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punkshort · 11 months ago

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somewhere to run | 1. a fresh start

Pairing: sheriff!Joel x f!reader

Chapter Summary: After you settle into your tiny, dingy apartment safely in the middle of nowhere, you go on the hunt for a job to help make ends meet. There, you meet someone who forces back memories you would rather forget.

Chapter Warnings: language, slow burn, PTSD-type symptoms

WC: 6K

Series Masterlist

Anybody else who walked into the small, one bedroom apartment you were currently standing in would most likely be revolted. The kitchen faucet dripped incessantly, the toilet was stained, the carpet looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a decade, and the entire place smelled like garlic from the pizza place downstairs. But when you looked at it, you smiled. You could work with this. Rummaging around the dollar store bags you left on the kitchen counter, you pulled out all of the cleaning supplies you picked up and got to work.

The landlord - who also happened to be the owner of the pizza place - seemed surprised you wanted to rent it. He said the place had been vacant for close to a year, and considering the state, he knocked off quite a bit on the price. But you could see the potential beyond the grime, and you never shied away from a little hard work, so you jumped at the opportunity. It took you almost the whole day, but you managed to get the place smelling halfway decent. The bathroom and kitchen both looked sparkling new - well, relatively. The only thing you couldn't figure out was the faucet, but that concerned you the least since your landlord said that utilities were included.

Aside from the low rent, the next best thing about the place was it came partially furnished. It had a queen bed, a beat up sofa, and a rickety dining room table, but that was all you needed. At this point, you were just happy to not be staying in another dirty motel. You were ready to find a home, plant down some roots, and start fresh. And Fredericksburg, Texas was just as good a town as any.

You were surprised by how cute the town was when you first drove down Main Street. It was quiet and quaint, and very much had a small town atmosphere. When you were at the dollar store, you had overheard the cashier making conversation with every single customer as if she had known them all her life. By the time it was your turn to cash out, she examined you quizzically, most likely trying to place you, but fortunately she let it go and didn't pry. You weren't in the mood to make up more lies. You were exhausted from being on the road so much the past few weeks, and you just wanted to collapse into bed in a somewhat clean room.

And that is exactly what you did, after you stocked the small fridge with some essentials from the grocery store at the corner of the street so you would at least have coffee and something to eat in the morning.

As you laid in bed, staring at the ceiling fan swirling above, you silently thanked your grandmother all those years ago who told you since you were old enough to understand when you meet a man, keep your own bank account. At the time, you laughed, wondering why on earth anyone would purposely keep secrets from their partner. That it seemed like such a betrayal to even suggest it. But luckily for you, when you met Patrick, you already had your own bank account. You let it lie dormant for a while, almost forgetting you had it. Eventually, you told yourself you should close the account. But that required going down to the branch in person, and you never seemed to find the time to do it. Or maybe some part of you always knew there was something ugly about him, and maybe your grandmother's words had more of an effect on you than you realized.

Whatever it was, it's the reason you were able to find a shitty little apartment in the middle of nowhere without anybody being able to track you down. And for the first time in a long time, you closed your eyes and felt safe.

The next morning, after you drank your surprisingly palatable off brand coffee and ate a borderline stale blueberry muffin, you headed down the steps of your apartment to the sidewalk lining Main Street. You took a deep breath and looked around, a small smile playing on your lips. The town was just waking up, businesses just opening their doors, cars rolling lazily down the street. You had your own car - it was an old Honda Civic that you weren't entirely sure had many years left - but you wouldn't need it today. Picking an apartment on the main drag in town afforded you the option to walk almost anywhere. So you chose a direction and started walking, glancing in the windows of the shops, looking for any help wanted signs.

You tried a small clothing boutique and a coffee shop before entering the pharmacy. There wasn't a help wanted sign out front, but you needed to pick up a few things, anyway. Things the dollar store didn't have, or things you didn't exactly trust to buy there.

You grabbed a basket by the door and smiled at the teenager behind the counter who greeted you before heading down the first aisle. You snagged some generic pain reliever and a box of tampons before you made your way to the hair products. Flipping open the caps, you took a hesitant sniff and put them back before deciding on a cheaper bottle that smelled like strawberries and didn't make you gag. Dropping the bottles in your basket, you wandered past the makeup, looking at it longingly but knowing you wouldn't waste the money on it. Instead, you stopped in front of an end-cap where a display of chapstick caught your eye.

"Sarah?" you heard a deep voice call from behind. You ignored it and kept looking at the display, landing on a vanilla scent as the man walked past. You didn't see his face, but you smelled his cologne, and you instantly recoiled. Your heart began to slam in your chest and your throat felt tight. You squeezed your eyes shut as you focused on taking deep breaths. It's not him, it's not him, it's not him.

"Excuse me, can I grab one of those?" a girl's voice said softly behind you. Taking a shaky step back, you nodded and forced a weak smile.

"Sorry, of course," you told her. She had beautiful, dark brown eyes and thick hair with tight curls framing her face. She looked like she was in her early teens, and based on the backpack over her shoulders, you were probably right.

"Sarah?" you heard the voice call again, and you saw her eyes flick up. You realized the man with the cologne was probably related to her, and you weren't sure you would be able to handle smelling it again, so you quickly took off down the next aisle to hide, waiting until their voices carried them to the cash registers and out the front door before taking a few steadying breaths and forcing yourself to move.

Minor setback aside, you had a pretty good morning. You found you had some luck at the diner a few blocks over. The owner took a liking to you right away and interviewed you on the spot.

"You came at the perfect time, darlin'," he said, taking a seat across from you. "Just missed the breakfast rush, so I got the time to talk right now. Name's Tommy," he said, extending his hand. You smiled and shook it, introducing yourself, then quickly brought your hand back to your lap to nervously fidget with the hem of your shirt.

"You ever work in a restaurant before?"

"Uh, yeah, it's been a few years. But I think it's like riding a bike. I have really good time management skills, I have experience handling cash, I'm friendly, I'm great at anticipating customer's needs-"

Tommy laughed and patted his hand on the table.

"Sounds like you got more skills than half the waitstaff I already got. Some of the older ladies ain't exactly friendly, but they've been here so long, no one seems to mind," he explained quietly with a wink. You chuckled and glanced down at your hands.

"You from around here? I don't think I recognize you," he asked, his eyebrows pinching together. You shook your head.

"Nope, just moved here." You briefly wondered if you should lie - you were so used to lying at this point, it came as second nature - but you couldn't see what it would hurt to tell him the truth. "I'm from Pennsylvania. Just got in last night, actually."

"Long way from home, what brought you here?" he asked, leaning back to study you. You just shrugged.

"Looking for a fresh start," you said honestly. If you were really looking to start over, the lying needed to stop, too.

Tommy nodded and glanced behind you before meeting your gaze again.

"Well, you're hired. If you want the job, that is," he said. You grinned, not expecting that.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. When can you start?"

"Uh, tomorrow?" you offered, your mind racing. You weren't sure if you would need new clothes so you wanted to give yourself the rest of the day, at least, to prepare.

"Works for me. Maria," Tommy called over your shoulder. You turned around and saw a beautiful woman with long, dark braids walking over. He introduced her as his wife, who also happened to be the hostess. You stood to shake her hand, exchanging warm smiles as Tommy told her your name.

"Why don't you come by tomorrow 'round 9 and Maria can show you the ropes? I work the kitchen, she's got the floor," he explained, and you nodded along excitedly.

"I'll be here," you confirmed, the grin still plastered on your face. Tommy left to head back to the kitchen as Maria told you what you needed to bring the next day. You took out your new phone and began jotting down everything she mentioned.

On the way back home, you stopped to pick up a pair of nonslip sneakers from a shoe store. Maria had given you a couple plain black skirts and black t-shirts with the diner's logo that all of the waitresses wore as their uniform before you left. To celebrate, you got a pizza from the pizza place below your apartment and watched old reruns on the ancient TV in your living room.

Things were finally starting to come together.

"Refills are free. Cream and sugar is down here, along with any extra condiments. Coffee should be made every hour but you'll go through the pot long before that," Maria said to you, pointing as she walked behind the counter. "Here's some extra notepads and pens. The computer system is kind of old but pretty easy to use. Tommy'll ring the bell when food is up, we try to move it as quick as possible before it gets cold, even if it's not your table," she said, turning around to face you. "It might take some time to learn the table numbers but we have a little cheat sheet next to all the registers. And if you're ever not sure, don't hesitate to ask."

"I think I got it," you said confidently, tapping your pen against your notepad.

"You can shadow with Betty today, she's been here for decades, long before Tommy and me ever bought the place. She knows her shit forwards and backwards," Maria said, leading you back to the kitchen where you saw an older, round woman struggling with a cardboard box.

"Here, let me help," you told her, rushing over to take the box from her.

"Thanks, sweetie," she said with a smile. "Can you take it up front for me?"

"Of course," you said, following her through the kitchen.

Maria introduced you to Betty as you helped her stock the ketchup bottles underneath the front counter. You heard Tommy's voice call for Maria through the kitchen window and she excused herself, leaving the two of you to tend to the only two customers in the place.

The morning went by quickly. Betty was nicer than you expected. In your experience, when a newcomer joins a seasoned team, it sometimes takes time for the veterans to warm up, but she seemed very eager to show you the ropes, and she had the patience of a saint. All of the customers seemed to know her name and history, some occasionally asking about her husband or her children. As it inched closer to noon, the diner started getting busier again, so you began to branch out a bit on your own, taking a few simple orders and delivering food or refills whenever you could. Betty was deep in conversation with a regular when she waved you over.

"D'you mind takin' care of him?" she asked, nodding over to the man who just sat down. "That's Joel, Tommy's brother. Don't charge him for nothin', he comes in all the time."

