#drawn while watching yellow submarine. again

[mystical-one]

he burnt his finger </3 [IG]

[kanerallels]

"There is no unspoken thing between us."

"Well, that's a Catch-22. Because if you said there was, it would be spoken, and then you'd be a liar. So by saying there isn't, you're telling the truth, and admitting there is."

Marvel quote—and you know which couple this is for 😉

Oh, you KNOW I do!!!

Pairing: Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla

Word Count: 3,559

Warnings/Tags: Rated G (for the fetching green vest Kanan's wearing)

Read on AO3!

Having deep cover operatives in the Empire was an important part of running a spy network. They gave Kanan some of his best information and helped him sneak the objects of the Empire’s rage right out from under the ISB’s nose more often than not.

But it could be a little inconvenient when he needed to pick up data from them. Because it almost inevitably involved him getting into some kind of ridiculous disguise and sneaking into some place the Empire didn’t want him in.

Case in point, he thought wryly, smoothing down the front of the fancy vest he was wearing over his dress shirt. “How do I look?” he asked, his voice quiet enough that none of the guests around him could hear.

“Ridiculous as always,” Kasmir’s voice came from the earpiece he wore, and Kanan rolled his eyes. The rest of the Yellow Submarine’s crew had demanded that he wear it, partially because they were bored and partially because Kasmir claimed Kanan had a habit of not giving them proper updates about what was going on. So they’d hacked the security cameras, and Kanan was set up with an earpiece. “Otherwise you’re fine. Remind me what your plan is again?”

Claiming a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter, Kanan muttered, “Blend in while I wait for our contact to drop off the intel at the dead drop, then go there as soon as I get the signal. After that I get the kriff out of here as soon as possible.”

As he took a drink of the bubbly drink, Ezra said, “Sounds boring. Actually, this whole party looks boring. Just a bunch of grown ups in fancy clothing drinking alcohol and sucking up to each other.”

“Welcome to adult parties for the rich and tyrannical,” Kasmir told him, and Kanan had to stifle a grin. “They all suck.”

Unfortunately, Kanan couldn’t disagree. The Empire’s parties mainly consisted of flaunting their fabulousness to everyone else, but really just came off as self-absorbed. Luckily for him, this particular party had been incredibly easy to sneak into.

Taking another sip from the champagne glass, Kanan swept a glance around the room again-- and spotted his contact. The light-haired man, clad in a dark dress uniform, swept out of a door, his steps brisk and business-like as he passed by. He didn't give Kanan a backwards glance, but Kanan could tell he knew he was there.

“Alright, I'm on the move,” he said softly.

“About time,” Kasmir complained. “This is incredibly boring.”

Stepping through the doorway his contact had come out of, Kanan pointed out, “You're the ones who wanted to listen in.”

“Yeah, but I prefer blaming you,” the Kalleran said as Kanan moved into the room. It was some kind of sitting room, with a few armchairs here and there, and a small table in one corner.

Tuning out Kasmir, who was continuing to grumble, Kanan began searching the room. The table turned up nothing, so he moved to one of the armchairs. Dropping into it, he slid his hands down the side and into the cracks. A grin spread across his face as one hand encountered a slim rectangular shape. Bingo.

Pulling the datacard out, Kanan slipped it into the pocket of his vest. Cutting off Kasmir, he said, “I've got the intel. On my way out.”

He slipped out of the sitting room again, and a quick glance around the room made it clear that he’d been neither missed nor spotted. Time to get out of here, he thought.

Making a beeline for the door, Kanan paused to swipe a mini jogan cream cake from a waiter. He popped it in his mouth-- and nearly choked at the sound of a familiar laugh. A far too familiar laugh.

Spinning around, Kanan searched the crowd behind him. No way. No kriffing way. But even as he thought it, his gaze landed on where a handful of people were dancing to the elegant music in the background. And his eyes were drawn to a green-skinned Twi’lek woman, dancing with an Imperial officer and wearing a smile he knew had to be fake.

