggie shook his head, he had devoured that breakfast sandwich the moment Alex gave it to him, and he snagged a blueberry muffin from the cafeteria. He should have been fine.

“Okay, well we’re testing your blood right now just to be safe,” he said, gently. “Your school gave us your dad’s number but he didn’t pick up. Is there anyone else we can call?”

Reggie sighed as he bit his lip. He knew his social worker Todd was going to have to find out about him being in the hospital. He just didn’t want to hear the lecture that would surely come from it.

“818-555-0149… that’s my case worker’s number. His name is Todd,” Reggie said, biting his lip.

“Oh,” the nurse said, quietly. “I’ll um… I’ll call him right now.”

Reggie nodded his head as he curled up further in his hospital bed. Nurses and doctors all around him were ignoring him as they all went about their jobs.

As he sat there alone, he started to get flashbacks to when he was 10 and he was abandoned in this very ER after his appendix burst. He thought his parents left to go fill out paperwork for his surgery, but after a few hours, they never came back. The hospital called their names several times over the intercom, but nobody ever came.

That was the day Reggie found out that he wasn't biologically related to his parents. He was adopted, and they didn't want him anymore. 

[mint-moon25]

FLORIDA - FOOD ASSISTANCE - SNAP

NEW - WEBSITE

MY ACCESS . MY FL FAMILIES . com

WENT - 2 - PROVIDERS - APP

CHANGED - MY ZIP CODE

WENT - 2 - WEBSITE - LINKED - MY

BENEFITS

WHEN - I - DID - STATUS - WENT

2 - 2ND - PART - NO 2 - NOW - A

CASEWORKER - WILL - REVIEW

SHORTLY - HOORAY

WILL - GET - BENEFITS - 22 MAR

AFTER - ALL - PROVIDERS - APP

TYPED - MY - CASE NO

SAME - AFTER - YEARS

BENEFIT - AS - HOMELESS

TOTAL - $67

HAD - 2 - RE-APPLY - FOR

PAPERLESS - AND - TEXT

THEY'RE - NOT - GREAT

WITH - THAT - SAW - MY

PAST LETTER - JAN 2024

FORGOT - THAT ADDRESS

SO - LONG - AGO

MIAMI - OVER - 1 YEAR

SAW - AGAIN - MY - HE IS

A - WOMAN - AND - SAID

'HIS - OTHER - HALF'

CAN - EXPERIENCE - YES

BEING - A - MAN - TOOLS

SO - CAN - WEE WEE LIKE

A - MAN - WITH - RUBBER

BODY - PARTS - FR

AMAZON - ALSO

WHO - GIVES - FOOD - TO

US - WEDNESDAYS

GAVE - HIM - $200

AMAZON - GIFT - CARD

SO - THEY - BOUGHT

BODY - PARTS

FAKE - BOOBS - 4 HIM

FAKE - MALE - RUBBER

PARTS - SHE - CAN YES

WEAR - 2 - WEE WEE

LIKE - A - MAN

$200 - WOULD - HAVE

BOUGHT - ME - SWIMWEAR

PINK - OTHER - COLORS

$19.99 - 2 DAY - PRIME

OR - OVERNIGHT FREE

WELL - HE - SAID - BECAUSE

OF - HOMELESS

MY - MIND - ($30 MILLION)

MILITARY - TENTS - 3 MEALS

FREE - NOT - 5 MEALS - SAID

GOVERNOR - DECREASING

MIN WAGE

I - THINK - THESE - HOMELESS

WHITES - BLKS

DEPRESSING - DOMESDAY

HOMELESS - EX - US ARMY

VETERAN - CREATING - WORDS

PER - LAW - 'I - CAN - READ TOO'