You nodded and pulled your pen and notepad out of your apron as you headed over to greet him. When you finally lifted your gaze, you noticed he was wearing a worn, brown suit with a striped tie and as you got closer, you saw the little gold star pinned to his belt and the bulge of a handgun under his blazer.

Your breath got caught in your throat when you made the realization he's a cop.

It's fine, it's fine, it's fine you kept repeating to yourself, forcing your feet to move. You thought you were okay by the time you stood in front of him, but then his cologne invaded your senses, and you had to squeeze your eyes shut. Fuck.

Fortunately, his head was bent down looking at the menu and didn't see your reaction, which afforded you a few precious seconds to collect yourself. It's not him.

"Hey Betty, I'll have-" he glanced up and realized you were not, in fact, Betty. His warm brown eyes trailed over your face for a moment too long, making you shift your weight nervously.

"Sorry, didn't uh - have we met?" he asked, his eyes unblinking as he continued to stare, and you felt the heat creeping up your neck. It's fine, you're fine.

"No," you finally managed to squeak out, shaking your head and introducing yourself right as his eyes drifted to your name tag. "What can I get for you?"

You needed to walk away. You weren't sure how much longer you could stand there smelling that fucking cologne and staring at that badge. But for some reason, he didn't answer you. Maybe if you weren't so wrapped up in your own issues, you would have recognized the look in his eye. The look that clearly expressed interest beyond you taking his food order. And maybe, if you weren't so messed up, you would have realized he was insanely handsome. Maybe, if you could have seen past the cologne and the gold star on his waist, you would have noticed how plush his lips looked, or how big and strong his hands were. You had no idea how you could possibly miss how broad his shoulders were or how thick and soft the messy, dark curls were on top of his head.

But you did miss all of those things the first time you saw him, because he just kept staring and the scent was making your stomach turn and the fluorescent light was shining too brightly off that damn star, so you repeated yourself with a little more edge to your voice than you usually had.

He finally snapped out of it and glanced down at the menu, quickly telling you his order. You wrote it down and held your breath, only letting it go once you were around the corner and far enough away. He comes in all the time, Betty's words replayed in your mind. You were either going to need to find a way to deal with your issues, or find a new job.

"Hiya, Joel. New girl take care of you?" Betty asked as she ambled over to refill his coffee. His eyes flicked around the diner, following your form as you smiled and chatted warmly with other customers.

"Yeah, when did she start?" he asked, trying to sound noncommittal, but Betty saw right through it.

"Today," she told him with a smirk. "Real smart. Pretty, too, don'tcha think?"

"Uh," Joel stammered before clearing his throat. "Yeah, suppose so."

"I think she's single," Betty told him, leaning up against the counter.

"When are you gonna quit tryin' to set me up with every woman in this town?" Joel asked her with a grin.

"Whenever you decide to finally settle down," she shot right back. "You need a woman in your life, Joel."

"Do you do this to all your customers, Betty? Grill 'em 'bout their love lives and tell 'em what they need, like you know best?"

"I do know best, Joel," she said with a wink. "And you know it."

"Yeah, well. I got my hands full with Sarah and work down at the station. Don't got time for all that," he said, taking a sip of his black coffee.

"Sarah's 'bout to be goin' off to college before you know it, and there ain't nearly enough crime in this town to keep you that busy," she said with a shake of her head.

Joel mumbled something under his breath before taking another sip of coffee and glancing around the dining room.

"What was that?" Betty asked, leaning in and cupping her ear. Joel sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Don't think she likes me much, anyway," he said, clearer now.

"Oh, well I can find out for you, sugar. All you gotta do is ask." Betty gave Joel the biggest shit eating grin she could muster. He took a deep breath before asking what he knew would be a huge mistake, but he suddenly needed to know the answer.

"Can you..." he trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek and staring down at the closed menu.

"Can I what?"

Joel groaned and dragged his eyes back up to Betty.

"Can you find out if she'd be interested?" he finally spit out, and Betty clapped her hands.

"Of course I will, Joel! I would absolutely love to," she gushed, and he rolled his eyes again. Just then, he saw you come around the corner and go behind the counter, completely ignoring the two of you before reaching up to the kitchen window and grabbing his lunch. You turned around and gave him what looked to be a forced smile and carefully set the plate down in front of him with a bottle of ketchup. Betty took a step back and watched with a glimmer in her eye as Joel's neck began to flush.

"Can I get you anything else?" you asked. Your voice sounded sweet and you were smiling, but your smile didn't reach your eyes. Maybe he was reading too much into it.

"Nope, all set, thank you," he said, giving you a warm smile in return, but before he even had a chance to say anything else, to try to make a connection and learn more about you, you scurried away. He glanced over at Betty and raised his eyebrows.

"See?"

She waved him off and picked up a rag to wipe down the counter.

"She's just nervous, is all."

The embarrassment still sat with you by the time you arrived back to your apartment that evening. When Betty caught you off guard and asked what you thought of Joel, you couldn't turn down the idea fast enough. You must have looked and sounded crazy based on her reaction. Your only saving grace was Joel had already left the diner and didn't hear you vehemently tell her you wanted nothing to do with him. It wasn't his fault, you weren't interested in hurting his feelings, but you were far too vulnerable still. The wounds were too fresh and the memories were too strong.

Besides, even if you weren't in the unfortunate position you were in, you wouldn't feel right dragging even more people down with you. You dug this grave, so you had to dig yourself out. And you were on the right track, too. As far as you knew, nobody knew where you were. You were incredibly careful, you kept a low profile, and you didn't contact a single person back home. You had no idea who you could even trust anymore, so the safest bet was to just cut all ties and start over.

You weren't going to risk everything by getting involved with some guy. Okay, he was more like a man. But still. Your situation was far too complicated to get involved with anybody. Technically, you shouldn't get involved with anybody.

No, it was a very bad idea.

So why couldn't you stop thinking about him?

"Stop it," you muttered out loud to yourself as you paced around your little apartment. With a huff, you picked up the small potted plant you bought on clearance and gave it a little bit of water from the dripping kitchen sink before putting it back on the windowsill.

Remember what he smelled like? Remember he's a cop?

That did the trick. Those two simple reminders erased all prior thoughts about the handsome sheriff who visited the diner earlier that day.

And as you tucked yourself into bed that night, you convinced yourself the only reason who were momentarily intrigued by the man's interest was flattery. You were simply flattered someone looked at you in that way. It's been a long time since anybody had, and it just made you feel good.

Yep, that's all it was.

When Joel sat down at the counter the next day and was greeted by Betty instead of you, he was surprised to find he was disappointed. He had just met you, he knew nothing about you, he barely even spoke to you. Why should he care if you were waiting on him today or not?

"She ain't here," Betty said when she caught Joel glancing around the dining room. He tried not to look deflated.

"Who?"

Betty laughed heartily at that and had to pause to catch her breath so she wouldn't spill his coffee.

"Listen, Joel," she said, setting the coffee pot down and leaning on the counter. "Remember what I said yesterday? 'Bout how I always know what's best?"

"Yeah," he said slowly, eyeing her up and bracing for what was coming next.

"Well, turns out I might have been wrong. There's a first time for everythin', right?" she said, forcing a laugh that he didn't reciprocate.

"What'dya mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't think she's interested in datin' anyone right now," was all she said, and he felt the disappointment instantly flood his veins. He didn't even realize how much he had been hoping his instinct was wrong, that maybe he misread you, but of course he was right. He was a cop, after all. He was good at reading people, it's what he was trained to do.

"That's it?"

"I don't know, Joel. Maybe she's not into men, I didn't ask any more questions," she said. "Besides, I was thinkin'. Margaret's daughter is back in town. You remember Nikki?"

Joel shrugged and turned back to his coffee. He remembered Nikki. He wasn't interested in Nikki. She was a nice girl, but he didn't feel anything when he looked at her. Not like the way he felt when he looked at you.

"Now I know for a fact that Nikki's had a crush on you since you were in high school. I could talk to Margaret at church this weekend..."

"No thanks," Joel said immediately, then glanced at his watch before standing up and tossing a tip down on the table. "Gotta get back to work, I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

He turned on his heel and left before Betty had a chance to reply.

What a stupid idea. What did he expect would actually happen? That you would fall in love with him after he spoke barely three sentences to you? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Hey, Joel," he heard the owner of the hardware shop call out to him in greeting as he walked by.

"Hey, Lee. How's it goin'?" Joel stopped outside the open door to the shop, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Lee sweep the floor.

"Can't complain. 'Cept, you get any leads on those vandals? Someone's been drawin' obscene things on the street signs over on Willow." Lee lowered his voice and glanced over his shoulder before adding "someone even drew a phallic image on a deer crossin' sign."

Joel had to stifle a chuckle because he knew the old man was completely serious.

"I'm on it, Lee. Promise, I'll get to the bottom of it," he said with a nod.

A clatter deep within the store pulled both of their attention toward the noise.

"You alright back there, miss?" Lee called, peering down the aisle. Joel's breath caught in his throat when he heard your voice.

"Yeah, sorry! Just dropped something," you replied, emerging from the aisle looking a little flustered and holding an array of tools in your hands. You stiffened before you even laid eyes on him, like you could sense him before even seeing he was there. Joel couldn't help but take it a little personally. Why were you so sweet and friendly to Lee and other customers at the diner, but so cold to him?

You glanced his way nervously and he tried to give you a reassuring smile, maybe even a quick hello, but you immediately turned to address Lee, asking him questions on how to fix a kitchen faucet. Joel watched as Lee picked out the right tool for you and explained how to fix it, but it was clear as day you were having a hard time following. Lee must have noticed as well.

"You ever fix anythin' 'round a house, sweetheart?" Lee asked, and a little pink dusted your cheeks, making Joel's heart flutter in his chest.

"Is it that obvious?" you asked him with a sweet smile. Why wouldn't you look at him like that?

