#compassion fatigue is a thing folks

[localgasmaskliker]

Just wanna say that you don't have to focus on political issues 100% all the time. Fandom spaces should be fun. I play games and watch movies to interact in another world. Even grimdark worlds are interesting and entertaining in their own way I don't want to be reminded that women's rights are being stripped. I don't want to be reminded that people are dying and suffering immensely irl. You are NOT a bad person to ignore these issues for a bit, it's not a mortal sin to enjoy the good things in life. Our brains aren't wired to be stressed by world issues 100% of the time. I understand people want to help make a difference and that's noble, but you NEED to rest. Fandom spaces can be an amazing way to rest. It sounds cold but I don't want to hear about your issues while talking about my favorite things. I don't want to scroll your blogs to see guilt trip posts. There is only so much I can do. TLDR: I wish people will shut the fuck up about politics and horrible shit in fandom spaces. There are other places to vent about these things.

[starlightomatic]

i want to ask that this post only be reblogged by jews, because this is an intracommunity conversation i want to have.

i recently made a post about october 7th, which i ended with acknowledging what's going on in gaza and a discussion of the bigger picture. a couple of people reblogged this with something like "in case the beginning made you want to scroll, read to the end."

my initial reaction here was being upset; the first half of the post would have been valid on its own, and it's fucked up to see a post about pain the OP is connected to and automatically assume it's propaganda.

so i added an addition about that, and here are some of the things i said:

if describing my multiple personal connections to a woman burned alive made you roll your eyes and want to ignore it, i urge you to sit with that response and strip it of the associations of other posts you've seen, and look at the bare truth: someone describing their personal connections to a woman burned alive made you want to roll your eyes and ignore it.

and:

and i'm not talking about folks with compassion fatigue who just didn't want to hear more about death and violence -- that is very understandable. it's for those ready to toss this in the "bad post" bin because they automatically assumed it was propaganda.

and:

a lot of you have been receiving significant amounts of propaganda for months that is training you to read anything that reference october 7th victims of death, rape, injury, or trauma, or reference hostages, as fake and a warning sign that someone is an Enemy. you are not immune to propaganda and you need to really reflect on how you evaluate information if this is where it's gotten to.

and

what brought you to the place where you're automatically suspicious, distrustful, and dismissive of people relating certain experiences? what messages have you received about who to listen to and who to dismiss, about what's true and what's probably lies?

and:

i know that in large part it's because october 7th is weaponized to silence palestinians and manufacture consent for genocide. what tools can you use to recognize when that is and isn't happening? can you seek out voices who don't do that, and are able to hold both truths?

and:

what would it look like to not either dismiss or weaponize?

writing this made me realize, we need to talk about something. we have needed to talk about it for a long time.

i have seen exactly this same dynamic occur when it comes to people discussing gaza.

i have seen folks in the jumblr community and in other jewish communities on and offline view any post or discussion about gaza as propaganda, as a way to dismiss october 7th. i have seen people view every claim about what is happening there through a lens of suspicion and distrust. i have seen people assuming ulterior motives, assuming that people could not have been genuinely motivated by care and concern but must have some other harmful purpose.

i've fallen into this too, unfortunately.

and i understand why this is happening. when you're dismissed, in mourning, and hurt, it's going to make you more reactive, and likely to assume worst intent.

so i want to use the things i asked in my post as a framework for recognizing when this is happening.

when is our instinct to ignore or scroll past posts about gaza and palestine? can we pause first before dismissing?

how often do we view something as propaganda and distrust it? what would it mean if it is propaganda; what would it mean if it's not? how useful is the term propaganda in the first place; can something have a political goal and still be true?

what messages have you received about palestinians and their goals that would lead you to dismiss the information they're sharing? if propaganda is a useful term, what propaganda has been aimed at you and played to your existing sympathies? what palestinian narratives have you been trained to dismiss, ignore, mistrust or suspect?

to what extent do you assume that discussion of gaza is intended to dismiss or deny october 7th, or is disingenous? can you recognize when that is or isn't happening? can you seek out voices who don't do that, and are able to hold both truths -- but actually both truths, not just lip service?

what would it look like not to dismiss gaza? what would it look like to speak up about gaza? what would it look like to be rooted in truths and our own experiences and values, and to speak up about gaza in that framework?

What would it look like to know and internalize that while someone like me might have eight confirmed second-degree connections to people killed on October 7th, a Palestinian in diaspora might have dozens, or more?

What would it look like to internalize that while I never got to visit Nahal Oz and a man once dropped me off at a bus stop on his way to Be'eri, a Palestinian in diaspora has many towns that were destroyed before they were even born.

Can we hold our own pain, and our own very valid anger at the ways we're mistrusted and dismissed, without slipping into mistrusting and dismissing the pain of others?

Can we reach out to our communities and ask them to take the crisis in Gaza seriously? Can we evaluate whether we and our communities are materially complicit in that crisis, and speak out against it if that is the case? Can we call in the people in our lives who dismiss or excuse this? Can we support the people of Gaza via donations? Can we reach out to our political leaders to put pressure on them to end this war?

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#1027

Personally I believe that a future as depicted in star trek where equal rights are guaranteed (utopian that is) will come about due to technological advances. Currently an individual who has a disability and/or disorder is usually dependent on other people who have to accommodate, support, care etc. Even the systems that we have like disability benefits, social services etc are still dependent on people. This is where most discrimination comes from because it gives other people the power to dictate our lives. Even well meaning people get compassion fatigue, caregivers burn out, not to mention the truly ill willed jerks who love to abuse the disable purely because they can. I envision technology to replace all that. Like Geordi in TNG has to depend on no one! He is completely independent because of the technology they have in future. And this is not just for physical disabilities but neurodivergent ones too. We will have adhd friendly personal androids who will help us with stuff we struggle with. Dyslexia won’t be an issue because information will be available to in different formats and if one has difficulty reading then they simply won’t have to. And no one else needs to know! Maybe we can have smart-glasses that will scan the environment and read body language and give a discrete signal to an autistic person who then has all the knowledge needed to react in a social situation. Doesn’t mean we have to behave like neurotypical but rather we will have a choice!! This choice is important. Autism won’t be a challenge if there was no more trying to fit a ‘square peg in a circle’ issue. All the positive things that neurodivergent and disabled folks brings will be truly seen and celebrated.

[sleepy-the-loz-enthusiast]

Hey' I'm the one who sent the ask about modern au Four. It's fine that you lost the ask. I'm just excited for the you to share stuff about Four.

Aaaaaaa you're too kind thank you-

Here's the Four stuff you've been promised !!!

Just to preface, Four does not have DID or any similar conditions, just for the reason that I don't know enough about it to be able to potray it in a respectful and accurate way. If you do imagine Four with DID, that's valid, but they aren't here.

However, Four does categorise their thoughts into four categories-

Red: red represents emotional intelligence, compassion, and empathy

Blue: blue represents passion, protectiveness, and fury

Green: green represents loyalty, courage, and leadership

Violet: vio represents intelligence, knowledge, and dedication

Four just finds it easier to deal with conflicting thoughts by giving them names to better identify how they're feeling.

Anyways

Four is 15 in this au, though mistaken for much younger. He used to date a mysterious guy who called himself Shadow, but he went missing without a proper goodbye. Four's determined to find the cause of it, and so has developed an unhealthy addiction to true crime podcasts and researching similar macabre things. However on a different note, they also love fairytales and researching old folk stories. They pull a lot of allnighters... and have suffered a few broken toes for it.

Speaking of, Four lives with his Grandfather in a forge. After their father died at war and mother died in childbirth, Four's very close with his Grandfather and often helps out in the forge. Don't be fooled by their height or age; this fella's got biceps for days and is a very proficient blacksmith. He helps his Grandfather make weaponry for the Royal Family.

Four's also best friends with Dot since childhood !!

They have chronic migraines and hate it. Like, to the point where at worst he will be knocked out for days at a time, only waking up to eat, drink, and use the bathroom. They like to hide in the basement when this happens, I know there's nothing in canon about a basement but creative liberties?? because it's quiet, dark, and he doesn't need to move much. Their Grandfather's gotten pretty good at playing nurse while also working. At best it doesn't come to that, and Four's just heavily fatigued for a day and hates being around people. Oh, and he's developed a strong tolerance for most painkillers, rendering them ineffective. Poor guy.

Four's good friends with Wild, Legend, Hyrule, and Ravio at school, despite them being a year older. He's also friends with Wind and acts as a scary older brother figure to ward off anyone who tries messing with him. Despite the fact that Wind is taller and very capable of standing up for himself.