HERE's - GOOGLE - SEARCH

FLORIDA - ON - SCHEDULE

MIN - WAGE - NEW - $12 HOURLY

TIPPED - JOBS - LOWER

HOWEVER - GREAT - NEWS - FL

30 SEPT - NEW MINIMUM WAGE

$13 - HOURLY - FLORIDA

MONDAY - AT - LEAST

THEY - BOSTON - MA - MASSACHUSETTS

6 MONTHS

THEIR - STOCKBROCKER - FRIEND - HUGE

HOUSE - BUILT - FREE - 4 - THEM - LOTS OF

BEDROOMS - SAN DIEGO - BEACH - AREA

BEACH - HOUSE - HE's - TURNING - INTO A

BED - AND - BREAKFAST

BACK - AREA

ROCK & ROLL - BEACH - ACTIVITIES

HE's - CHARGING - MONEY - FOR

GOOD - 4 - THEM

FREE - HUGE - BEACH - HOUSE

4 - THEM - 2 - MAKE - MONEY

FROM - HE - CAN - COOK - HE's

THE - CHEF - 4 - BREAKFAST - 2

GOOD - 4 - THEM

THEY'RE - LEAVING

HISPANIC - MALE - KEPT - ON

SAYING - WHAT - I - GAVE HIM

HE'LL - GO - 2 - JAIL - FROM

HE - CAN'T - FIND - MY - YES

2 - INFLATE - MY - AIR - MAT

HE's - LEAVING - 2 GET JOB

GOOD

LAW - PASSED - WE'RE - YES

WAITING - 1 YEAR - CAMP

AREA - THEY - WILL ONLY

B - ALLOWED - THOSE - YES

BURROWED - PROPERTIES

1 YEAR - IN - ADDITION - TO

MORE - TRADITIONAL

SHELTERS - TOTAL - SPEND

$30 MILLION

1 YEAR - CAMP - AREA

MILITARY - TENTS

GUARDS - NO - CURFEW

UNTIL - THEM - GETTING

HUGER - TARP - AT - ROSS

$7.99

THEN - OTHER - THAT HAS

HOLE - ALREADY - 4 - I'VE

BEEN - USING - 2 - TIE ON

FENCE - USING - THAT

8 FT - X - 10 FT

SMALL - IN - REAL LIFE

USING - 2 - PROTECT MY

WALMART - LUGGAGE

DUFFLE - BAG - ROSS

BAGS - SKIN - CARE

WATERS - CLOTHES

2 - SHIELD FR RAIN

2 DAYS - AT - LEAST - WILL

RAIN - IN - MIAMI - THUS I

AM - PREPARING

HISPANIC - MIDGET - WHO

WANTS - 2 - MARRY - ME I

SAID - I - HAVE - 'NOVIO'

BOYFRIEND - NOW - HE WAS

SCARING - ME - ABOUT - BLK

MALE - LOOKING - AT - MY BL

BLUE - TARP

MOST - LIKELY - MY - BLK

BALLS - 2 - TIE - TARP - HE

TRIED - 2 - SCARE - ME

STEALING - MY - SHIRT

MY - PILLOWS - MY IGLOO

BOO BOO

GOD - REDEEMED - US - FR

THE - CURSE - OF THE LAW

OF - THIS - PLANET

DOMINATED - BY - SATAN

A - LOOSE OUTLAW SPIRIT

BUT - WE'RE - REDEEMED

EXCEPT - FROM

CONSTANT - ROBBERY

JESUS - IS - LORD

TOLD - HIM - 2 - STOP

SCARING - ME - HE - 2

WANTED - 2 - WATCH

ME - PUT - MAKE - UP

ON - TOLD - ME - ABOUT

THE - BACOPA - EFFECTS

AROUND - MY - NOSE

THEY - ARE - FULL - OF

MEDS - HOUSEWIVES

FISHTALES - SOLUTION

I - SAID - DON'T - WORRY

ABOUT - IT - I - NEED - TO

DO - MY - MAKE UP

THEN - LATER - HE - JUST

LOOKS - AT - ME

I - JUST - LOOK - SOME -

WHERE - ELSE

WHAT - I - MISS - ABOUT

EUROPE - TALL - BLUE

EYES - GORGEOUS MEN

MISS - ABOUT - ASIA

ADMIRING - GLANCES

OF - TALL - THIN PRETTY

MALES - VIETNAM - AND

BANGKOK - THAILAND - 2

HERE - IN - MIAMI

UGLY - SMELLY - BAD

BREATH - HOMELESS

HOBO - HISPANIC AND

BLKS - WANT 2 SHOVE

THEIR - PEE PEE IN MY

VAGINAL - AREA - FOR

I - HAD - TENTS

I - HAVE - BLUE - TARP

'NO ONE - IS LOOKING'

BLK - MALE - WANTED

2 - TALK - 2 - ME - AT

2:08A EST

I - SAID - 'IT's - 2 A EST'