Lee laughed good-naturedly before turning to Joel.

"Joel, would you mind helpin' her out? Her place's on the way back to the station."

Your smile fell and you instantly shook your head, eyes widening as you clutched the tool in your hand.

"N-no, that's okay, I can manage," you said, first to Lee, then braved a glance in his direction before dropping your eyes to the floor.

A big part of Joel told himself to just give up, just let you be and ignore whatever it was that made you dislike him so much. But he just couldn't do it.

"Not a problem, it should just take a second," Joel finally said, tilting his head to look at you. "Where d'you live?"

He could tell you were incredibly uncomfortable now, and he wondered if he should stop pushing it. It looked like you could hardly breathe as you stared at the floor and considered your options.

"Just a few blocks that way," you said meekly, pointing north up Main Street. Joel pushed himself off the doorframe and stood aside so you could squeeze through without getting too close to him, and for that you seemed grateful. He nodded to Lee before following you down the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as he tried to think of something to say.

"You likin' it here so far?"

"Uh huh," you replied, your gaze trained straight ahead. The pair of you walked in an awkward silence for another minute before he tried again.

"You got a place right on Main?"

"Above the pizza parlor," you said, and before he could follow up with another question, you suddenly stopped walking. He turned around when he realized and gave you a confused look.

"I really appreciate the offer, but I think I can figure out the sink for myself," you told him, forcing yourself to look into his eyes this time when you spoke.

"It's no trouble. It's what we all do 'round here, we help each other out," he replied. You fidgeted with the strap of your purse and averted your gaze. He waited for you to weigh your options, not wanting to pressure you but also not ready to give up, either. Finally, you spoke.

"You said it'll be quick?"

He grinned and nodded.

"Less than ten minutes."

You sighed and forced yourself to continue walking.

"Okay, if you're sure you don't mind..."

"I'm sure."

You walked in silence the rest of the way to your apartment. Joel seemed nice enough, and you could probably even get over the fact he was a cop, but you just couldn't get past the fucking cologne. It permeated every molecule of air whenever he was near, and you couldn't stop the horrible memories that came flooding back. You knew you would end up regretting allowing him into your apartment because you would end up spending the rest of the day trying to rid your little sanctuary of that scent. But you were weak. You never were very good at saying no. And this time was no exception.

You unlocked the front door and Joel held it open while you led him up the creaky stairs, then unlocked the second door at the top that led directly into your small apartment. He closed the door behind him and glanced around, taking in your space for the first time.

"Cozy," he finally said, and you let out a soft chuckle.

"You could say that," you replied. The room wasn't very big, but he noticed the moment you both entered, you put as much space between the two of you as you could. Your eyes were flicking around the room anxiously, your back against the only window and your fingers clutching the tool to your chest, toying with it nervously. He took a couple steps towards you and your fidgeting stopped. You dragged your gaze up to his as he studied your curious behavior. If it wasn't obvious before, it was crystal clear now: he made you incredibly uncomfortable.

Rather than make things worse, he stopped halfway across the room and just held out his hand. You stared at it, unmoving and barely breathing before he cleared his throat.

"Wrench?"

"Oh," you said softly, letting out a shaky breath before taking a step forward and handing him the tool you had just bought. He took it and gave you one more look before turning back towards the small kitchen. He shrugged off his blazer and draped it over the back of a chair, and your throat went dry when you clocked the gun on his waist.

You watched him warily as he flicked on the overhead light and fiddled with the lever of the sink before opening the cabinets underneath and peering inside at the plumbing. You hardly moved a muscle as you watched him. You wished you could light the scented candle on your table to help minimize the cologne, but you were too nervous he would find that suggestive. The silence became deafening as he worked, and you felt compelled to say something.

"Can I get you some water?"

He stopped what he was doing and gave you a small smirk.

"As long as it ain't from the tap," he said, tilting his head towards the faucet he currently had taken apart. You smiled and walked quickly over to the fridge, pulling out two bottles of water. He noticed your fingers shaking slightly when you handed him the water, and he frowned.

"You alright?"

"Me?" you squeaked, as if there were anyone else in the room he could be addressing. He nodded slowly and unscrewed the cap, still staring at you.

"I'm fine," you assured him, but still took a few paces back to stand next to your window again. Far away from him. He looked you up and down as he took a sip of his water before setting the bottle down on the counter.

"I can tell you got some issue with me," he began, and you stilled, watching him carefully from across the room, clutching the water bottle tightly against your chest. You shook your head quickly, but he held out a hand to stop you.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable at the diner," he said.

"W-what do you mean?" you stammered.

"Betty," he added, raising his eyebrows. "She's got a tendency to stick her nose where it don't belong, and I know she said somethin' to you 'bout me. I just wanted to apologize if that put you in tough spot."

"Oh, that's alright," you told him, quickly waving him off. He chewed the corner of his mouth as he studied your surprisingly relaxed response. So Betty's prying wasn't the problem.

"You gotta give me somethin' here," he said after a moment, and you dropped your gaze to your feet. "What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything," you said softly, your eyes still pinned to the floor.

"Then why can't you stand lookin' at me for more than five seconds?" he asked, desperate now to know the answer.

"Does it matter?" you whispered.

"I wish it didn't," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. You finally looked up at him now, taking in his hurt expression, and you felt your resolve crumbling. What happened to you wasn't this man's fault.

"What does that mean?" you asked him, and it was his turn to look away.

"Nothin'," he finally mumbled, his heart slamming against his chest.

"It's your cologne," you blurted out, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He wasn't expecting that.

"My... cologne?"

"It's nothing personal, I'm just sensitive to smells." He knew you were lying. Your entire apartment smelled like garlic and marinara sauce from the pizza place downstairs. But he decided not to push it.

"My daughter - Sarah - she got it for me for Father's Day. Truth be told, I don't like it much, either," he told you, and much to his relief, he saw the corners of your mouth tug into a small smile.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly. He just shrugged and turned back to the sink.

"Nothin' for you to be sorry 'bout. Thought I offended you or somethin', is all," he told you as he worked on putting the faucet back together.

You took a few tentative steps closer to peer over his shoulder.

"Can you show me what you did to fix it?" you asked. He straightened up to look at you and twirled the wrench in his hand, deciding to be bold.

"If I do that, then I won't have an excuse to come see you when it breaks again."

You bit your lip to hide your smile as your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He grinned and turned back to the sink. Maybe he still had a chance. He was nearly finished, but he showed mercy on you and explained what he did, anyway.

Once he was done, you walked him down to the first floor, thanking him profusely along the way.

"Don't mention it," he said, shoving his arms through his blazer as he walked, but turned back before you closed the door.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you gazed up at him. Now that you were back outside and the scent wasn't so strong, you allowed yourself to acknowledge that Joel was a good looking man. A really good looking man. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you cursed Patrick for ruining so many things for you, but you were afraid the worst thing he might have actually ruined for you was Joel.

You slowly nodded, then he grinned and tilted his head to the side.

"You have yourself a good rest of the day, sweetheart."

You felt yourself blush at the term of endearment, but luckily he had already turned away.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @merz-8 @sarap-77

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hometoursandotherstuff · 10 months ago

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This is one of my favorite homes. I posted it before and apparently, it has never sold. They have been listing it, removing it b/c it didn't sell, changing the price, relisting and removing, since 2020. It's a 1905 Spanish Eclectic, which is very unusual, and it's in Kansas City, Missouri. 3bds, 3ba, $500K. Check out this unique & funky time capsule.

We begin in the spacious living room. The walls are probably in need of at least some color, but that's a lot of wallpaper to remove.

Check out the tile on the fireplace and the mirror art above.

Moving to the dining room, the wood kind of looks like craftsman style and there's a low window seat.

The kitchen is completely frozen in time.

There's even a pantry.

The great thing is that there's a door to the pantry in the main floor primary bedroom- so convenient for a late night snack.

And, at the foot of the stairs is a sink.

On the 2nd fl. is a very large bedroom with double doors to the sun room.

The sun room is gigantic. This home has such big rooms.

This would be the smallest bedroom.

At some point, within the last 50yrs, this bath was redone.

This room I cannot explain. It's on the main floor, off the living room, and it's sort of a foyer that has spiral stairs that go down to the basement. It was also made to look like the bridge of a ship. It's so cool and needs to be decorated as such.

The basement is definitely the star of the show. There's a vast rec room with wainscoting and a fireplace. The colorful tile is original. Note the small tile of a champagne glass.

Check out the bar. There's a vintage fan mounted to the ceiling and a brass foot rest. Oh, and 2 little music notes in the floor.

There's a billiard room. I wonder if the pool table conveys, b/c it perfectly matches the style of the house.

This is a home for entertaining. The laundry room has cabinetry for lots of storage. It's big enough for a second kitchen.

In this area is the half bath and stairs to the back yard.

But, this is the coolest room of all. It's a freshly painted indoor pool and look at the original vintage filter.

Look at this thing- there's only one way in and out. It's basically a basement you could fill with water. It has windows and they've delineated approximately how high the water should go, although it looks too high. There're also 2 rather dim looking lights above. This is so bizarre.

And, this is the dressing room and former shower for the pool.

There's a big driveway and garages for 3 cars.

Nice size yard and patio.

What are those stains on the roof? The lot is .28 acre.

#unusual homes #unique homes #time capsules #houses #house tours #home tour

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 30 days ago

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Chapter 3 - I Ran (So Far Away)

[can also be read on AO3]

Summary: After the foot chase in Algeria, Rory tracks down Botha to the Ivory Coast where more secrets are revealed and trouble begins

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, drinking

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC - 3rd person POV (Rory Sinclair)

Word count: 3.6K

A/N: the further continuation of Rory's story, this follows and expands upon the COD: MW2 reboot canon. Told from Rory's POV

October 29 2022 9:10 - Abidjan, Republic of Côte d'Ivoire

“So, just how many cyclists have you been clipped by these last two weeks?”