Four's also incredibly smart and fairly athletic, so they're pretty popular with students and teachers alike. People joke about them being able to read minds, but in truth Four's just observant and quick to make connections. He's won the school many prizes for maths and science. Buut Four's attendance isn't the greatest thing ever, and at least where I'm from teachers are kinda assholes about that. At least his grades and general attitude make up for it.

Four and Ravio have gotten into a physical fight over Monopoly before.

Aaaand with that, ramble over !

Thank you for the ask and I hope you liked reading this, have a great existence !!!!

[thesealfriend]

Hey yknow how a few months into the pandemic folk finally realised that compassion fatigue is a real tangible thing that comes on real quick when no matter how much you do the right thing, the powers that be continue to make it harder and insist on making choices that harm and kill people regardless, and we started being a lot more gentle with folk who were tangibly doing the right things (staying home, masking, testing) but were too exhausted to share statistics, correct misinfo and otherwise preach from the rooftops about it?

can we have that understanding for people who will pour their spare change into relief funds and take part in boycotts to the best of their abilities but still don't want untagged photos and videos or graphic descriptions of dead children on their social media feeds?

[yutaholic]

Thank you for even making that post because I honestly feel like I’m going to explode!! Championing every issue is EXHAUSTING. I have such empathy fatigue. Bombardment of “rules”, behavioral guidelines, services, companies, networks + food brands & PEOPLE to boycott ALL THE TIME. Fandom is space many of us come to unplug from reality…it’s certainly my hyperfixation & ppl be like “well then get another one because you shouldn’t support–” IT DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT. Fuck. I can’t take it anymore. Calls to action being in EVERY single place have weakened my mental state even more than it was before which was already on “pending disability” level of severe & now I’m just. burned t-absolute-f out….at everything!! I can literally FEEL myself unraveling. Kpop stans & their toxic activism can go to hell. They’re so worried about making sure to condemn others for “not doing enough” or being bad people, that they don’t even realize their actions are making them into bad people. This shit takes a toll on mental health, there is science behind this, it is real and what happens to human beings when inundated with constant terrible news, and it’s not just being ~too privileged to care~ but these performative mfs have no concept of blacklisting anymore and just want to assume the absolute worst about someone, call them names & wish harm on folks who are at the end of their ropes! It’s maddening! So even if compassion fatigue isn’t why you didn’t go out of your way to Denounce and Drag™️ him (bc you totally have the right to simply not want to do that on a fanfic blog!) I’m just glad someone else stated that this is supposed to be an ESCAPE. fuck.

Baby, burnout will fuck you up. Don't do that to yourself. Take the time you need and recoup. Life is a constant war and you can afford to lose a battle here and there to focus on your own health and well-being. Getting yourself back into a good place mentally will be a huge win. We both know the ppl obsessed with performative activism aren't doing anything from a place of compassion. The real ones are out there making change, not sending people death threats online from the comfort and safety of their mommy's basement.

When I posted the pic of NCT Dream and Big Time Rush, I wrote in the tags how BTR was something my sister and I loved and bonded over. We watched the show even though it was obviously a kids show and we were both adults. It was just something that gave us joy. My sister passed away years ago and anything BTR-related will make me teary because I think about how much we laughed together over it.

So the first thing I get are messages over how problematic BTR is, that I should delete the post or I'm pro-genocide if I don't dislike them. Ngl that made me so upset because I got a bunch of faceless people trying to taint some precious memories of me and my sister. If they came at me trying to educate me on things I didn't know that would be different, but it's straight to judgment and hatred toward me over something I posted that was totally innocent.

Meanwhile I get criticized for posting about a kpop group instead of reblogging every call to action post. I donate my money to these causes, but I don't post about it because I don't need my ass kissed for doing what I know to be right. I am 1000% sure the anons in my inbox that try to police me have never given a dime to anything, but are policing people's blogs for not reblogging posts or talking about it more.

I feel bad that I haven't been very active on here this year so I try to come on when I have some free time to interact with you guys. I make a silly post about Doyoung and get anons tearing into me for it like I'm his social media manager. Okay so because the world is going to shit we aren't allowed to enjoy anything?? Can't make jokes about anything. Can't show support for anything. Just wrong on every fucking count.

Believe me I am so goddamn aware of how lucky I am that I can sit here and say I'm very privileged that I live comfortably in the life I have. I know what's going on in the world and I do my part to help where I can, but I also have to keep functioning. I don't want every minute of my life to be seeped in anger, I did that for a long time and it not only eats away at you, it makes you ineffective in actually changing the things making you angry in the first place.

This was just supposed to be a blog where I posted my stories. One of the few places I could go and not constantly be reminded of how fucked up the world is. I've always said that people who told me reading a fic of mine made their day a little better or helped them escape for a bit were always my favorite. That was what I came here for and I loved being able to share the tiniest moments of peace and quiet with others through stories with guaranteed happy endings.

I'm frustrated because I have 4 drafts ready to go next year. I got the story posts done and made all the headers. But I don't want to post them. I have no problem admitting I'm selfish and spiteful. Even though I can turn off anon, I can't block these miserable people and I don't want them reading my stuff. They don't get to consume my content and then tell me to off myself right after.

A massive fuck you to those of you that ruined this blog for me.

[mortalityplays]

i wonder if that person thought it was the same as caregiver fatigue? i work at a college with a large nursing/med program and a while back they did an event talking about caregiver fatigue which at first i was like ??? but turns out was basically discussing how to avoid burnout for caregiver roles with an emphasis on like the emotional toll (like hospice workers) which is definitely an entirely different thing than just like… sorry i used up my compassion today / the way i’ve seen folks online discuss compassion fatigue

yeah like by and large I'm not a language prescriptivist, but when people start colloquially throwing around misapprehensions of clinical or academic terms (which are often deceptively worded in the first place) it lends an air of authority to all kinds of made up garbage arguments, and then people double down on them because it feels academic and therefore valid (lol). I don't know enough about the clinical use of the term to say whether it's a useful concept in those specific environments but I do know that the actual irl caregivers I know would not appreciate the implications at play in the way people talk about compassion fatigue online like you have empathy credits that you have to budget across your sick toddler, trans rights and conflict in gaza.

[multiplicity-positivity]

Here’s some positivity for systems with narcolepsy!

Disabled systems of any sort should be welcome to have their voices heard and their struggles recognized within the plural community. Systems specifically with sleep disorders may struggle with feeling constantly exhausted, fatigued, and drowsy. However, these individuals deserve to feel safe and welcome in the plural community! Here’s to all the systems out there with narcolepsy!

🥱 Shoutout to systems who cannot drive, operate dangerous machinery, or perform other tasks due to their narcolepsy!

💭 Shoutout to systems who formed due to their narcolepsy, whether through trauma associated with their disorder, bullying/harassment because of their narcolepsy, or anything else!

💤 Shoutout to systems whose narcolepsy causes them to live with constant brain fog or blurriness!

🌙 Shoutout to headmates who are symptom holders for certain narcolepsy symptoms, or who are more affected by their system’s disorder than the rest of their sysmates!

🛌 Shoutout to systems with narcolepsy who struggle to tell who’s fronting or differentiate between each other!

⭐️ Shoutout to systems with narcolepsy who are prevented from doing a lot of the things they want to do because of their disorder!

🌃 Shoutout to systems who cannot work, attend school, or keep up with hobbies they enjoy because of their narcolepsy!

🧸 Shoutout to systems who take medications or use other treatments to help manage their narcolepsy symptoms!

😴 Shoutout to systems whose narcolepsy makes them groggy, tired, cranky, irritable, or easily upset!

💕 Shoutout to systems who are advocates for narcolepsy, or spread awareness about this disorder to others in their community!

Navigating daily life with a disability can be stressful, frustrating, and disheartening. But for all you folks with narcolepsy out there, we want you to know that your presence in the system community is needed and wanted! You will always have a place in the plural community and we are so glad to have you here!

Please try to treat yourself and your system with kindness and self-compassion. Don’t be afraid to ask for accommodations, be vocal about your disability, and do what it takes in order for your system to feel safe and secure! Your system is wonderful and you are cherished and loved just the way you are. Try to get some rest soon, and have a lovely day!

(Image ID:) A pale orange userbox with a cluster of multicolored flowers for the userbox image. The border and text are both dark orange, and the text reads “all plurals can interact with this post!” (End ID.)