Some kind of makeup obscured the markings on Hera’s lekku, and she was a ways away from Kanan, but he’d recognize her anywhere. Especially that voice, which he could hear speaking in her native Ryl accent even from that distance. Who knew she had an accent? He mused.

“KANAN!!”

Kanan nearly jumped when he heard Kasmir shout his name in his earpiece. “Kriffing-- don’t do that,” he hissed, turning away from the crowd so no one would see him moving his lips.

“What are you hesitating for? It’s time to get out of there,” Kasmir urged. “We’re not even supposed to be here, ya know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Kanan said. “I just, uh, might not be back right away.”

“What? Why not-- oooh. Mini kid, check the cams.”

“On it!” Ezra chirped in the background.

Ignoring them, Kanan turned back to the crowd, scanning until he spotted Hera again, still dancing with the same Imp, her movements graceful. What is she doing here? If someone spots her-- okay, calm down, Kanan. She can take care of herself, and you’re not technically responsible for watching her back.

No matter how much you wished you were, whispered some part of him, the part of him that occasionally told him to please forget all of the spy stuff and talk to Hera.

In his ear, there was a gasp. “I KNEW IT. Hera’s here, guys!!!” Ezra’s voice was unreasonably excited as he spoke. “What is she doing here? Kanan, does she know you’re here? Are you gonna talk to her? What do you think she’ll--”

“Kasmir,” Kanan said, cutting off his apprentice, “I’m going off coms. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“You’re doing WHAT? Wait, kid, don’t you dare--”

Kasmir's voice was abruptly cut off as Kanan plucked his earpiece out and stuck it in his pocket. He had no doubt he'd be getting a good chewing out over this later from Kasmir. But Kanan also had a feeling it would be worth it.

He headed toward the dancers, weaving through the crowd and keeping his gaze locked on Hera. As he drew closer, he felt his heartbeat pick up slightly.

Hera was always beautiful, there was no denying that. When Kanan had first met her, he'd been literally incapable of speech standing across from her. And he had a feeling he was going to have a very similar problem now.

She wore a dark red dress, the short sleeves made of a dark gauzy fabric. Silver lace patterns covered the whole thing, shimmering in the light with Hera's every movement. It was mesmerizing.

Kanan suddenly realized he was staring. Kriff. Alright, try and focus, Jarrus.

Slipping past a few more guests, he stepped out of the crowd and onto the dance floor just as Hera and her partner moved up near him. “May I cut in?” he asked.

The Imperial officer dancing with Hera looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at Kanan changed his mind quickly. He stepped back, and Kanan moved forward smoothly, sweeping Hera back into the dance.

Hera’s gaze flicked up to him, a demure smile crossing her face-- and Kanan saw the moment when she realized it was him and not some Imperial. “Wha-- Kanan?”

~ ~ ~

As Hera gaped at him in shock, she saw a grin crossing Kanan’s face. “I’d bet this is the last place you expected to see me,” he said, his deep voice low and remarkably self satisfied.

“You could say that,” Hera agreed, recovering quickly.

It hadn’t been too difficult to slip into the party. All Hera had had to do was bat her eyelashes a few times and the Imps were basically falling over themselves to let her in. While it was useful, it did also get on her nerves a little, even if she was used to the way most people looked at her species these days.

Kanan, on the other hand, didn’t exactly have the same qualifications. Frowning, she asked, “How did you get in here?”

“Does it matter?” Kanan kept his voice low as they kept dancing, and Hera had to admit-- he was a good dancer, better than she would have expected.

He was also dressed better than she would have expected-- a crisp olive green dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up, under an emerald green vest with a high collar, trousers of the same olive green, and brown boots. His hair was back in it’s usual ponytail, and he wore a slight grin.

He looked good-- which Hera would never give him the satisfaction of admitting. She would only admit to herself how her heartbeat sped up slightly at his proximity, at the feeling of his hand resting on her waist.