Hidden in the seclusion of the safehouse, Rory paced a line over the rattan mat by her bed, a smirk slowly curling her lips as she slid the body of her handgun apart, eyeing down the bullet chamber, checking for debris as she prepped her weapons.

“Hardee-fuckin’-harr-harr.” Price’s hoarse voice rasped through her room from her mobile on the bed, the muffled tone of the speakerphone only adding to the burr of it. The grumble under his breath unable to escape her keen senses. “You’re just full of witty retorts today, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Two black duffels sat unzipped on the bed, piles of neatly folded clothes removed from them. An old wire fan oscillated back and forth on a table in the corner, barely able to shift the thick, stagnant air, the humidity weighing down with the cling of a damp blanket. The mosquito netting on the window sat unnaturally still, held taut by the heat, unable to flutter even as the ceiling fan fought to circulate, the mechanisms keeping it spinning left to whirr and whine with each cut of the blades.

“Can’t be helped, really. It's just one of my many charms – but you know that already.”

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, “Thought this was supposed to be an update, not you trying out for a bloody stand-up career.”

“A girl has to find her fun somewhere, love.” Her smile faded as she slid the pieces of her gun back into place, each realigning part clicking together. “Or perhaps I’m just trying to soften the blow…” Pausing, she chewed on her lip, dipping the tip of her tongue against the stinging split skin below. “Things didn’t exactly go as planned with Botha. He had a tail—”

“Who?”

There was the ‘need me to kill ‘em for ya?’ tone of Price’s that she was all too familiar with. He could be neck deep in his own issues and still that protective part of him, the irritable mother hen, would come to the forefront needing to keep his chicks in a row. The shepherding dog boofing out his low, gruff bark at the lamb that decided to wander astray.

“Russians. Told Botha to stay put. Of course, he ignored that and ran. Managed to track him down to the Ivory Coast.”

“You are bloody joking, yeah?”

“Wish I was.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaked with every little movement of the springs. She exhaled heavily, blowing the loose curtain of bangs that swept over her brow up and away from her forehead, steadily growing tacky with sweat. “Luckily, I’ve got Nik with me to handle the logistics issue. You needn’t worry about it, my darling, just a small bump in the road.” She slid the clip of ammo back into the pistol. “You wouldn't keep sending me off on missions on my own if you didn't think I could handle it.”

“I know you can handle it. But those bumps are why I sent Nik in with you this time. I trust a bastard like Botha ‘bout as far as I can fuckin’ throw ‘im. He’s more trouble than he’s bloody worth, Chimera contact or not.”

She hummed, “Normally I’d be in full agreement. However, the intel he does have – as slim as he’s making it appear to be – is rather interesting, especially with how things shaped up in Al Mazrah.”

“Meanin’?”

“He knew about the shipping container. Tells me he didn’t know what was inside, but I suspect that’s only because he doesn’t have the immunity yet.”

“Bollocks,” he growled, “Startin’ to feel more and more like we were the last to bloody hear about it.”

“Perhaps.” She tipped her head to the side, slipping her pistol into her waistband, tugging at her tee shirt to hide the lines of the weapon hidden underneath. “Either way, we’ll get this sorted. We always do. Besides, from what I hear you’ve already gotten a fairly good lead on things. Kate said the interrogation went well. Narcos, eh?” The muggy heat was becoming unbearable in the closet of a bedroom she had found herself cloistered away in. Padding over to the fan, pressing a hand to the wall, she hunched over it and hoped for an iota of a cool breeze. To no avail, however, as even the walls were moist, the plaster near dripping with the humectation that left everything coated in a clammy slick.

“Narcos and bloody terrorists workin’ together. The lowest of the low stirrin’ up shit to hit the fan.”

“Birds of a feather,” Rory muttered, rolling her eyes and wiping her hand across her brow. “Can’t say I’m entirely surprised. Only a matter of time, really. War on Terror, War on Drugs– they’ve a common enemy.”

A low affirmative grunt rumbled in response. “Just don’t let this thing with Botha drag out too long. Get him under protection, do it fast, and head out. Got more important things to worry about and I can put you to better use than babysitting a wanker like him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tha’s my good girl.”

Collecting the mobile from her bed, she took it off speaker and brought it to her ear, lazing in front of the fan as much as she could. “And maybe don’t send me away to an entirely different continent while you just so happen to be in a city with a legal redlight district next time, eh?”

“Oi, cheeky li’l thing. This is work,‘s not like that.”

“I suppose that’s true. Can’t blame me for being just a little jealous though, can you?” Her hand brushed through the underside of her bob, fluffing up the hair despite the wet heat of her sweat that coated the tresses. “Perhaps someone with the subtlety of Simon should step into these sorts of situations instead,” she said, smirking at her own smartass statement.

“Had quite enough of your sass, my girl. Don’t make me have to give you a stern talking to—”

Giggling, she tipped her head to hold her mobile to her shoulder as she lifted the front of her shirt and let the fan blow at the skin underneath. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise. Let you know if anything else goes sideways, shall I?”

“Good. Keep in contact.”

“Will do,” she murmured, “Be safe, love.”

In the doorway, Nikolai lifted his knuckles to the wood of the frame, giving it a sharp knock. “Made contact. He's got a burner now that he knows he's being followed.”

“Bloody fool shouldn't have run in the first place,” Rory replied, returning to her phone call. “Best be off, give you a ring later.” And with that she ended her call, readjusting herself to stalk down her newest prey, brushing out the lines in her clothing that gave away her predator status. “Right, no better time than the present.”

Rory leaned back in the passenger seat, elbow resting in the open window of the jeep’s door, the breeze blowing through her hair and rushing past her ears as Nikolai drove. The streets of Abidjan were lined on either side with small cars. Scooters and cyclists zipped past them while buses slowed their journey along with the pedestrians that flowed out onto the roadway. The skyline was broken by worn down apartment and office buildings. Awnings and umbrellas covered the sidewalk in shade, as acacias shivered amongst the urban sprawl.

She was no stranger to the nations that had been sucked into the blackhole that was colonialism and imperialism. The countries of the Southern Hemisphere were often left to their own devices, used for their natural resources, and their problems otherwise ignored. War, famine, disease. And she was a part of the problem all the same. Wore a tac vest with the patch of the Union Jack on it, well aware that Queen and country had a lot to answer for. The empire on which the sun never set had more than benefitted from keeping those in its dominion under its heel. Reminding herself of that fact certainly helped keep her grounded, kept her eyes open to the bad, the downright corrupt, and the dirty rotten things that governments kept hidden for the “sake of its people”.

“Tell me again, just how did you get caught up with a man like Botha, Nik?”

He glanced over at her, a slight smirk curling at the corner. The hint of a grin that said a mountain’s worth more than words. “Sure you really want the answer to that? Some things are better left secret, no?”

Over the course of her years with Price and as a special forces operative, Rory had learned that it was sometimes better to keep the nose clean, to not go digging where allies were concerned. Secrets, the truth behind them, were a powerful thing. To make an alliance fruitful, not looking the gift horse in the mouth was often the best course of action, but only with those who had already proved their salt. And Nik was certainly one of those rare few.

“Suppose that's fair considering you don't go digging around in my dirty laundry, eh? Lord knows all the nasty little tidbits you could drudge up. Got Price and I by the short and curlies, don’t you?”

“Captain probably wouldn't like me sniffing around your ‘knickers’ anyhow,” he said with a low chuckle.

Rory groaned at the vulgarity of the joke. “Tosser.” Snickering, she pulled out her cigarette case, slipping two between her lips and lighting them both, she passed one to the Russian at her side, offering him a hit of their shared addiction.

“Spasebo.” Taking a drag of the cigarette, he blew the smoke out the open window, letting the grey puff burst out towards the overcast sky. “He acts as the pipeline between the Middle East and Africa. Has for years. If you want something done discreet, Botha will do it.”

“Discreet? That is not the word I would have chosen to describe him.”

“He knows how to make an impression.” Nikolai sat behind the wheel stiffly, his stocky build looking cramped as he shrugged his shoulders a little. “Grows on you.”

“A bit like black mold then, eh?” Puffing on her cigarette, she watched the people around her going about their lives. Meanwhile, there was another world around them that worked in conjunction yet separate. One where spies and soldiers, criminals and terrorists all ran amuck amongst each other and got the innocent caught in the crossfire. She wouldn’t say heroes and villains, that was a childish way of viewing all the shades of grey that their world was doused in, everyone was the enemy of someone else, each one of them lifted up on a pedestal by their prospective country as if the things they had done were worthy of praise. Could one debate that some were better than others, better intentions? Possibly. But that wasn’t her place, not anymore. Not with the things she had done.

“And so I assume Botha’s done some discreet work for you in the past then?”

“Freedom fighters don’t get an entire arsenal behind them. I trust him enough. If he has a reason to run, we should listen.”

The Jeep pulled up outside a hole in the wall bar attached to a small strip of business with a worn down convenience store attached. It was quiet, a near empty parking lot. All was clear, but Rory still had the warning alarms dinging in her head. A vast career spanning a decade and a half had more than honed her to be wary of certain situations. She scanned the exterior, checking for anything out of the ordinary, yet nothing seemed to stand out other than the fact that it was too calm, like the eye of a storm. The electric spark of static in the atmosphere made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up despite being slick with sweat. Glancing over at Nik, their eyes met, and they both had a look that said they were waiting for something to pop off.

“Go on. I’ll be on lookout.” He slipped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, maintaining the relaxed disposition while giving her a small grin. “And getaway driver.”

“Thanks, Nik.”