[thewickedkat]

just catching up on last week's episode and

something something parallel to our world as it is outside of institutionalised religious trauma and abuse of power through manipulation of faith and dogma; something something about compassion fatigue and everyone everywhere expecting An Opinion at all times, expecting Big Demonstrative Actions and Praxis and Big Lectures; something something we're all just sheep herders and kids studying in libraries and widowers and folks searching for their pasts or a fiance or their best friend, we're all just people with a lowercase p and can only hold the weight of so many Pressing Things for so long before we have to just climb a tree and stare up at the stars and wait for night to pass

[goddess-help-us]

I especially hate the sensationalist nature of the “wHy iS nObOdY tAlKiNg aBoUt tHis?!” Because it’s very self centered. Like have these people considered that maybe people are talking about xyz thing, maybe for decades?? And now that you’ve finally learned about it we’re all supposed to throw aside whatever we’re doing at the moment to marvel at your “open mindedness” when in fact whatever it is might just simply be a lived reality for many folks and not some random pop sociology factoid you heard on TikTok or whatever. Compassion fatigue is definitely real on my end. At a certain point everything feels terrible and my ability to feel shock at new information feels nonexistent.

[greyeyedmonster-18]

Hello :) I would be really interested to hear more about your essay on bereavement leave and I think you mentioned an essay about death as a liminal space before too, if you wanted to talk about it!

The fact that the world does just go on after a loss was so jarring to experience for the first time. I was in school and everybody had experienced the same loss more or less so it felt like I was that one teen in a YA novel where everybody else has sucummed to brainwashing or been implanted with a chip to make them perfect little work machines, being so disturbed by everyone flipping their books open in unison haha.

I absolutely love fault lines and seeing how they are coping with the loss of their relationship. It's so beautiful and hopeful to me even when its really sad, because they're trying their best for Harry and the new type of family they have is also love even if its not neatly packaged like a traditional love story. Like I will never say no to a happy ending but with fault lines I've been thinking about what a happy ending can mean and I really appreciate that! Just very greatful you decided to share your writing here and on ao3, it's made me feel a lot of feelings 💛💛💛

hi friend! first of all, thanks for loving on my work and little stories, it means so much.

second-- i would love to talk about both these things below the cut. I've said it before but the neat thing about academia is if you hyperfixate on a topic long-enough, they call it "Research" and you become a "scholar". Cool, huh?

my essay on bereavement leave

without giving too much away about my line of work and keeping my identity safe etc. i basically had an experience at my place of work at the time where two people died in the same month--quite traumatically, i might add-- and our entire building of folk were obviously effected and it was really awful to put it plainly.

I went to HR at my organization and was like "hey what's the protocol for this" and was told "well, you can take three bereavement days" and i said "okay, first of all, that's not enough. but it's not just me. theres 12 other staff here--how can we work this out?" and was then told "well, you'll just have to take turns."

which is laughable. because you don't just get to be like "okay, well stop grieving until it's your turn to go on leave, and then take your three days and come back and be ready to give it your all!"

i can't keep my mouth shut, so I wrote an open letter to RE: BEREAVEMENT LEAVE and included what I was told and my own words about compassion fatigue and essentially the idea of like, "just because we're healthcare workers/service providers doesn't mean we're not human and it doesn't mean things like this don't deeply effect us; we deserve policies that support our well-being, not just employer profit". and sent it around the company. and then i published the essay. and then i presented the essay at a national conference for trauma informed practices/policies (because part of being trauma informed is including grief). Did my organization change their policies? officially, no. Did they re-evaluate how they spoke with employees navigating grief in the workplace? Yes.

liminal spaces

this was actually part of my masters thesis! again, without giving away too much info, it was centered around grief and this idea that grief creates its own liminal space (theres life before a loss, and life after a loss and while you're grieving you're somewhere in the middle of remembering the life before and not knowing what's ahead).

and when people question why i say "grief is traumatic", i circle back to this idea of a liminal space. imagine if you were living in an airport for years. like sure, theres a foodcourt and a bathroom and all your basic needs are met, but you are...in an airport. Thats not where you want to be. and you know that someday, you'll get on a plane...but also what if you don't and the airport is just your new normal? you learn how to do things in the airport and when you finally get on a plane and to your destination, its jarring and you still have all your luggage with you.

[ucflibrary]

The national celebration of African American History was started by Carter G. Woodson, a Harvard-trained historian and the founder of the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History, and first celebrated as a weeklong event in February of 1926. After a half century of overwhelming popularity, the event was expanded to a full month in 1976 by President Gerald Ford.

Here at UCF Libraries we believe that knowledge empowers everyone in our community and that recognizing past inequities is the only way to prevent their continuation. This is why our February Featured Bookshelf suggestions range from celebrating outstanding African Americans to works illuminating the effects of systemic racism in our country. We are proud to present our top staff suggested books in honor of Black History Month 2021.

Click on the link below to see the full list, descriptions, and catalog links for the Black History Month titles suggested by UCF Library employees. These books plus many, many more are also on display on the main floor of the John C. Hitt Library near the Research & Information Desk.

 A Black Women’s History of the United States by Daina Ramey Berry and Kali Nicole Gross In centering Black women's stories, two award-winning historians seek both to empower African American women and to show their allies that Black women's unique ability to make their own communities while combatting centuries of oppression is an essential component in our continued resistance to systemic racism and sexism. Berry and Gross prioritize many voices: enslaved women, freedwomen, religious leaders, artists, queer women, activists, and women who lived outside the law. The result is a starting point for exploring Black women's history and a testament to the beauty, richness, rhythm, tragedy, heartbreak, rage, and enduring love that abounds in the spirit of Black women in communities throughout the nation. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

 A Bound Woman is a Dangerous Thing: the incarceration of African American women from Harriet Tubman to Sandra Bland by DaMaris B. Hill For black American women, the experience of being bound has taken many forms: from the bondage of slavery to the Reconstruction-era criminalization of women; from the brutal constraints of Jim Crow to our own era's prison industrial complex, where between 1980 and 2014, the number of incarcerated women increased by 700%. For those women who lived and died resisting the dehumanization of confinement--physical, social, intellectual--the threat of being bound was real, constant, and lethal. From Harriet Tubman to Assata Shakur, Ida B. Wells to Sandra Bland and Black Lives Matter, black women freedom fighters have braved violence, scorn, despair, and isolation in order to lodge their protests. DaMaris Hill honors their experiences with at times harrowing, at times hopeful responses to her heroes, illustrated with black-and-white photographs throughout. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 Be Free or Die: the amazing story of Robert Smalls' escape from slavery to Union hero by Cate Lineberry Cate Lineberry's compelling narrative illuminates Robert Smalls’ amazing journey from slave to Union hero and ultimately United States Congressman. This captivating tale of a valuable figure in American history gives fascinating insight into the country's first efforts to help newly freed slaves while also illustrating the many struggles and achievements of African Americans during the Civil War. Suggested by Dawn Tripp, Research & Information Services

 Before You Suffocate Your Own Fool Self by Danielle Evans Fearless, funny, and ultimately tender, Evans's stories offer a bold new perspective on the experience of being young and African-American or mixed-race in modern-day America. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 Black Fatigue: how racism erodes the mind, body, and spirit by Mary-Frances Winters This is the first book to define and explore Black fatigue, the intergenerational impact of systemic racism on the physical and psychological health of Black people--and explain why and how society needs to collectively do more to combat its pernicious effects. Suggested by Glen Samuels, Circulation

 Deacon King Kong by James McBride From James McBride comes a wise and witty novel about what happens to the witnesses of a shooting. In September 1969, a fumbling, cranky old church deacon known as Sportcoat shuffles into the courtyard of the Cause Houses housing project in south Brooklyn, pulls a .45 from his pocket, and in front of everybody shoots the project's drug dealer at point-blank range. McBride brings to vivid life the people affected by the shooting: the victim, the African-American and Latinx residents who witnessed it, the white neighbors, the local cops assigned to investigate, the members of the Five Ends Baptist Church where Sportcoat was deacon, the neighborhood's Italian mobsters, and Sportcoat himself. As the story deepens, it becomes clear that the lives of the characters--caught in the tumultuous swirl of 1960s New York--overlap in unexpected ways. When the truth does emerge, McBride shows us that not all secrets are meant to be hidden, that the best way to grow is to face change without fear, and that the seeds of love lie in hope and compassion. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 Different Strokes: Serena, Venus, and the unfinished Black tennis revolution by Cecil Harris Harris chronicles the rise of the Williams sisters, as well as other champions of color, closely examining how African Americans are collectively faring in tennis, on the court and off. Despite the success of the Williams sisters and the election of former pro player Katrina Adams as the U.S. Tennis Association’s first black president, top black players still receive racist messages via social media and sometimes in public. The reality is that while significant progress has been made in the sport, much work remains before anything resembling equality is achieved. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 His Truth Is Marching On: John Lewis and the power of hope by Jon Meacham John Lewis, who at age twenty-five marched in Selma and was beaten on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, is a visionary and a man of faith. Using intimate interviews with Lewis and his family and deep research into the history of the civil rights movement, Meacham writes of how the activist and leader was inspired by the Bible, his mother's unbreakable spirit, his sharecropper father's tireless ambition, and his teachers in nonviolence, Reverend James Lawson and Martin Luther King, Jr. A believer in hope above all else, Lewis learned from a young age that nonviolence was not only a tactic but a philosophy, a biblical imperative, and a transforming reality. Integral to Lewis's commitment to bettering the nation was his faith in humanity and in God, and an unshakable belief in the power of hope. Meacham calls Lewis as important to the founding of a modern and multiethnic twentieth- and twenty-first century America as Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and Samuel Adams were to the initial creation of the nation-state in the eighteenth century. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

 Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick by Zora Neale Hurston An outstanding collection of stories about love and migration, gender and class, racism and sexism that proudly reflect African American folk culture. Brought together for the first time in one volume, they include eight of Hurston’s “lost” Harlem stories, which were found in forgotten periodicals and archives. These stories challenge conceptions of Hurston as an author of rural fiction and include gems that flash with her biting, satiric humor, as well as more serious tales reflective of the cultural currents of Hurston’s world. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

 Race, Sports, and Education: improving opportunities and outcomes for black male college athletes by John N. Singer Through his analysis of the system and his attention to student views and experiences, Singer crafts a valuable, nuanced account and points in the direction of reforms that would significantly improve the educational opportunities and experiences of these athletes. At a time when collegiate sports have attained unmistakable institutional value and generated unprecedented financial returns-all while largely failing the educational needs of its athletes-this book offers a clear, detailed vision of the current situation and suggestions for a more equitable way forward. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

 Real Life by Brandon Taylor A novel of rare emotional power that excavates the social intricacies of a late-summer weekend -- and a lifetime of buried pain. Almost everything about Wallace, an introverted African-American transplant from Alabama, is at odds with the lakeside Midwestern university town where he is working toward a biochem degree. For reasons of self-preservation, Wallace has enforced a wary distance even within his own circle of friends -- some dating each other, some dating women, some feigning straightness. But a series of confrontations with colleagues, and an unexpected encounter with a young straight man, conspire to fracture his defenses, while revealing hidden currents of resentment and desire that threaten the equilibrium of their community. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

 Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde In this charged collection of fifteen essays and speeches, Lorde takes on sexism, racism, ageism, homophobia, and class, and propounds social difference as a vehicle for action and change. Her prose is incisive, unflinching, and lyrical, reflecting struggle but ultimately offering messages of hope. Suggested by Emily Horne, Rosen Library

 The Privileged Poor: how elite colleges are failing disadvantaged students by Abraham Jack College presidents and deans of admission have opened their doors--and their coffers--to support a more diverse student body. But is it enough just to let them in? Anthony Jack reveals that the struggles of less privileged students continue long after they've arrived on campus. In their first weeks they quickly learn that admission does not mean acceptance. In this bracing and necessary book, Jack documents how university policies and cultures can exacerbate preexisting inequalities, and reveals why these policies hit some students harder than others. Jack provides concrete advice to help schools reduce these hidden disadvantages--advice we cannot afford to ignore. Suggested by Peggy Nuhn, UCF Connect Libraries

 The Sun Does Shine: how I found life and freedom on death row by Anthony Ray Hinton, with Lara Love Hardin In 1985, Anthony Ray Hinton was arrested and charged with two counts of capital murder in Alabama. Stunned, confused, and only twenty-nine years old, Hinton knew that it was a case of mistaken identity and believed that the truth would prove his innocence and ultimately set him free. But with no money and a different system of justice for a poor black man in the South, Hinton was sentenced to death by electrocution. He spent his first three years on Death Row at Holman State Prison in agonizing silence, full of despair and anger toward all those who had sent an innocent man to his death. But as Hinton realized and accepted his fate, he resolved not only to survive, but find a way to live on Death Row. For the next twenty-seven years he was a beacon, transforming not only his own spirit, but those of his fellow inmates, fifty-four of whom were executed mere feet from his cell. With the help of civil rights attorney and author Bryan Stevenson, Hinton won his release in 2015. Suggested by Lily Dubach, UCF Connect Libraries

 This is Major: notes on Diana Ross, dark girls, and being dope by Shayla Lawson Shayla Lawson is major. You don't know who she is, yet, but that's okay. She is on a mission to move black girls like herself from best supporting actress to a starring roles in the major narrative. With a unique mix of personal stories, pop culture observations, and insights into politics and history, Lawson sheds light on the many ways black femininity has influenced mainstream culture. Timely, enlightening, and wickedly sharp, Lawson shows how major black women and girls really are. Suggested by Glen Samuels, Circulation

 We Want Our Bodies Back by Jessica Care Moore Over the past two decades, Jessica Care Moore has become a cultural force as a poet, performer, publisher, activist, and critic. Reflecting her transcendent electric voice, this searing poetry collection is filled with moving, original stanzas that speak to both Black women’s creative and intellectual power, and express the pain, sadness, and anger of those who suffer constant scrutiny because of their gender and race. Fierce and passionate, she argues that Black women spend their lives building a physical and emotional shelter to protect themselves from misogyny, criminalization, hatred, stereotypes, sexual assault, objectification, patriarchy, and death threats. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions & Collections

[baymaksu]

I’d like to owe a debt of gratitude to the BH6 fandom, to those I’ve interacted with and became friends with for a shared love of something that has connected us. You have all been a saving grace to my mental and emotional health.

I say this not to fish for a “thank you for your service” or to virtue signal, but throughout my adult life I’ve served in emergency medicine, wildland fire and the military. I’m proud of my service, because I hold life to be precious and revere it as something to be safeguarded. But I would be too cavalier to say that it hasn’t affected me, that it hasn’t come at personal costs.

I still serve as a EMT transitioning to become a paramedic amidst volatile times for education, while having worked on a task force that’s been dealing with COVID in the US since it hit us. I’ve seen it affect the young, the old, and everyone in between. I’ve even dealt with the dying and the dead, and their grieving family members. And beyond physical illness, I’ve seen what this isolation has done to disrupt our tendencies as social creatures. My hearts goes out to everyone as we’ve faced this ongoing crisis.

I still serve as an Infantry sergeant and team leader in the National Guard amidst a time with the American people are in turmoil amongst themselves, when this role becomes ever more relevant. I’ve done my best to connect with citizens, to facilitate their right to protest peacefully as their right as Americans, while deterring rioters from destroying the lifestyle and livelihood of folks who just want to live through these tough times. I’ve had to face difficult issues that ignite our people, and try to find clarity in a hope that I can do my part to mend us with discourse and protect those unable to defend themselves. All the while hoping my decisions will protect my community, my family, my service members beside me. I truly hope we can find compassion and unity.

But in all, I’ve lost and hurt relationships that were dear to me. I’ve lost time with those I love even before the epidemic and social unrest. When I was younger, I had a hero complex that I wanted to bear the world and do what I could to make it better. In all my positions now, quite simply it feels that my own personal depression gets exponentially heavier knowing that I can never have the luxury of turning a blind eye. My roles have forced me to deal with the world’s problems. And compassion fatigue and apathy is an outcome I fear.

I am perhaps venting this because I wanted to truly thank those who have helped me here. With all the things I’ve wanted to do in my life, when I was a kid I wanted to be a professional artist to do concept art for movies, comics, anime or video games. And when I read fanfiction and tried my hand at it, I learned that I did have the ability to express myself creatively through writing.

When I draw or write, for once my mind is in a flow state I crave in other domains, a sense of peace, contentment and even childlike excitement at my own creations. And the support of even knowing one person enjoyed my work makes me truly happy. In another universe, I like to think I would’ve made a great addition to something like BH6 creative team, story writing or art. In a way, you guys allow me to express a semblance of that version of me. And it helps me in ways I cannot fully articulate.

When the world is crumbling around me and I know I have to face it, I find it funny that there are times I can actually find a semblance of peace and creative flow in wanting to draw and write, especially knowing this awesome community shares that love. In a time that I’ve seen disunity, you all remind me that we can still connect. We can share our loves and our creations, and even have discourse on our different opinions.

I guess what I mean to say is, thank you all for being so amazing. You have my love and hopes for a better world that you can all enjoy and thrive in. And thank you, for what you do for me. It’s more than you may ever realize, but I wanted to at least put it out there.