HE - SPOKE - LOUD - 2

A - HISPANIC - OLD YES

MALE - OUT - LOUD

THEN - LEFT

I - HAD - EAR - PLUGS

ON - YOUTUBE - JERRY

SAVELLE - GOD's WORD

JOEL OSTEEN

2 - BUILD - US - UP

BLK - HOMELESS - FR

OTHER SIDE - OF SW 2 ST

WANTED - 2 - SHOW - HIS

NAKED - PEE PEE - 2 YES

PENETRATE - VAGINAL

AREA - LIVE - INSIDE - MY

BLUE - TARP

MIAMI - FLORIDA

LIVE - LIVE - PEE PEE - 2

WEE - WEE - ON FENCES

LIVE - PEE PEE - 2 - YES

PENETRATE - ASIANS

INSIDE - OPEN - BLUE

TARP - FR - ROSS DRESS

4 - LESS

MIAMI - IMMORAL - USA

AMERICANS - CUBANS

COLUMBIANS - HISPANICS

BLKS - FR - CUBA - ALSO

BLKS - FR - HAITI - MOST

VIOLENT - MIAMI - POLICE

BRICKELL - CITY - CENTRE

ARMED - ALLIED - ALLIANCE

SECURITY - THEY'RE - LIKE

COPY - CATS - OF - MIAMI

14TH - AMENDMENT

AS - AMERICANS

ILLITERATE - LOW - GPA

NOT - BRIGHT - VIOLENT

UGLY - REPULSIVE - YES

HUMANS - MIAMI - 99%

SPANISH - FR - SPANISH

COUNTRIES

AMERICANS - CAN'T READ

14TH - AMENDMENT

NO - STATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

A - PERSON - OF - LIFE

ILLEGALLY - ARMED

POLICE - SHERIFFS - SECURITY

NO - STATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

PERSON - OF - LIBERTY - YES

HOMELESS - IS - LIBERTY

NO - TATE - CAN - DEPRIVE

PERSON - OF - PROPERTY

ALWAYS - ALLIED SECURITY

SMILING - ABOUT - THROWING

AWAY - WHAT - WE - BOUGHT 2

7TH - AMENDMENT

CIVIL SUITS - WHEN - AMOUNT

IS - OVER - $20 - RIGHT 2 TRIAL

BY - JURY - SHALL - B - ALWAYS

PRESERVED - REV'D - REVISED

THUS - AS - WE - SUE

HARVARD - LAW

REPUBLICAN - PARTY - OF - FL

PAYING - ME - $1 TRILLION PER

DAY - 500 YEARS - TAX - PAID

PLUS - CITIZENS - RESIDENTS

OF - FLORIDA

'2 - KILL - A - MOCKINGBIRD'

2 - KILL ABUSE FOREIGNERS

BIBLE - NEVER - HARM - THE

FOREIGNER - LIVING AMONG

THEM - NEVER - MISTREAT 2

EATING - FIRST - THEN - WILL

GO - 2 - ROSS

BUY - HUGE - TARP - $7.99

JESUS - IS - LORD

KOREAN - GIRLS 2

[maciek-jozefowicz]

Designing a house in SketchUp — perspective view from southwest.

On the left side is the bicycle “garage” and work shop. Electrical outlets on the exterior allow for electric scooters to be conveniently powered up. The built-in casework is for storing helmets, gloves and parachutes, spare parts like tires, inner tubes and chains, and various maintenance supplies and tools.

“Healthy Planet for Healthy People” will be the slogan of future personal transportation that will replace the automobile. It is not too early for automakers to begin making the transition. There will be a time when BMW, Mercedes and Audi will be known only for their luxury bicycles and status-symbolizing electric scooters. People will forget that they made cars. Ditto Ferrari and Lamborghini, and Tesla, who will invent the first self-driving electric scooter.

Tesla will also invent the first sun powered electric scooter, which will have attached to it a handglider-like canopy with solar panels. The rider of this scooter will be able to scoot for hundreds of miles without a recharge and, also, glide gracefully off cliffs or multi-story scooter parking garages or through specially designed launch-windows of high rise office buildings — getting home from work will have never been so exhilarating.

Of course, not every carmaker will make a successful transition. Some will go extinct. Companies are not unlike species, if they don’t adopt to climate crisis (aka. Clisis), they will die.

[ao3feed-ereloy]

Playing House to Build a Family

by Ratcatcherr

Ereloy Week Day 3: Angst with a Happy Ending

Aloy never expected to find a sister, let alone one who needed her help. But when Beta comes into her life, Aloy knows she has to do everything she can to give her a better future. The only problem? The government won't let her adopt Beta unless she's married. Enter Erend, Aloy's best friend and confidant who'll do whatever it takes to keep Beta safe. They just need to fool their caseworker long enough to make the adoption official. But as they navigate the ups and downs of fake marriage, Aloy and Erend find themselves getting closer than they ever imagined. Can a marriage built on a lie become something real?

Words: 804, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 3 of Ratcatcherr's Ereloy Week 2023

Fandoms: Horizon (Video Games)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Erend (Horizon), Aloy (Horizon), Beta (Horizon), Alva (Horizon)

Relationships: Aloy/Erend (Horizon)

Additional Tags: Fake Marriage, Adoption, Implied Child Abuse

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/45679732

[residentshitcunt]

Looking into this, never would I have guessed at first glance that the organ was built largely in the 1990s, and installed in 1998. It's in Corthell Hall at the University of Southern Maine, built by David E. Wallace and Company (specifications here). I don't know what the voicing is like, but the stoplist is giving "exciting hymn machine" much more than "serious concert instrument". Like there's a 16' pedal reed, which is supporting ???? on the great? How big is that diapason? I do appreciate the cornet décomposé on the swell, a pity it has fuck all counter on the great unless that chimney flute is doing some serious heavy lifting. Then again, if the casework is at all indicative of the pipework inside, the principal chorus is going to be the size of a house and the swell won't stand a chance.