She climbed out of the vehicle and made her way across the parking lot, hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans, trying to appear nonchalant, and not like she was on high alert. Having a tail meant that a person was on someone’s watchlist, keeping an eye on every little movement. That was a dangerous place to be, like being trapped under the scope of a sniper and never knowing when the shot will come.

The door to the bar creaked open, daylight cutting through the cloudy haze of cigarette smoke that was held captive within the cramped container, curling and twisting in the air like mist on a November morning. God, she could only wish. Nodding at the bartender as she passed, he barely lifted his head from his spread out newspaper on the counter to look up at her – clearly it wasn’t a place that saw a lot of business. Must have been a cover. The one lone patron sat at a table in the dark corner, his shoulders hunched. The cocky way he had about him having since been diluted now that he was a man on the run.

“Bit early for a drink, don’t you think?” Rory purred.

Her boots thumped over the old bar floor, the tiles chipped and cracking, as she moved towards the table Botha sat at while drinking a lager beer. Looking up at her, dark circles marred his under eyes, his clothes more rumpled than before, appearing exhausted and less than enthused to see her. The music was a tinny blare from the old speaker system hung on the walls, loose wires twisted and curled along the wood panelling, poorly blended in with strings of fairy lights and all held in place with thumbtacks of assorted colours. The advertisements playing over the radio were several decibels louder than the actual music itself, likely a helpful distraction from whatever self-pitying thoughts were circulating in Botha’s head.

She slid into the seat across from him and he raised a hand, signalling to the barkeep for another drink. “I’m not in the mood, thanks.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” he snarled.

She scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest, looking over her shoulder as another glass of golden lager was brought over and slid in front of the South African. “You ran. Told you not to.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one with Russians following you about.”

“He says to the soldier who’s been dealing with them for the last five years,” she said flippantly, lifting her brow and rolling her eyes.

Lifting the glass to his mouth, he gulped back the rest of his drink, the foam clinging to the facial hair around his lips. Wiping his hand down his mouth, he pushed the empty glass aside before grabbing the full one, drowning himself in beer. “This isn’t the bullshit army roleplay you’re used to, where it’s a bunch of fat assholes posturing and dealing in backroom handshakes. These are the fringe fucks who believe they have a just cause. The scary pieces of shit who don’t make deals, the type that don’t sign peace treaties.”

Shifting in her seat, her brows knit together and she leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “So then who’s after you? Who are we really supposed to be protecting you from?”

Botha tapped his knuckles on the table, his glass hitting the coaster with a heavy thud. “Where’s Nik?”

“Outside, he’s keeping an eye on things,” she said, tipping her head towards the door. “In case someone decides to do a runner again.”

His dark eyes flickered to the door and then shifted back to focus on her, the woman he was meant to put his trust in, rely upon to keep him breathing. “Russian PMC.”

“Who?” She murmured, leaning in closer.

The light from the sconce that hung above their heads cut dark shadows across her features, the smoky bar a haze of humidity that made the air thick, clouded like the drink in Botha’s glass, the condensation dripping down it the same way sweat rolled down the curve of her spine.

“Konni. Heard of ‘em?”

She froze, jaw clenching tightly, her gaze suddenly focused on the wood grain of the table they sat at. Of course she’d heard of them, Price and Soap were directly responsible for getting Konni’s commander imprisoned in a gulag after a mission in Verdansk.

“In passing.”

“Well, I’m guessing by the way your jaw just clicked you know all too well.”

With a heaved sigh and a thick swallow, she uttered a word that made her teeth grit and a sneer curl her lip. “Ultranationalists.”

The former commander of Konni – one Vladimir Makarov – was a member of Barkov’s forces, the force that had invaded Urzikstan and committed atrocities against its citizenry, including the use of chemical weapons. Terrorists in their own right. At least when it came to AQ she could understand why they came into being, founded in justified anger. Barkov and his legions, on the other hand, simply believed it was their right, protecting “Mother Russia” from external, and unseen, threats.

He nodded and took another gulp of his drink, rubbing the backside of his hand across his nose. “Ones who got their hands on ballistic missiles and handed them off to the first madman they could.”

“Fuck,” she muttered quietly, hardly more than a whisper. Her fingers raked through her hair, scrubbing at her scalp to ease the tension headache she could feel building.

“I don’t know how they got their hands on them in the first place, but if you’ve got the likes of Konni and AQ shaking hands with each other…”

She stabbed her tongue into her cheek, connecting dots in her head. “Then we’re looking at a lot of casualties.”

“I’m looking at a loss of customers,” he grumbled, staring into the contents of his glass.

Her thoughtful gaze snapped towards him with a glare. “Beg your fucking pardon? Customers,” she snapped.

“Yeah… I’m not out here playing hero army men like you are. I got dragged into this shit against my fokken will.”

“How did they find out that you had something to leak?” Her glare didn’t lessen, keeping him prisoner under the deadlock stare of her hazel eyes.

Botha shifted in his seat, scratching the underside of his beard before stretching his arms out across the wood of the table. “Zayani came to me first to make a deal, to get him into the United States. Needed to move some heavy cargo along with him. Told him that I couldn’t, it’s not something I do.” He sneered and ran his hand through his hair, pushing back the loose waves that had fallen forward. “He went to Valeria instead.”

“Valeria? Who or what is that?”

“She’s trouble, like you. Mexican cartel. Las Almas.”

Rory sighed heavily and closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “No one would suspect a terrorist sneaking past the border from Mexico.”

“Hassan’s on some bloody crusade against America because of what happened with Ghorbrani – crazy fucker took the general’s death very personally.”

“What about AQ?” she asked, rubbing her hand down her face, mopping away the glisten of sweat that had coated her skin in a thin layer. “Why are they helping him if he’s working with Russian ultranationalists? Seems a bit counterproductive.”

“He feeds them weapons. Makes the same sort of speeches the Wolf and the Butcher did. Stirs them up like an angry hornet’s nest and lets them take care of the dirty work. They’ll die for him.”

“All so Iran can plead innocent. Christ almighty.” Her hands dug through the underside of her tresses once more, tugging at the strands. “Right, fine.” She retrieved her mobile from her pocket. “You stay put. I need to make a call.” Stepping away from the table, Rory moved to the short hall that led to the washrooms, scanning through her contacts to find Laswell’s number. This was becoming a bigger problem than what had originally been expected. Another mission filled with conspiratorial parties and shady dealings. It never ended.

The feeling that all was not right still needled at her as she waited for Laswell to pick up. The call failing to be answered before the crash of glass metres away drew Rory’s attention.

The spotlight of day blasted into the bar room, the smoke billowing out into the world, finally released like the genie from a bottle. Gunshots filled the air from a firefight going on outside, drowning out the sound of the music playing and causing the barman to finally react quicker than a snail’s pace by ducking under the counter.

Running, she slid across the floor over to the table where Botha hid below, rattled. “Stay down,” she hissed, noticing the body that lay unmoving on the floor surrounded by the shattered remains of the window he must have crashed through. “You’ll be safe as houses.” The door to the bar burst open once more and Nik came crashing in, his knuckles already bloody and carrying a weapon he certainly didn’t have before. “We’ve got trouble, Sinclair,” he said, tone still seemingly unperturbed.

“I can see that, yes.”

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod nikolai #john price #captain price #oc: rory sinclair #oc: niel botha #skelly writes #fic: shadow dance #chapter 3

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raisindave · 4 months ago

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[Chapter 64] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

With a heavy heart and a shotgun blast of apprehension, you swallowed all pride and pushed through the glass doors. Meeting new people is always the worst.

"Hello?" you pressed your lips into a tight line, awkwardly calling into the empty restaurant.

Even when you crane your neck to sweep any corners where your 'new best friends' might be hiding, these exalted experts aren't anywhere to be seen. You took extra care to make your boots echo on polished wood floors, hopefully alerting someone to your presence, but long shadows from drawn curtains cast every corner in hostile darkness. It quickened your heart rate, making you almost frantic to find your peers; otherwise, you'd have to sheepishly report to Price that you'd lost them. A fate worse than death. Only when you came around to the other end of a chic, modern bar did you find another human. Faces you'd seen on Laswell's tablet manifested in the flesh, though not nearly as prim and put-together.

You winged at the clamorous cracking of the glass, but her heavy gaze didn't waver. The Korvettenkapitän's dark formal jacket lay neatly strewn over the back of one of the cloth chairs, where she stood folding muscular arms over her chest. A finely ironed button-up with a tight collar made Laswell's similar clothing style look so much more approachable. Professor Kraus was within arms reach, slumped into a matching chair, nearly strangled by a chunky sweater of beige cable-knit wool. She stood tall and stern, commanding respect with her posture, whereas he seemed entirely aloof to your entrance, more concerned with sipping at another cup of coffee he'd kept as a backup.

"Nice to meet you both," you sighed deeply, breathing away bubbling tension.

This dining space would be so romantic and intimate if it were under the intended circumstances. Low cylindrical crystal chandeliers glitter even when they're illuminated by a stark floodlight, the apparent source of those long shadows. The shimmering crystals create the most stunning effect on the ceiling, almost like a water's surface sparking life into lofty ceilings of dark panels. Tabletops that aren't repurposed to function as makeshift workspaces are adorned with pristine white tablecloths that flow over the edges of the tables, with sultry, slender candlesticks and withered bouquets. Your 'new best friends' have established themselves next to an elegant bar of black wood and smooth steel, making use of the nearby kitchen's stark lighting.

"Commander Karim told me about you," the polished Korvettenkapitän spoke, scuffing polished shoes as she approached. "She and I used to work together. She spoke highly of you, said you were one of the best she's ever seen." She glowered down her strong cheekbones at you skeptically.

Commander Karim? Who the hell is Commander Karim?