[crxwflowerwrites]

Maybe I'm Alive Cuz I Really Didn't Wanna Die

Chapter One of Nutshell | Anakin Skywalker x NB!Reader

Fate: (1) : the will or principle or determining cause by which things in general are believed to come to be as they are or events to happen as they do, (2) an inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end. Can fate—destiny—be avoided? That is the age-old question. When a unique opportunity presents itself, granting a second chance at life in exchange for trying to unravel the events leading to Anakin Skywalker's downfall, questions will be raised regarding accountability, compassion, metal health, and destiny. Can Anakin be saved from himself? Or was he always destined to bring ruin to the Galaxy?

---

"I'm a freak, I am afraid that All the blood escaping me won't end the pain And I'll be haunting all the lives that cared for me I died to be the white ghost Of the man that I was meant to be."-Ghost, Badflower Sounds of blaster fire and people screaming in pain fade dully in the background. All I can hear are my own ragged breaths as I desperately try to calm my thundering heart. Sweat rolls down my face, drawing lines on my soot-stained skin while ash falls peacefully to the ground amidst a battle where people are getting blown apart by incendiaries and innocent civilians are cut down where they stand. If I didn’t know any better, I would think it was snowing. Darkness splotches the edges of my vision, and my trembling hands feel clammy as I clutch my lightsaber pathetically. Only enough focus remains to block the blaster fire beaming in my direction. My knees are weak and my stance is poor. I cannot do this much longer. I’m tired.

I’ve always hated fighting. As a padawan, I wanted to dedicate my life to helping people with my force healing abilities, or maybe discovering ancient secrets through psychometry. I even considered being a teacher and working with the younglings. But this? War? I could have never foreseen the destruction of the Jedi Order. I never fathomed the return of the Sith. I never thought that Anakin Skywalker would betray us all.

He was our Chosen One. Our General. Our Hope.

But he was none of those things, only our downfall. His anger, his arrogance, his fear; it killed him and now it’s killing us.

I shouldn’t know any of this. The official story is that our beloved General was killed during Order 66, but I know the truth. After Padme’s death, Obi-Wan reached out to me to aid him in hiding away her twin children—Anakin’s children. My reputation for having a gentle heart and cool discretion made me an easy choice for the mission and I was more than happy to help protect children from the terrible fighting that began spreading like a contagion across the galaxy. I didn’t know the whole story, but I noticed that Obi-Wan had Anakin’s lightsaber. Out of curiosity, I touched it and...and I wished I never had.

It’s been months since then. I took shelter on this unnamed planet, hiding from those who hunt down the last remaining Jedi. There was peace in helping the common folk; healing them of their ailments and protecting them from wildlife, but the Empire found me. Found us. I put these people in danger, and now I must watch them succumb to the horrors of the invasion while I try, and fail, to protect them.

I know my life is over when I hear a lightsaber blaze to life behind me. With leaden feet, I turn in the mud to face the man who has come to kill me: Darth Vader. Anakin Skywalker. Dog to the Empire. My former friend. A traitor. A puppet. A murderer.

“Don’t do this,” I plead, my voice a pathetic croak.

“It is already done,” Darth Vader replies ominously.

There is barely any time to raise my lightsaber before the Sith Lord begins swinging blow after blow. The heat from the sabers singes my skin as he forces all his strength down upon me. I’m not strong enough to withstand this, so I roll away just before the red saber slices into the ground where my body was just moments before.

I shouldn’t try to talk, but I am going to die. I know it in my bones, so I might as well ask my questions why I still draw breath.

“Why are you doing this?” I dodge to the right, tripping in my fatigue.

“Because you are weak.”

“The Anakin I knew wouldn’t do this!”

“You didn’t know him. Nobody did—” he lunges at me, and I’m too slow. The red saber blazes through sinew and bone, severing my hand from my body. I think I scream. I’m not sure. All I see is my hand still clutching my saber as it plummets to the ground, lodging itself in the mud.

“—Anakin was weak, so I killed him, just as I will kill you.”

I watch in slow motion as Darth Vader brings his lightsaber over his head and brings it down over me. All I can think about is how he separates himself from the man he used to be. Just as the energy from the weapon kisses my skin with a magnificent, terrible burning, I am overwhelmed with the realization that I don’t want to die . There are still so many unanswered questions. I want to know how we got to this point. I need to understand the moment Anakin stopped being the hero and started being the villain. I think...I think I feel guilty. I should’ve seen the signs. All of us in the Jedi Order should have noticed all those little red flags. Why didn’t I say anything? Why did we do anything to stop him?

My thoughts are filled with wishes to start again, to have a chance to make things right. I want to save myself. I want to save my friends. I want to save Anakin from himself. I think a silent prayer, pleading for just one more shot to discover where it all went wrong. But it doesn’t work. I am dying, and the Force is silent. My destiny is to die here, kneeling in the mud as I stare back and forth from my dismembered hand to my former peer. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think of something hopeful. I am aware of my body splitting apart in searing agony when something incredible happens.

The world falls silent. No more screaming. No more humming of the lightsaber. I open my eyes and see...nothing. The world is no more. All I can see is empty blackness; an absence of light and life. It’s unlike anything I have ever experienced before, and yet I’m not scared. Stunned, I blink. Perhaps I was expecting a clearer image to emerge from that darkness, but my eyes open to the sight of my quarters at the Jedi Temple.

What?

I lurch forward with a ragged breath. My lower body is tangled in the sheets, clothes from earlier in the day strewn on the floor with the rest of my dirty laundry. Confusion and panic claw at my heart, strangling in my throat. I inspect my hands: both intact. No scar where my severed hand was reattached. No jagged line where Darth Vader sliced through my body as if it were water. I suddenly realize that many of my scars I obtained through padawan training and my eventual knighthood are missing. Upon further inspection, my body appears much younger than it was just moments ago when I was on the brink of death. It’s softer, rounder without all the hardened muscles—unmarred and unbroken.

I stagger out of bed on unsteady legs, moving on instinct into the adjoined bathroom. A cold shiver whispers down my spine when my gaze meets my own in the mirror. The truth strikes me like blaster fire to the heart. I am a padawan again.

[sylvain-writes]

Scarlet Letters (TMNT Raphael x Reader)

Chapter 1/8: Proceed with Caution

You find Raphael injured in an alley by your apartment.  With an ice storm on the way, you can't leave him out in the cold.

Strangers to lovers, Hurt/Comfort T (Rating will change to M for Chapter 8)

(Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ao3)

You’ve walked this route home dozens of times.  It isn’t your favorite. In fact, it makes you sick to your stomach to cut through poorly lit streets and tight alleys, particularly those under the control of Purple Dragons.  To your right and left, the gang’s tags mark brick buildings and doorways, visible to anyone who knows what they’re looking for. At the corner, elderly folks occupy a small table in a family owned restaurant.  You try to ignore the eyes that follow you as you pass the window. 

The traffic light overhead blinks yellow.  Caution.  Instinctively, you reach for your shoulder.  Even under layers of clothing - a shirt, a sweater, a winter coat - you know exactly where the dagger had pierced your skin all those years ago.  It stings, even now, the scar you’d acquired as a child. The pain reminds you that your father’s murderer is still out here somewhere.

You wouldn’t take this route home from the clinic unless you absolutely had to, but the next shift of nurses had gotten stuck in traffic.  An hour later than you were supposed to be relieved of your post, you were finally able to make the long trek home. And with the meteorologist on the radio predicting an ice storm, you knew the commute was going to be a doozy. 

By the time you made it out of the clinic, the subways had already become overcrowded and delays were piling up.  Taxis were few and far between. You were pretty sure those cabs on the roads weren’t even taking fares anymore. Everyone was in a hurry to get themselves off the road and into shelter.  And now it looks like you were one of the few still trying to find a way home.

Just a few blocks further.  You’d reach the end of Purple Dragon territory and descend the steps of your basement apartment.  The gang’s influence hadn’t always reached this far, but living on the edge of the action meant renting Abma’s basement was even cheaper now than it had been when she moved in three years ago.  Most people were uncomfortable living without a view of the sky, but living underground never bothered you. In fact, the descent into your apartment was one of the few things that filled you with a sense of safety and calm.  Plus, with the money you save on rent, you’re able to upgrade the apartment’s amenities and decor to fit your taste as you please.

You blink at your surroundings and curse yourself for getting lost in your thoughts.  You aren’t home free yet. You have to be vigilant. Continuing on, you keep your eyes sharp and your ears attuned to your surroundings.

From the alley to your right, there comes a deep grunt and a wet gasp.  You freeze. You clench your teeth and your fists as your fight or flight response wars with itself in your mind.  Your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you consider your options. 