Taking a quick breath, she said, “Probably not. Although I do wonder what you’re doing here, I have to admit.”

“Free hors d’oeuvres,” Kanan said breezily. “Nothing tastes better than expensive Imperial wine, especially when you’re not supposed to drink it. How about you? I have a feeling you’re not here for the canapes, or whatever they’re serving.”

“Not exactly,” Hera said. “But I’m not sure talking to you about it is the best idea. After all, you’ve made it very clear you’re not interested.”

“Really? That’s what you think? I thought you knew that wasn’t true at all.”

Giving him a look, Hera said, “In the cause.”

“Oh, that.” Kanan made a face. “I liked what I was talking about better.”

“I’m sure you did.”

A slight smile curved Kanan’s mouth, and he studied her for a few seconds as they danced. “When are we going to do something about this unspoken thing we have going on?”

“What?” Hera blinked, surprised that he’d actually said something. “No-- there’s no unspoken thing between us.”

Shrugging, Kanan deftly spun her out as he said, “Well, that’s a Catch-22, because if you said there was, it would be spoken and you’d be a liar. So by saying there isn’t--” he pulled her back in, this time closer than she had been. Hera felt her heartbeat pick up again at the sheer closeness of him.

“--you’re telling the truth and admitting there is,” Kanan finished. His gaze caught hers, and he studied her for a moment with those teal eyes of his. Hera saw his eyes drop to her lips, and caught her breath, wondering for a moment what he would do, and how she would react to it.

Focus, Hera, she told herself sternly. You need to finish up here and get back to the crew. Clearing her throat, she said, “I don’t really have time for your flirting, dear. I have a mission to finish, sooner rather than later.”

“What’s your rush?” Kanan asked lightly.

“Well, let’s just say I have a new crew member, and I’d prefer to get back before she destroys the ship,” Hera said wryly. “She’s a little… temperamental.”

“Sounds like fun,” Kanan said. “Alright, how can I help?”

Giving Kanan an unimpressed look, Hera said, “We just had this conversation. You don’t want anything to do with the cause.”

“You know me so well,” Kanan said, smirking. “But I’m not doing this for the cause. Trust me.”

The pointed intonation at the end of his sentence didn’t really surprise Hera. However, that wasn’t exactly about to change her answer. “That’s not terribly reassuring,” she said.

“Hey, you know I’m capable,” Kanan pointed out. “And you don’t have to trust me here. But I’m willing to help.

“Alright-- what are you asking in return?” Hera asked.

To her surprise, a stung look flashed across Kanan’s face. “Nothing. I’m not always looking for some kind of payout, you know.”

Kriff. Hera grimaced, well aware she’d put her foot in her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, coming to a stop on the dance floor and making sure she had Kanan’s attention. “That was stupid of me. You’re right, and I should have seen it. I know you better than that.”

And she did, strange though it seemed.

“Thanks,” Kanan said quietly, his voice serious for once. He paused, then said, “Now where are we going?”

Hera paused, darting a glance around the room. Luckily, the owner of the house was distracted at the bar. “This way,” she told him, grabbing him by the hand. She pulled him off the dance floor and through the crowd, heading for a door on the far side of the room. Kanan followed her willingly, and together they slipped through the door in question.

The door led them into a dark hallway, and Hera led the way forward, Kanan on her heels. “Let’s hope we don’t run into any other party-goers,” she muttered. “This could be a potential awkward situation.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I hear public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable,” Kanan suggested, and Hera let out a sigh.

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not unless I have to. What’s the plan here?”

“I’m trying to break into the main office,” Hera told him. “It should be a little ways away from here. All you need to do is watch my back. Oh, and come up with a good excuse if we’re caught.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Kanan said easily. “Just lead the way, Captain Hera.”

They didn’t have far to go before they reached the door Hera had been looking for, and stepped inside. The office was large and elaborate, with wood panelling and an extremely expensive vase on the desk.