Your mind spun as KKpt's words rattled in your mind, failing to stick their landing. So many faces had come and gone in the past few months; it's a wonder you can remember your own name if only it weren't shouted at you every other day. Precious seconds used wracking your mind are ticking down, and the Korvettenkapitän's social timer is quickly slipping.

Who is that… who- oh! Commander Karim! Farah Karim! Oh, she's talking about Farah, and she left a good word about me too. I only worked with her for a few days, so I must've left a deceptively good first impression. Damn. I owe her a drink.

"Farah was a treat to work with," you smile after a rigid pause.

"Yes…" KKpt spoke cautiously, you turned to see that she was visibly unsettled by your usage of Farah's first name. "She called you 'Cricket.'"

"Ah," you chuckle weakly, "a nickname I've picked up. You can call me Lu-."

"Why 'Cricket?'" Professor Kraus cut you off, finally lifting his head to speak with piqued curiosity.

"Are you a fan of the sport?" the Korvettenkapitän circled around you pensively, folding her hands behind her back as she stalked.

Words failed you for a moment. Why are you called cricket? When Soap's logic finally did click into place, it struck you as something you shouldn't explain in conjunction with a first introduction. Being pinned as a shit-talker isn't conducive to a reliable and hard-working teammate. It would be easy to lie; you could easily make something up like 'I'm a really good jumper' or 'I have a brother named Grasshopper,' but lying to allies you'd just met just doesn't feel right. There's nothing to fear from these people. They're peers. The professor, this Korvettenkapitän, just more faces you'll forget in a few weeks. But this time, you won't be the meeger and soft-spoken specialist they expect to meet. You've earned your merit. And you won't roll over and show your underbelly at the first sign of intimidation.

"It's a nickname I got from chirping at my superiors," a wicked smile lit up your face, rolling back your shoulders. "And I pissed them off enough for them to grace me with a callsign."

"Yet you've managed to keep your employment in the military with such a lack of respect?" Korvettenkapitän Wolf lashed.

"I got promoted from Corporal to Sergeant a few months ago," you shrug, meeting KKpt's intense eyes with a matching challenge.

Her eyes were dark, scathing. A different kind of dark from Ghost's. His were scathing and spiteful, the eyes of someone who could kill you without a second's remorse. Hers, too, were warning and lethal, but more skeptical than anything. You'd do anything to know what thoughts are rattling around under those tight curls that cling to her scalp like a helmet.

"I like you, Cricket," she said, putting extra emphasis on your callsign. The sudden change from skepticism to camaraderie caught you entirely off guard.

Somehow those words lowered your guard enough to rest your hip on the side of their table, craning to take in their work. A handful of paper-thin laptops dotted the cris-crossing tables, temporary stations for these manic cryptologists to flit between. Cords and crumpled papers served as excellent trip hazards, and a deep coffee stain on one of the stark tablecloths will have to come out of the German military's budget. But you could feel the Korvettenkapitän's eyes on you. She's not done with you, and the anticipation of her next words sat in your conscience, even when you tried to look like you were reading.

"I-I read your file, Sergeant Grant," Professor Kraus spoke shakily, seemingly oblivious that this topic had already been discussed while he studied his papers. "You're a bit of a superstar in the linguistic community lately."

His words made you freeze, turning your absent gaze to meet him.

"What?"

"Your work in Al Mazrah was incredible. I've heard and read your transcriptions with some of my peers. What a bold choice to go into the town in person, and your use of sociolinguistics to infer and problem-solve is remarkable. It takes a lot of nerve to think of something like that, and do it yourself too," a phantom of a smile pulled at her cheeks.

"Oh, that wasn't my idea to go into town. It was actually Farah's… Commander Farah's," you corrected sheepishly.

"You applied all the right methods, and your understanding of regional Arabic syntax is textbook. Beyond textbook, I was really impressed with how you-" the professor's gushing was cut off.

"And your understanding of the message padding in the oral transmissions in Kazakhstan, that was some quick thinkin'," Korvettenkapitän cut in, stepping closer to you.

Kazakhstan? When the hell was I in- oh… Chita, Russia. The first mission they had me on when I met 141. Laswell probably changed the details of my location and mission to protect the security of the task force, especially with something as highly sensitive as stolen nukes. I wonder what they would've thought of the other highly classified missions I've done. What would they think of that hostage recovery on the yacht in Mexico with all the Russian mobsters, posing as a sex worker, or when I was torturing vital info out of that guy in the dam. Maybe it's a blessing that they don't know about those missions.

"I was just following orders," you manifested your most modest grin, feeling like you could shrivel into a ball at the sudden onslaught of affection.

"Now- I wanted to pick your brain, Miss Grant," the professor bumped the table as he clumsily rose from his chair. "How did you get the idea to take one of the family members into the barricade in Verdansk?"

"What approach did you use to understand the sociolinguistics of Ukrainian Pidgin so fluently in ten days?" KKpt approached further, craning to stay in your field of view as she stood above you.

"I'd do anything to see your notes," Kraus nearly lept over her words, keen eyes searching your face for answers.

Ukrainian Pigin? I definitely wasn't fluent in ten days, they pinned me as a 'Yankee' almost immediately. I can still feel the scar tissue from the beating I suffered because of it, too. Laswell must've buttered up my record because it certainly didn't go that smoothly.

"I was doing what any of you would've done under the same pressure," you croaked, the barrage of attention making your visage of confidence crack.

"Very good!" He blurted, tipping his new ceramic mug to you, almost giddy.

There's nothing as foreign as this feeling. It feels like you're hallucinating. You were expecting to be reluctantly recruited as a forced addition due to the SAS' occupation of this existing encampment, yet you're receiving a hero's welcome? This celebrity status you've inadvertently gathered just by doing your job, it's like how the soldiers at all the barracks' look at Ghost and Price… revered. It feels good. It feels wrong. Like they're only praising you because Laswell puffed up some of the details and made you look more impressive than you actually are. These two are staring through you with keen but increasingly puzzled expressions, like they're watching your sense of self unfold before them.

"So what's the sitrep?" You blurted, eager to redirect the conversation in the creeping silence.

"Right," KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed again, smoothing down her dress shirt and returning to the main table. "Our heartbeat detector shows five extra tangos outside of the known 21 hostages. They've been barricaded for 10 days, and they're all heavily armed, including remote detonation explosives stored in caches around the hostages."

"This is a Sig-Int mission, so we're working on the back foot," Kraus looked up past his heavy glasses to speak, haphazardly shifting the topic.

"Sig-Int… so what Signals do we have Intelligence on?"

The Korvettenkapitän slammed a booklet on the table at your hip, a predictable dazzle technique that failed to make you flinch. You're too used to Graves to be spooked by that, but at the same time, something about this woman makes you think she could give him a run for his money. She's got the physical intimidation down with broad shoulders and a tight mouth, but you'd never see Graves admit admiration for someone below him.

"We had a breakthrough two days ago, it's been the bane of my existence," the professor started, tugging at the high collar of his sweater. "A hostage held up one of the terrorist's internal messages to the window, and we got a glimpse at the code they're using."

KKpt Wolf placed down a still image taken through a sniper's scope of pale fingers pressing a crumpled note to one of the windows at the theatre. You slipped the shiny paper into your palm, examining the photo. Through a rain-spattered window, the hostage offered the linguistics team a Hail Mary: a string of strategically and clearly laid out letters and numbers in a grid along pale paper. A maroon emblem in the bottom right almost looked like a wax seal, though it was too obscured by the window pane to know for sure. They were begging the linguistics team to make sense of the nonsensical characters, but you're all just as confused as them.

"It's a one-time pad," you spoke, studying the text block with a crinkled face.

"You are quick," the Korvettenkapitän's confident tone resumed.

"We haven't been able to crack it," Professor Kraus said, tossing his wiry glasses onto the desk and reclining in his chair again, defeated.

One-time pads have been around since the 1800s, and they've been used in warfare and espionage ever since. Only usable for one message, and is useless immediately after, hence 'one-time.' Secure, virtually unbreakable, and as Professor Kraus put it, the bane of a linguist's existence. Scrambled letters and numbers make a chart-like structure on the page, a perfect block of text only discernible by the keyholder. They're annoying as hell.

Kraus has been running a frequency analysis of the text, his swirling, elegant handwriting noting any repeating characters that might fit the vowel structure of any known language. Time and time again, slashes and dashes eliminate attempts at cracking the cipher, each new piece of dogeared loose-leaf signifying another failure. KKpt Wolf had a much more barbaric approach; a brute force assault on the letters, one by one, going through each potential possibility in an attempt to bend the cipher to her will. Her handwriting is stiff and rigid, with angular letters in all capitals, each failed jab at the code is slashed with a red pen. They both know what they're doing, unquestionably experts in their field. But they each represent polar ends of a linguistic cryptologist's approach.

Piles of papers splayed on repurposed dinner tables proved they've been at this for a while. Borderline insanity bleeds into their word, sprawling dashes along one particular piece swipes over white tablecloths, indistinguishable from white paper for the exhausted linguists. You slid off the side of the table, standing on your feet again and pacing passively to pacify tense muscles.

"These terrorist zealots won't do anything without the word from their 'god,' this 'oracle' figure they keep mentioning," Kraus grumbled after a raspy cough. "They won't operate without 'his' word."

"Fucking fanatics," KKpt cursed under her breath, resuming her lurking and muttering, moving in an opposite momentum to your pacing.

"We suspect this is a seal from the oracle, proof that his coded orders are official," he added, tapping a thick finger on the maroon blotch at the corner of the photographed note.

"It works in our favour, though," KKpt said in a brittle voice. "It means we won't have to worry about copycats. The media's having a goddamned field day." She pressed her clenched fist on the table beside you, and the professor sighed.

"They've been receiving orders from this 'oracle' since they've been held up... Somehow," he clicked and un-clicked a pen, seemingly bored by the conversation as his eyes wandered to the rafters.