You know you can continue on your way.  You can see home from where you’re standing.  You can go, hide behind closed doors, and try to forget that you heard anything out here.  But the sound comes again, the struggle of someone gasping for air through sickness or injury, and your compassion kicks into high gear.  Your fear moves aside as your medical training takes the forefront of your mind.

With a deep breath and your hand on the can of pepper spray you keep in the pocket of your parka, you start down the alley.  Every inch your advance is one of mindful cautions. You’re poised to run at any evidence of danger. So far, there is none.

The wet coughs echoing off the walls are reminiscent of the final breaths of your father all those years ago, and the thought of another person lying in pain on the pavement tugs at your heart and urges you closer to investigate. 

Creeping along the wall of the alley, you approach the overflowing dumpster with extreme caution.  You tighten your hold on your pepper spray and take out your phone. Your feet take another step, then another. 

If it is a Dragon, you hope they are injured gravely.  You think you’d gladly let them rot on the street. But if it isn’t, if it’s a victim of their cruelty and violence, then you dreaded what you’d find among the towering bags of trash. 

When the moans stop abruptly, you remember to pull your phone out of your pocket.  You’re ready to dial for emergency assistance, but you fear the worst has happened.  Either the wounded have succumbed to their wounds or they are preparing themself for discovery.

Another deep breath of winter air chills you from the inside out, but you widen your stance with determination.  The cold, rusted edge of the dumpster digs into your palms as you lean around it for a peek. There’s movement behind the bags of filth and the tell tale scraping of metal against stone - a weapon being dragged over concrete. 

The breathing has resumed.  Ragged. Labored. Shallow. Distressed. 

With your pepper spray raised and at the ready, you grab ahold of a trash bag blocking your view of the injured person and yank it out of the way. 

There’s no word of shock strong enough to describe what you feel as you take in the sight before you.  But the emotion is fleeting. A wide green face turns toward you, grimacing in pain as the creature hiding in the shadows struggles to breathe. 

You've heard stories of giant crocs in the sewers.  But as you look into those large green eyes, fierce even in the face of being helpless, your heart aches.  It’s a moment later that you recognize the shine of a streetlamp’s light reflected on metal. But the pronged weapon doesn’t appear to be much of a threat.  The points of the sai tremble as the arm extending it in defense struggles to maintain the position. 

With a fatigued grunt, the arm drops and the weapon clatters to the ground.  The eyes that were once full of bravado and pride soften as a cough wracks their body.  Those same eyes now plead silently for help, and you know in the core of your being that you were wrong to ever have considered them a creature at all; they are a person.

You lower your own weapon, returning your can of pepper spray as well as your phone to your jacket pocket.  “I’m here to help,” you whisper. 

With your hands up to show that you mean them no harm, you take slow steps around the piles of filth that separate you from the one slumped against the brick building.  Without touching them to feel for bone breaks or having any medical equipment on hand to give a proper exam, there’s not much you can do. You’re shivering as you take stock of their injuries as best as you can with a quick look.  But you have to ignore the cold of the coming storm for at least a little while longer. You can’t leave this person. Not alone. Not out here.

“Can you walk?”

They look up at you, scowling, as if to say they’d be walking already if they could. 

You glance up and down the alley to check for danger, but the only thing you notice is the wind starting to kick up, the clouds growing ever darker, and the chill cutting through your parka and settling deep in your bones.  You can’t imagine how the unclothed person at your feet must be faring; not to mention, the touch of cold concrete and brick against bare skin has never been kind.

No matter your need to take them to shelter, however, you won’t be able to move them by sheer force of will alone. 

“My apartment is there.”  You point down the way to the corner.  The two of you could make it, unseen, if you stuck to the shadows of the building.  But they would have to bear some of their own weight. 

You look down at them, catching their gaze, and fearing for their safety more than your own.  “Come with me,” you say, and now you’re the one that’s pleading. Reaching down in an offer of assistance, you add, “Please.”

I’m not gonna hurt you.  You know that’s what people say to win the trust of others in situations like this.  You know it’s what you’re supposed to say.  But you’ve never been one to lie to your patients. 

A shaking hand reaches up to you, its fingers slowly uncurling from a fist.  You notice the fingers are three, but after seeing a green giant you suppose there’s not much else that can surprise you.  It’s more the tremor in the hand that has your attention. You decide it’s safer to take them by the wrist for a steadier hold to prevent further injury. 

You sneak a quick check of their pulse as you crouch down at their side.  Their heart rate is worrisomely slow. You bite your lip and prepare both of you to stand.  “This is gonna hurt,” you admit as gently as you can. Then, before either of you can back out, you sling their muscled arm over your shoulders and encourage them to their feet.

They cry out in pain as they stand.  Their skin is cold as ice, but the blood streaming down their side and seeping through the pants of your scrubs is warm. 

Wind whistles and the first bites of freezing rain sting against your cheeks.  “Move,” you beg them. Every shuffling step is a struggle and you wonder what could be so important in their backpack that they couldn’t leave it behind for you to retrieve after they were inside. 

With the extra weight, the trip down the alley feels like a mile.  But finally, you reach your building where the railing of the staircase can take the brunt of your companion’s weight.  Your relief is soon replaced with curiosity, however, as you follow them down to your basement apartment. Now that you have a good view of their back, your breath catches in your throat.  It wasn’t as you thought. They aren’t carrying a pack at all. You blink as you take in the patterns of their shell, its scutes painted and chipped and scarred.

Your eyes narrow on the faded kanji and relax again when your companion turns their soft gaze upon you.  The characters on their shell speak of anger, but other than the weapon they'd brandished in defense, you’ve been witness to none of that.  In fact, as you move around them in the small space to unlock your door, you don't think you've ever felt as safe as you do with them standing at your back.

[undermounts]

Bound—Chapter 11: Jump

AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: The hunters become the hunted.

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

Chapter warnings: blood and violence

                               Oslo, Norway, 2042

Diana stood below a large split-flap display, comparing all of the departing ferries from Oslo. She rubbed her eyes as the small white letters came in and out of focus and leaned into Gaius’s side. After a seven-hour train ride, they finally stood in the ferry terminal in Oslo, trying to find the next departing boat.

“The next ferry leaves at four for Copenhagen,” Diana noted, her thumb absently brushing over the back of his hand. “But we won’t arrive until around noon.” She glanced up at him. “Can you…?”

Gaius’s jaw was tense and he didn’t exactly look too happy about their prospects, but he nodded. “I’ll be fine. I can manage until we find a place to go. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

Diana nodded, squeezing his hand once before pulling hers out of his coat pocket. She turned towards the ticket office. “I’ll go get the tickets. Just sit tight, alright?”

Half an hour later, they stepped off the gangway from the terminal and onto the ferry boat, ready to settle in for yet another long trip. As they entered the main seating area, Diana paused, cringing as Gaius swore beside her.

Massive windows lined the sides of the boat, looking out at the dark blue sea and the gradually lightening sky beyond. Windows were not a problem for Diana, but Gaius on the other hand… 

Diana bundled his sleeve in her fist and pulled him forward, out of the entryway. “I’m sure we can find someplace without any windows.”

They circled the entire room twice in a fruitless search for a pair of seats that weren’t in view of the wide windows before giving up, settling for a cushioned booth tucked into a far corner whose view was at least partially shadowed by the wall and a structural pillar. Scowling, Gaius slid into the booth first and Diana followed, setting their bags on the floor before them.

“You’re just going to have to keep your hood up, Gaius,” Diana advised, tugging on the material of his coat for good measure. “And if you feel any sun just tell me and I’ll try to block it.”

Gaius huffed and gently slapped her hand away, readjusting his hood and shoving his hands into his pockets. Diana rolled her eyes. Apparently, he could fuss over her but didn’t like when she did the same.

Diana studied his profile as he glared at the floor, jaw clenched, and got the sense he wasn’t just irritated because of the long ferry ride or the oncoming daylight. She nudged his shoulder, her voice taking on a softer tone. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

Sighing, he lifted his head and folded his arms across his chest, glancing at her sidelong. Honestly?

Diana nodded, resting her hand on his knee.

“Things could be better,” he admitted, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the chair’s headrest. 

“Because of what the woman said,” Diana inferred, biting the inside of her cheek. The First will walk again, Second Son, and you will pay for your betrayal. In your blood and hers. A reiteration of the old prophecy, one that had already come to fruition and found resolution. But still, recalling it sent a shiver down her spine. “About Rheya.”

“Yes.” Gaius rubbed his temples and a muscle in his jaw feathered. “The Daughters want to bring her back.”