Moving behind the desk, Hera booted up the console and pulled up her skirt to reveal the holster strapped to her leg, holding her blaster and a datacard to download the intel she needed. Pulling out the datacard, she glanced at Kanan, fully expecting him to be watching her.

To her surprise, he had his gaze fixed on the door, and was rather steadfastly not looking at her. Maybe he’s got a bit of chivalry left after all, Hera mused. Who would have thought?

She let her skirt drop and inserted the datacard into the console, tapping at the screen to find the information she needed. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” she told Kanan.

Glancing back at Hera, Kanan said, “Well, that’s good. This way, we might have time for something else. Maybe a little more dancing, that kind of thing.”

“What part of ‘I need to get back to my ship before a teenage Mandalorian tears it to pieces’ did you not understand?” Hera shot back.

“Oh, come on,” Kanan said with a sigh. “Seriously, though-- when was the last time you did anything for yourself instead of your cause? You deserve a night off.”

“And it just happens to be with you?” Hera said, feeling a smile twitch across her lips in spite of herself.

Kanan shrugged nonchalantly, a gleam in his eye. “It’s an added bonus.”

“Hmm.” For a moment, Hera let herself think about what it would be like to just spend the rest of the night out. Dancing, food, maybe a little flirting. It sounded fun. Like something she might have done in a different world, if she hadn’t been fighting the Empire, and she’d met Kanan under different circumstances. “That sounds… nice. Fun, even.”

“Can’t let the Empire stop you from having fun,” Kanan pointed out, leaning against the desk as he caught her gaze. “I’ll buy you a drink. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself--”

Then Hera saw him freeze, his eyes going wide. “What is--” she started, and the door hissed open.

“Wha-- what are you doing in here?” demanded a brusque Imperial voice, and the owner of the house stalked into view. Hera saw a “well, kriff” expression flash across Kanan’s face.

“Wait-- are you--” the owner started. Moving fast, Kanan grabbed the vase on the desk, spun around and smashed it over the man’s head.

As the Imp crumpled to the ground, Kanan turned to Hera. “Time to go,” he said.

“Definitely,” Hera said as the console let out a beep. “I have what I need anyways.” Pulling out the datacard, she slipped it back into her holster, and she and Kanan made for the door.

They hadn’t gotten far before an alarm started going off. “Looks like we’ve been spotted,” Kanan muttered, his brows furrowing.

“Do you have a ride out of here?” Hera asked.

“Yeah-- follow me.”

Kanan headed back the way they’d come, pushing open the door that lead into the room where the party was being held. Hera hesitated for a second, then darted after him as he shouldered his way through the somewhat confused crowd.

They’d made it halfway through the crowd when the doors burst open, and an irate voice shouted, “STOP THAT TWI’LEK!!”

Hera heard Kanan breathe a curse quietly as she pulled her blaster out from under her dress. “Keep things stealthy until we don’t have to,” she muttered.

“Yeah, that’s going really well so far,” he hissed.

“You’re the one who smashed a vase over someone’s head!”

“Well, you shot down my other idea!”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Hera said, “So help me, you’re going to drive me--”

She was cut off by a hand clamping down onto her shoulder. “Here she is!” someone shouted. “I’ve caught the intrud-- ugh!”

Hera spun smoothly, twisting away from the man who’d grabbed her, and slammed her fist into his throat. As the man dropped to the ground, clutching at his throat, Kanan grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward. “Remind me never to make you that mad,” he said.

“You’ve come very close, dear,” Hera shot back.

“Have I mentioned you look amazing tonight?”

“You’re not helping your situation. Wait-- are we heading for the window?”

“You’re about to find out how I got into this place,” Kanan said, a grim smile crossing his face.

Releasing Hera’s hand, he didn’t stop in his tracks as he grabbed a bar stool and heaved it through the window, shattering the glass. Shards of it flew everywhere, and Hera heard screams as Kanan came to a stop next to the window.