"Somehow? That doesn't make any sense, isn't there a blockade?" You pressed, turning on your heels hotly.

"There is a blockade." She spat with that familiar coldness.

"Could they be receiving the transmissions digitally?"

"We've asked the area's satellite and landline providers. No transmissions are coming from inside the building. No cellular, nothing," she chided, refolding her arms over her chest again.

"If they aren't receiving it digitally and they aren't sneaking notes through the back door, how are they communicating?" you continued. "I-is there a signal flare communicating in binary we're missing or-"

"We have eyes on every window from here to the fucking Rhine River," she commanded, halting her stalking eerily.

"The Cuckoo Clock is ticking," Kraus said, oddly aloof. "Supplies are bone dry inside the theatre, and the hostages can't survive on vending machine food for much longer."

"The General says we have three days to figure it out," Korvettenkapitän Wolf barked, running a chill through your body. "Or all our necks are on the chopping block."

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deepergrooves · 1 month ago

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André 3000's 'New Blue Sun' Vancouver Review

Highly anticipated ambient jazz show marks a new dawn but leaves fans ATLienated

Birdsong, crickets and rich ambient soundscapes echoed through the deep purples, rosy reds and starlit ceiling of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver on Friday October 11. The scene was perfectly set for a first glimpse at André 3000's highly anticipated 'New Blue Sun Live' Concert series, an unexpected leftfield step into instrumental ambient jazz from the seven-time grammy winning hip hop icon.

Warm up act serpentwithfeet created a suitably gentle atmosphere with kind-hearted crowd participation numbers and feel good R&B. Despite a few empty seats in the pit, likely a result of the high ticket pricing, the room was poised and curious to see how this drastic stylist shift would translate to the stage.

Origins, synergy and mystical synchronicity

The cosmic butterfly effect that led to the creation of André 3000's 'New Blue Sun' album has already become a tale of folklore. There have been countless stories of André, seemingly never to be found without some kind of wind instrument in hand, serenading unsuspecting Uber drivers and wandering the strip of his new home of Venice Beach like a nomadic jazz monk. It was one such encounter with legendary Californian music arranger and percussionist Carlos Niño in a Venice Beach grocery store that apparently sparked a creative partnership between the two that birthed the 'New Blue Sun's album project. Niño does admit that he had been keeping an eye out for André when he heard he'd moved to town but don't let the truth get in the way of a good story!

Before this reawakening, again mythically attributed to a Hawaiian ayahuasca trip (referenced in the album track 'That Night In Hawaii When I Turned Into A Panther And Started Making These Low Register Purring Tones That I Couldn't Control...Shit Was Weird'), André admitted that he had been suffering with creative block, social anxiety and a mounting sense of pressure to deliver something great in this next phase of his life. In a candid interview with hip hop mogul Rick Rubin on the 'Broken Record' podcast he sounded lost and fearful of his legacy. There was however a flicker of light in André's voice when he began speaking about his new meditative morning breathing routine, involving experimentation with an eclectic set of wind instruments.

Building anticipation - A deep, earthy and aesthetically engaging opening

The show began with a striking visual of a single white beam of light entering a prism just above what looked like a traffic cone before splitting into reds and greens in front of André, backed by his supporting musicians and six lights in a half-crest formation behind the stage. The lighting overall was dark and moody with André just about visible with his red jazz-elder beanie and glasses.

He was stood before a blanket that housed numerous flutes, whistles and other tools. To his right was keyboardist, and Alice Coltrane disciple, Surya Botofasina. At the back was the aforementioned Carlos Niño who seemed to set the tone with various percussion instruments, gongs, shakers and even plants which were a big source of inspiration for the album. To his left, composer and percussionist Deantoni Parks, responsible for the pulsing beat that surfaced through the evening.

The opening song built slowly with Carlos Niño employing various rattles, bushes and what looked like a slinky being swung above head at various points. André let out a mix of guttural and high pitched yelps and animalistic sounds in what felt like a Sun Ra-esque free jazz introduction. Some in the audience seemed bemused early on but for the most part the crowd was still on board and excited with yelps of approval in response to André.

After the first song, André reassuringly addressed the crowd with his southern charm and silky charisma. He introduced the band, cracked a few light jokes and explained the approach to the night - a purely improvised experiment and journey that we would all be embarking on together. It felt courageous and bold, in keeping with the album itself, but what was to follow unfortunately felt for the most part meandering, lacking cohesion and at times difficult to digest.

A brave pursuit but ATLienating for fans

There were some moments where it felt like the embers of an idea were burning but they were never fully formed or realized. A deep, dark primal drum beat from Deantoni Parks ultimately petered out. A lightsaber like hum and arpeggio riff from Surya Botofasina that felt like it could take things in a cosmic, electronic direction (adjacent to album track 'BuyPoloDisorder's Daughter Wears An André 3000 Shirt Embroidered') again pulsated and dropped out before ever taking hold.

Overall, there was a lack of melody, hooks, breaks or structure. There was no pattern, story or resolution to the jam-session musings. There were also no direct songs or distinct elements from the album that could be latched onto. Pure experimentation is a noble pursuit, but for a new group and an artist who is admittedly new to the instruments and finding his feet, it felt like a lot to take on.

At one point André began riffing in what sounded like an imitation of a primal language, which he jokingly admitted he had been making up on the spot. It was a funny moment, but a bit too close to the bone for someone attempting to communicate using instruments he wasn't necessarily fluent in.

It was hard to tell if the accomplished band were limited by André's range or if they were intentionally playing a supporting role but either way they were consigned to little more than background hushes, atmospheric flashes and ponderous patterns.

The final crescendo, albeit very charged, was particularly challenging and had the feel of a free jazz ayahuasca trip being led by an inexperienced astral traveler, with Andre finally slowing things down by breathing rhythmically into the microphone as the lights turned to blue.

New Blue Sun - A New Dawn for André 3000

I still love André 3000 and support this artistic change; the New Blue Sun album is fantastic and deserving of acclaim. This is undoubtedly the start of a process and an experimental phase for a long term project, but the current iteration felt ill equipped for such an ambitious undertaking. Despite the dark mood lighting, the stage left nowhere to hide. In the end, there was a limp standing ovation but no calls for an encore.

This felt like a harsh reset, a journey of purification teetering on the edge of a bad trip, but cleansing for what will hopefully now be futile ground for one of our generations true shining stars. The New Blue Sun is rising, but the cold light of day can be harsh.

#vancouver #music review #hip hop #outkast #andre 3000 #jazz #ambient #vancouver music #music

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beardedmrbean · 10 months ago

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Nato's largest military exercise since the Cold War is starting in Finland this week, reports Ilta-Sanomat.

The exercise, dubbed "Steadfast Defender", is bringing Nato soldiers to Finland. The drill, which includes a total of 90,000 troops from 31 Nato countries, will span this winter and spring and involves thousands of troops moving massive amounts of material through Sweden.

Troops are practicing defending a European Nato ally that has come under attack. Swedish broadcaster SVT has reported that the exercise features a scenario where Russia attacks Finland and Nato invokes Article 5, its collective defence clause.

Nuclear reality

An editorial in Helsingin Sanomat suggests that Finnish leaders have not come to terms with the fact that nuclear weapons are a core part of Nato's deterrence policy. The paper notes that some presidential candidates don't support siting nuclear weapons in Finland. At the same time, Finland is reworking its nuclear safety laws. According to HS, these reforms must not impede Nato's operational activities in a wartime situation in Finland.

The nuclear deterrent is a central component of Nato's security guarantees, under which Finland sought protection by pursuing membership in the alliance. For that reason, Finland must bear its own responsibility in preserving that deterrent, according to the national daily.

"Russia employs exceptionally hostile nuclear rhetoric as a psychological and political tool. Through intimidation, Russia aims to limit western support for Ukraine, and it has succeeded in doing so," HS writes.

A survey last year found that the majority of people in Finland do not support the transport or storage of Nato nuclear weapons in the country.

Regulating electricity

A majority of Finns — 63 percent — want to cap spot electricity prices, according to a poll by Maaseudun Tulevaisuus, which also found that 18 percent of respondents did not favour price limits.

Low-income households most affected by high electricity costs were most likely to support a price cap.

Pekka Salomaa of the energy industry sector trade association Finnish Energy, however, said he was not a fan of price ceilings, citing decreased flexibility.

"It could lead to a situation where there is so little production that buyers wouldn't always get all the electricity they need," he told the agricultural paper, noting that Finland has the second-lowest electricity prices in Europe.

#nunyas news #updates from up north

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lntsufin · 1 year ago

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sffgtrhyjhmnzdt · 6 months ago

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freakingoutthesquares · 2 years ago

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Russell's Japan Tour Diary (Part Two) (Part one is here) Words: Russell Senior, Photographer: Richard Priest Taken from the New Musical Express, 24 February 1996

The tawdry entrance to the eating place is billowing steam into the cold night air. Inside it is about the size of a barn with 12 kitchen/bars each having bar stewards round them where people eat and drink. It's busy and people are milling about in the aisles between the kitchen/bars. It's rough and ready with the prices and names of each kitchen's specialities hanging from the ceiling on coloured strips of cloth and paper.

Unlike everything else in Japan, it's very cheap, it's a cross between Bladerunner, a pirate's den, a bookies and a cockfighting pit. No over-bowing, women are laughing, being brassy and not taking tiny steps. We're the only westerners but we're here with our host who is Japanese and Rover who has tattoos and stuff, so in this wild Eastern bar we kind of fit in.

Rover has fallen in love, he hasn't decided who it's with yet, but is winking and smiling at several contenders just to be on the safe side. A woman in silver hot-pants swaggers over to him, blowing smoke in his face. Strangely, our host has no problem with this at all and now seems to positively want US to talk to women... and it all becomes a bit clearer.