Diana pursed her lips, toying with her necklace as she stared out the window at the rolling waves. They had begun to move. “But they can’t. Even if they got the…” Her eyes strayed to the duffel bag that contained the Vessel. “They don’t have her ashes. Those dispersed years ago.”

“I imagine they’re aware of that. They clearly know what the Vessel is, what it does, and what it requires,” Gaius said under his breath, speaking lowly. “And yet they still want it. Which makes me wonder if they’ve found a way around it. Or a remedy to it.”

Diana’s frown deepened and she pulled her hand away, slouching in her chair and resting her ankle on her knee as she thought.  “They wanted the amulet, too. The Mercurian Compass”

Gaius’s brows drew together, a crease forming between them. “Mercurius... He’s a Roman god.”

“Of?”  Diana tilted her head. She didn’t know much about Roman mythology. After seeing how important the history of Ancient Rome was to her now, she was starting to regret not taking Classics in college.

“Many things,” Gaius hummed, picking at a loose thread in his coat. “Wealth, commerce, communications, trickery, merchants, thieves…” Gaius’s shoulders suddenly tensed. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Travelers and boundaries.”

Diana sat forward, sensing the shift in his focus. “You’ve realized something. What is it?”

“The Mercurian Compass.” Gaius raked a hand through his hair and readjusting his hood, then slouched down, his posture mirroring hers. “Mercury and a compass, two symbols related to traveling. My guess,” he mused, gaze lazily swinging to the duffel bag on the ground, “is that if our amulet is aptly named, its function has something to do with transportation. Specifically, traversing boundaries.”

Diana tugged the amulet out from beneath her sweater and studied it, chewing hard on her lip. Gaius stiffened beside her and she heard his rebuke in her head. You’re wearing it?

I thought it best to keep it close. Diana barely spared him a glance as she drew its chain over her head and weighed it in her hand. Its power still lay dormant, unresponsive. Diana held it up, dangling it by the chain, and watched as it swayed in time to the boat’s gentle rocking motion, the pale green stone shining in the fluorescent lights. 

“You think it can… teleport people?” Diana raised her eyebrows. Even saying it aloud sounded absurd. But she supposed stranger things had happened. Much stranger.

“Distance is just another sort of boundary.” When she glanced over, she saw that Gaius was watching the Compass swing back and forth, his face drawn. “As is time.”

Diana wrapped the chain around her hand, gripping the pendant in her palm as she narrowed her eyes and sat up straight. “No. If you’re saying what I think you’re saying… Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a theory,” Gaius scowled, although the expression lacked any fire. He just looked weary. He exhaled, head lolling to the side so she couldn’t see his expression. “It would make sense. Why they want it.”

Diana glanced between him and the Compass, an ache starting to form behind her eyes. Although this pain, she knew, was not the result of an oncoming vision. This was fatigue and frustration, pure and simple.

Scowling, Diana looped the amulet back around her neck, tucking it safely beneath her clothes. The metal felt warm against her skin, its weight comfortable atop her chest. “Well, whether your absurd theory is true or not—and for the record, I think it isn’t—the Daughters of Rheya won’t get it. I won’t let them.”

“That much,” Gaius murmured, “we can agree on.”

Diana smirked and shook her head, pulling out her phone to entertain herself. “Get some sleep while you can. You’re going to need all of your strength to face the sun.”

Gaius didn’t seem inclined to listen. He shifted in his seat, studying her face. “What do you know of the Roman gods, Diana?”

Diana’s brows lowered and she glanced up at him. “Not much. Why?”

“Your name,” he replied, tone thoughtful. “It’s Roman.”

She locked her phone and dropped it into her lap. “Is it?”

“Mm. There’s a Roman goddess named Diana. Goddess of the Hunt, Mistress of the Night,” he tilted his head, the gesture purely feline as his lip quirked. “Perhaps you were fittingly named,” Gaius wondered aloud and Diana’s lips drew into a frown. As if he could sense her displeasure, he straightened, giving her a look of cool appraisal. “That makes you uncomfortable. To be compared to the gods. You didn’t like it when the Little Folk revered you either.” His eyes narrowed, assessing. “Why?”

Oh, Diana did not like his tone one bit. It sounded as if he thought that he knew something about her she didn’t.

“The last two people I met that claimed to be gods were power-hungry sycophants,” Diana snapped, expecting him to scowl but his face remained impassive.

“Rheya and I were fools, yes,” Gaius admitted, his voice carefully neutral as he regarded her. “We had the power, but not the sense or the means to wield it properly. But you…” His eyes were fixed on hers, gaze unwavering. “You do. Twenty years have gone by and it has  not consumed you.”

“You said it yourself. Twenty years is nothing in the face of eternity.” Diana shuddered, drawing her coat tighter around her although she knew that it wasn’t the cold air that chilled her bones. “Rheya ruled with a steady hand for a while, but we all know how that turned out. I could end up like her one day, with or without Demetrius’s influence corrupting me.”

“No,” Gaius said simply. “I don’t think you will.”

Diana stared at him for a long moment before she scoffed, carelessly waving her hand in the air between them. “Well, surely, now that you think so, it can’t possibly happen. So, thank you, Gaius, for your vote of confidence.”

Diana knew she was just being coarse because she was irritated and tired of all of these damn mysteries, but to his credit, Gaius didn’t seem bothered by her attitude. He merely raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between her hand and her face. She wondered if his immunity to her attitude developed because he could be equally gruff and knew how to put up with it or because he knew what it was like to be at your worst and feel out of control. After all, he’d been trapped at that point for three thousand years. 

Have you ever had a bad day? he had asked her once, long ago on another boat in the middle of the South Pacific. I don’t mean a day that was bad. I mean a day when you were bad. When you were cruel and short-tempered? When you lashed out at those you loved? When you woke up the next morning and thought, ‘god, how could I have done those things?’

“You think having that much power is a bad thing. You’re scared of what it will do to you and what you will do with it.” Gaius’s voice was soft but not weak. He wasn’t accusing her, just stating the truths she already knew but was unwilling to face.

Diana stared at him, jaw clenched, but did not disagree.

“You don’t have to be afraid of your power,” he went on quietly. “Not all gods were cruel and indifferent. Many were protectors. Diana was a protector. A protector of nature, of women and children, of slaves and the oppressed. And I think that could be you, too, when you come into your own.”

Diana opened her mouth to protest, to tell him he had too much faith in her, when she heard his voice in her head. Just… think about it, Diana.

She pursed her lips but nodded anyways. Diana tugged on his hood once more, concealing his face from the rising dawn. “Get some sleep, Gaius. It’s been a long night and it’ll be an even longer day.”

His eyes roamed over her face for a long moment and Diana couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he saw when he looked at her like that, as if he could see right through her. But then he nodded and turned away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Diana settled into her chair and scrolled through her social media for a while before deciding to draft up a brief email to Adrian, Kamilah, and Jax, letting them know she had a run-in with the Daughters of Rheya but was otherwise safe and on her way to Denmark. Then, feeling more than a little homesick, she swiped through her photos of her friends and family back at home until the ache in her chest subsided, just a little bit.

                            Diana woke up to the warmth of the sun on her face. 

She squinted, holding her hand in front of her eyes to block the glare of the light reflecting off the frothy sea beyond the window, and angled her face away, her cheek brushing something light and feathery.

Oh.

Gaius’s face was tucked into the side of her neck, his hood pulled up to shield him from the sun save for the tufts of hair that tickled her jaw. As Diana came back to herself, she realized she had been leaning into him just as much as he had been leaning into her. His warm breath, slow and steady ghosted along her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine.

As if they were acting on their own accord, her fingers swept through his dark curls and for a moment, she marveled at how silken they felt against her skin. Then she gently brushed them back from his forehead and pulled his hood into place. Diana sat there, trying not to think too much about the sudden tenderness she felt in her chest as she rested her cheek against the crown of his head and watched the sunlight dance across the crashing waves.

                            Copenhagen, Denmark, 2042

“This place is incredible,” Diana breathed, gaping at the colorful buildings around them, their reflections rippling in the still sea, disrupted only by the gently swaying sailboats that lined the docks. Diana inhaled, her mouth salivating at the scent of grilled meat. Several sausage stands were set up along the waterfront, and Diana was momentarily reminded of the hot dog carts at home, even though these looked significantly more appetizing. “I never thought to visit Copenhagen, but I am so glad we’re here now.”

“Glad to hear it,” Gaius deadpanned and Diana turned to face him, unable to stop the grin that tugged at the corners of her lips.

Oh, he looked positively miserable, with his hood drawn and his coat buttoned all the way up to his throat. Diana couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but she had a feeling he was glaring at her.