Our guide book says, "The industrious men of 17th-Century Japan liked to relax at the end of the day with hard liquor in the company of actresses and prostitutes". The Japanese guide to English etiquette no doubt says, 'The hard-working musicians of 20th Century England love nothing better at the end of the day than to snort cocaine from the pockmarked thighs of groupies"

Soooo... we weren't being protected from the fans in the bar - they (nice girls from good families) were being protected from the foreign devils. They needn't have bothered, but I'm glad they did because this place is ace. After midnight all the deference and daintiness goes out of the window and the drunken bonhomie so familiar to us arrives on a bullet train. Bang!

People are being chummy with us, offering us saké and amusing themselves at our gaucherie, like we'd laugh at one of them putting brown sauce on their cornflakes. Rover keeps asking for 'Tom Cat soup', which transpires to be tasty things on skewers not unlike our British shish kebabs. A woman comes over and it transpires she's offering to have sex with all of us. We make our excuses and leave, having convinced her that Rover has three penises. We leave him extending the hairy hand of international friendship.

In the morning, Rover appears at breakfast devoid of his black leather, wearing an all-white pyjama suit, his head completely shaven, muttering something about the seventh law of enlightenment. He later claims to have ended up in a bar with a scantily-clad schoolgirl kicking a giraffe.

The fans at the hotel in Tokyo think we're super cool but they think they are too - this is better. Don't be like us, oh no, be even more Japanese please. "You must be feeling tired," sympathises a fan who's been waiting up all night to see us. Well actually no, we always look dog rough, but you don't want to hear that, do you? You want us to be plastic fantastic, you've put your money in a vending machine and you get Pulp just how you want it.

Rover has just come in disappointed. Apparently there are vending machines in Tokyo where you can buy schoolgirls' underpants... used. Anyway, turns out he's bought some sixth-form boy's ones, which aren't quite what he had in mind.

Shopping! The toy shop is slightly disappointing. The real toy shop is called Electric Street, where you can buy a gadget for everything. I buy a Jacuzzi for sunglasses; it works, they come out clean and relaxed.

Early evening. We're taken out for a traditional Japanese meal. Shoes must be removed before sitting cross-legged at a low table. We choose a fish from a tank called a 'blow fish'. The sexual organs of this fish are deadly poisonous. Every year 40 people die from eating this fish, along with 40 chefs who must take the honourable way out. The fish is brought to the table with the organs removed and the edible strips of raw flesh arranged in a pattern at the side.

The fish, however, is far from dead, it leans its head upwards looking at us. "This fish has died for you and you must respect it," says our host's girlfriend, who is administering the food ceremony. I don't think anyone's very happy about this and Rover blurts out, "But it isn't dead and if you don't take it away and kill it, I'm going to get my knife out and kill it!"

The fish is taken away to be killed. It tastes like raw fish. The English are drinking saké while the Japanese drink lager. The English have also bought cool cameras in Electric Street and snap away furiously. 'Bloody tourists!' think the Japanese. You probably think it's really weak not to speak out more forcefully about some of the things we see, but we're guests here and must respect their customs. However distasteful it seems, it's probably less hypocritical than our own attitudes to eating animals. Vegetarians be warned: the concept is not understood here and saying, "I don't eat dead animals" often results in a live one being brought.

After the meal we go through a ritual humiliation, Japanese style. 'Karaoke Is Joysound!' says the sign. Hmmmm... Unlike in England, you get a private room with your mates, who choose a song for you to sing and you have to get up and do it. I get 'Trouble' by Shampoo, not something I would ordinarily be inclined to sing in company. Jarvis gets a very badly translated version of MC Hammer's 'Can't Touch This' in which "legit" comes out as "Leggit", etc, etc.

And for Rover, we choose 'Gimmie A Man After Midnight', which he isn't very happy about. On the way out, we see a bloke squatting in the middle of the road staring at traffic which stops in front of him. We are taking the piss a bit, which turns out to be a very bad idea because this is not a drunk, but a Yakuza hard man staking out his territory. Our host is concerned and runs on ahead to make sure there are no more. I recollect the fearsome knives and weaponry for sale in Electric Street and stop taking the piss. The Yakuza chop off their little finger as an initiation - you do not want them as your enemies.

The first concert in Tokyo goes very well. All the concerts sold out very quickly and there is anticipation amongst the stylish and supposedly reserved crowd. I've never seen so much energy without aggression. Everything's running like clockwork. Back in the hotel foyer, which is the size of a football pitch, we are greeted by gift-bearing fans. In the middle of the foyer is a bar area, demarcated by a complete ring of chrome about 2ft-high.

None of the fans dare enter this magic circle. We are joined by some of Steve's supermodel friends called Ginger, Manx, Feline, Persian and Pussy. They are impossibly thin and drape themselves around the bar, nibbling nuts. Rover approaches, his eyes roll around in their sockets like a fruit machine. "How long is it since you tasted some 100 per cent British beef?' he asks. Bingo!

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, we're being lampooned by Spitting Image along the lines of "I want to live like famous people"; fair enough, but what would you do, all my friends and brothers? The second concert in Tokyo we go on to Beethoven's Ninth. It's a flip chill winter bastard outside but inside all is horror show, there are even quite a number of mates in the audience. We fight through a few minor technical problems to cobble together an exciting show. Jarvis has to go off to replace a lost contact lens. To the Japanese, work equals style, times content. I guess you have to live some distance from Camden to appreciate this.

Battling through adversity in a cold climate is something our cultures share, it gives a certain edginess to the evening, which is a positive thing 'cos, as I'm sure you know, there's quite a lot of darkness under all this Pulp froth. Jarvis introduces all the songs in Japanese and this goes down very well. The Japanese seem to get this, they like a good present to be in a good box. The idea that style could possibly subtract from content would not make any sense to them.

Pulp had to get popular with the public before the feral scum-sucking tabloid British music press (Love you too - NME) took any real notice, and then it was in a cartoonised and, to my mind, rather humiliating way.

We awake with the rising sun like the people in the cornflakes advert you always aspire to. I've started rooting through my paltry belongings for presents to give back to fans. The best I can do is sunglasses, which are much appreciated. However, next time in the foyer, I see that half a dozen pairs of my former sunglasses are being worn and it's embarrassing, mainly because it's impersonal and a cheap con, like giving beads for land.

Many of the presents we receive are very thoughtful indeed, very personal and apt. We give the fans so little attention, don't even bother to learn their names and they give us so much. Why these kind, intelligent people do something, on the face of it, so uncool is beyond me, but I'm not complaining.

One of the many preconceptions was that we would be yammered away at about other bands, much as in the rest of the world, only more so and in a comical Japanese accent... "Ah Erastica, you know Bobby Girrespie? You know Brur?" This is definitely not the case; it almost seems impolite to mention another band when they're so focused on you. So that's another preconception, that they're impersonal.

Also going is a well-reasoned belief in the supremacy of European culture, see ya. Actually there is one exception. They do keep giving us pictures of Menswear and assuring us that they are, well, as if they are our long lost children. We've seen so many cheesy pictures of them grinning red-eyed, in Hawaiian shirts that severe loss of ace-faceness has occurred.

The last show in Tokyo is less frenetic, but very good; we play well and do a rare-for-us second encore. Jarvis has sustained a finger injury and is taken to the hospital where an already painful finger is subjected to squeezing, pricking, burning and electrocution.

The tour manager had only come into t'doctor's office to bring t'singer but they gave him t'stick and all! It was noticed that he had a cold and he had a man kneel on his back attaching crocodile clips to his nose, electrocuting him so he thrashed about like a pinhead, his neck pulsing alarmingly. Needless to say they both confessed. God knows what they'd do if you're really ill. No wonder everyone looks so healthy, they're scared shitless to be ill.

Our last meal in Japan, at our request, involves no live animals. We give a present to our host, who then proceeds to blub uncontrollably for the rest of the meal. Any preconceptions that these are cold people went way back. As the orders are being placed, one of the record company men pipes up, "I like Beetles!" Well almost. He stands up and starts to reel off his repertory of the Fab Four's songs which is quite extensive. We're used to this kind of excellently barking mad behaviour, so it's alright. Go buddy go!

We assemble early in the lobby for departure, Jarvis has gone on ahead dressed as a Hasidic Jew to avoid the crowds. Like many well-known celebrities, Jarvis employs a double. Jarvis' double (You may have seen him in the 'Mis-Shapes' video) has been up all night drinking in a dangerous club and staggers into the foyer not only refusing to sign autographs but swearing at anyone who comes near him before failing over a sofa and collapsing on the floor.

Safely checked in at the airport, we ascend an escalator waving gaily to the tearful fans. "Please come back to Japan soon," they plead. "We will, we will," we promise. It's a promise we are to keep because it is the wrong escalator and leads nowhere. After waiting round the corner for some time, the crowd at the bottom is still there so we have to descend the escalator, waving to the now laughing fans. "Welcome back to Japan," they say. Ah ha! Enough, enough, no more gratitude. Let's go somewhere where it's rude.

The record company, who must be ill, offer to pay our room service bill. Oh gullible company did ye ken, ye'd be picking up the tab for half a million yen?

Nietzsche would have aphorised the Pulp philosophy as: 'I have my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds, thus I grow taller.' There is, of course, a combustibility to this. We draw our inspiration from elevating ordinary life, therefore ordinary people relate to it, therefore we become famous, therefore we are no longer common people, therefore we lose the sap that pushes us to the clouds and it goes snap! This is exactly how it should be.

By example, Japan has injected a certain amount of crackle back into this fragile alliance. Perhaps we can last until the stroke of midnight New Year's Eve 1999. Pop!

Based on a true story.

#russell senior #jarvis cocker #pulp #japan #90s #britpop #printed article

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