Diana schooled her face into one of neutrality, just to humor him and checked the directions on her phone to the hotel she had booked on the ferry. “Come on, it’s not far.”

Gaius merely huffed and begrudgingly followed her through the streets of Copenhagen, only snapping at her once when she lingered too long at a street food cart. As they got farther away from the waterfront, the streets grew quieter and less populated, leaving Diana to marvel at the peaceful atmosphere. At one point, Diana shed her outer layers and couldn’t help but smile at the way her skin warmed beneath the sun, its rays unobstructed by clothing or even panes of glass.

You’ve missed this, Gaius observed and Diana glanced back at him, shifting her backpack on her shoulders.

Yes, she replied, leading them around another corner. But I didn’t even realize it until now.

Why do you keep the night hours? Gaius matched her stride, now walking beside her. If you can go out whenever you want?

Diana half shrugged. Habit. Back in New York, all of my friends didn’t have a choice but to only go out at night, and I wanted to be with them, so…

A beat of silence, then, You know, just because I have to avoid the sun doesn’t mean you have to stick with me. You don’t have to stay up all night dealing with my memories.

Diana raised her eyebrows at him, then looped her arm through his and offered him a bashful smile. I know. But I want to.

Gaius’s step faltered beside her and Diana watched his brow knit behind his glasses, his Adam's apple dipping tantalizingly beneath the collar of his coat. Then he huffed and kept walking, pointedly staring straight ahead, although he didn’t bother to shake her off.

They turned down an isolated sidestreet overlooked by wrought-iron balconies decorated with potted plants. They were about halfway down the block when Gaius slowed, his arm stiffening against hers. Diana felt his wariness wash over her.

Diana…

Diana just barely detected the softest of thuds and began to turn when something punched through her knee, the shock settling in milliseconds before the pain. She cried out wordlessly, her grip on Gaius and her bags loosening as she fell to the ground, glimpsing the crossbow bolt that jutted out of her leg. As Diana’s vision whited out, there was a rustle of fabric, a grunt, and then—

“Traitor.”

Hearing that ignited something in Diana’s blood and her anger overwhelmed her pain. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to get to her feet, about to rip the bolt out of her knee as she turned, snarling, “You know, I’m getting really sick of you guys and this ‘traitor’ bullshit—”

Diana halted in her tracks, grimace falling from her face.

Dressed in slim black pants, a white-sleeved shirt, and a cloak of emerald green was Serafine Dupont, a crossbow strapped across her back, one gloved hand holding a dagger, the other outstretched. But not towards her.

Diana’s heart plummeted. “Gaius!”

Gaius was on his knees at Serafine’s feet, back curved like a bow as he hunched over, hands splayed on the ground before him. He was breathing hard, swearing, as he fought against Serafine’s control. His hood was shoved back, glasses discarded so that his skin was fully exposed to the sun. There were yet to be any serious effects, but Diana could sense his discomfort through the bond, harsh and stinging.

Diana glared at Serafine, her hands clenched into fists. “Stop this, Serafine. Now.”

“Give me what I want,” Serafine countered, breathless. She was winded, a blush high in her cheeks as if it were taking everything she had to keep Gaius down. “The Vessel of Gabal and the Mercurian Compass. I know you have them.” Her dark eyes scanned Diana. “I can sense it.”

“No.” Diana shook her head, drawing her power up, feeling it roil beneath her skin, begging to be released.

“Don’t!” Serafine’s eyes widened and she clenched her fist, causing Gaius to grunt and collapse to his elbows. “If you even try to touch my mind, I will shred his, Diana, I swear it.”

Diana stilled, eyes narrowing. She was almost certain that she could easily overpower Serafine and stop her from doing any real damage but… She glanced at Gaius and felt her chest crumple. It wasn’t a risk she was willing to take.

“Think about what you’re doing, Serafine,” Diana pleaded, meeting her gaze. “You want to avenge Rheya—”

“I am going to bring her back,” Serafine snapped with such fervor, Diana almost winced. This was the woman who had helped her, Adrian, and Jax. Who had given them shelter when they needed it and came to their aid in New York when the city was in ruins. She wasn’t supposed to be her enemy. “And I have thought long and hard about this—about him,” she waved the dagger in her other hand at Gaius, “the Second Son who betrayed our Goddess—and how he will pay.”

“Yeah, well I’m the one who killed her,” Diana said coolly, subtly testing her weight on her injured leg. It couldn’t fully heal because the bolt was still lodged in it, but the pain had subsided enough to provide some mobility. “So let him go.”

Serafine’s eyes softened for just a fraction and Diana had the inclination that the other woman didn’t want to fight her either, although Diana knew she still would. “You didn’t know better, Diana. You still don’t. If you help me bring her back, you’ll see it was all a misunderstanding and—”

Serafine cut herself off, her eyes suddenly widening. Her gaze fell to Diana’s neck, following an invisible line that trailed to her chest and traveled just below the hem of her shirt. Serafine’s lips parted and she breathed, “The Compass.”

When her eyes met Diana’s once again, Diana knew there was no reasoning with her anymore. 

Diana held up a cautioning hand. “Serafine, I don’t want to fight you—”

Diana watched in horror as Serafine brutally twisted her fist, jolting her wrist up, and Gaius went sprawling to the ground, limp and unmoving. Diana felt his presence in the corporeal plane extinguish like a match in the wind. No.

Serafine launched herself forward, slashing at Diana’s outstretched hand with her knife. Diana distantly felt the blade’s sting as it sliced through her hand. She took a half step back as Serafine ran at her, protectively covering the amulet with her bloodied hand while the other swung up, emitting a psychic burst of energy. 

Several things happened at once. Serafine was thrown back, body colliding with a nearby wall. Diana felt horrible pain flare tear through her very soul, radiating from the bond she shared with Gaius, who still had not moved. And the Mercurian Compass flared to life, steadily emitting a brilliant light.

Diana watched Serafine shakily get up on an elbow, her eyes widening at the spectacle.

There was a voice—no, thousands of voices that spoke all at once, all of them cold and ancient. It sent a violent shiver through her body as it asked, Where?

Diana had the sudden sensation that her body was being pulled in every direction. Meanwhile, waves of pain continued to roll through the bond, tearing Diana’s focus into two.

Where? the voices repeated, louder this time, and Diana had the suspicion that if she didn’t give them a destination, they would pick one for her. Another flare of pain radiated through the bond and Diana gasped aloud, pleading, “Somewhere safe!”

Diana barely had enough time to scoop up the duffel bag containing the Vessel and dive for Gaius, her arms pulling him against her chest before she disappeared in a flash of light.

                            Somewhere

Diana felt the impact of her knees hitting hard-packed earth and fought back a scream through gritted teeth. Distantly, she heard the end of the crossbow bolt snap and her vision went red. Everything hurt. Everything—

Clarity struck Diana like a blow and she remembered Gaius, heavy in her arms. She gazed down at him, his body half in her lap, still unconscious, his breathing shallow.

“Oh, god,” she croaked, her eyes blurring. Looking at him, so unresponsive, his presence in the world dim, she felt as if her soul were being torn in two. She lifted his head, brushing some straw away from his face—apparently, they had landed in a pile of hay in some sort of barn. Diana heard chickens cluck somewhere nearby but she blocked out her surroundings, focusing only on the man in her arms. She pressed her forehead to his and followed the pain that flooded through their bond, all the way back to its source, and dove into his mind.

Diana is back on the battlefield, in the hellish dreamscape of the first nightmare she’d ever seen of his.

Without even taking a moment to orient herself, she takes off running, following the tether in her chest to its anchor, the other half of her whole. Fires are blazing and dying men reach out, brushing her bare ankles as she hurls herself forward, unwilling to stop for even a fraction of a second.

Diana finds him kneeling amongst the dead, head bowed and shoulders rigid. She sees herself, bleeding out in his arms, watches as her bloody hand covers his on the hilt of a knife and begins to push the fine tip against his chest.

No. 

Diana rips the blade out of their hands, stopping it from piercing flesh and collapses to her knees. Her other self dissolves on a phantom wind and Gaius looks up at her, his eyes, red with grief, widening in surprise.

“Diana,” he whispers and she takes his hand, holding onto it like he’s her only lifeline, and pulls.

Gaius gasped, his chest heaving with deep, gulping breaths. His eyes looked around wildly, taking in the rustic interior of the barn they somehow found themselves in, miles away from Copenhagen, before they finally settled on Diana.

His fingertips skimmed over his own chest, then brushed against her cheek. “Diana.”

Diana sobbed, both in relief and joy, and threw her arms around him.

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