“Come on!” he said, holding out his hand.

Hera darted forward, glancing down as Kanan’s hand wrapped around hers. A speeder was parked a few feet below them. “Creative,” she observed.

“I’m a creative guy,” Kanan quipped, then ducked as blaster fire zipped past them. Lifting her own blaster, Hera shot back at the stormtroopers who were flooding into the room. “Time to go!” Kanan said, and jumped, Hera leaping after him.

They landed in the speeder in an undignified pile, and Kanan immediately scrambled into the passenger’s seat. “Get us out of here!”

“On it,” Hera said, switching on the speeder and tossing Kanan her blaster. “Make yourself useful, please!”

“Yes, Captain Hera,” Kanan said, lifting his blaster and firing at the stormtroopers that were crowding into the window. Hera let out a triumphant sound as the engines roared to life.

“We’re out of here.” Slamming on the acceleration, they leaped forward. Kanan let out an undignified yelp, and Hera suppressed a smile as they zipped away from the building and into traffic.

It didn’t take them long to disappear, out of sight from the Imperials. Leaning back in his seat, Kanan remarked, “It’s been way too long since I’ve flown with you. You’re still as incredible as you used to be.”

Hera felt a small smile flash across her face. Kanan’s real compliments were somehow much nicer than his casual flirting. “Thanks. Now, where are we heading?”

“You can drop me off up here,��� Kanan said, pointing. “It’s not technically my speeder, so you can take it wherever you need to go.” Pausing, he added, “Or we could find something to eat. Have a drink, maybe…”

Hera found herself hesitating, to her own surprise. Because part of her wanted to say yes, which she definitely didn’t expect. Maybe some of that flirting was actually starting to rub off on her.

But at the end of the day, she was working with the Rebellion, and Kanan refused to commit to something like that. And she really did have to get back. “Not this time,” she said, bringing them to a stop at the roadside. “I have work to do. Thank you, though, for your help with this.”

“Any time,” Kanan said, giving her a half-smile. “Until next time, Captain Hera.” Catching hold of her hand, he bent down and pressed a gentle kiss against the back of it.

Hera’s eyes widened, a slight flush spreading over her at the unexpected gesture, and Kanan shot her a wink. “Couldn’t let you leave without a souvenir, could I?” He vaulted over the side of the speeder and headed down the street, looking supremely satisfied.

Despite herself, Hera felt a smile crossing her face. Typical Kanan. Gunning the engines, she took off down the street, heading back to the Ghost and her next mission. Trying to pretend like a certain gunslinger wasn’t still in the back of her mind.

She had a feeling that wouldn’t work very well, though. Kanan never made things like that easy. But Hera was starting to wonder if she actually minded.

[strawberryreels]

Yellow Submarine (1968)

Rating before seeing the movie: Nic: 9 Vic: 8.9

Rating after seeing the movie: Nic: 12 Vic: 9.5

What you did like about the movie:

The backgrounds, they were creative, a lot to look at.

The songs, Nic was half singing to them.

JEREMY HILLARY BOOB PH.D

The sound effects were good.

The puns, oh the puns.

The friendship between them.

The content of the animation over the quality, it was prettily drawn and had very creative scenes.

What you didn’t like about the movie:

The quality of the animation but that’s expected for the time. (Vic)

Particularly memorable scene: Vic: Any scene with the blue meanies. I’m going to have nightmares. Nic: All the songs.

Would you watch it again: Vic: MAYBE? IT’S AN ACID TRIP THOUGH. Nic: Yes. Always. I watched it as a child and I always love it.

Reflections: Vic: “My god this was an acid trip and the whole movie seemed so much shorter than it actually was?” Nic: “I watched this as a child and honestly, it’s part of what developed my music tastes. I love this movie a lot, I always will. I was raised in a house that loved Elvis and 90s pop music but I loved The Beatles, I was kinda weird to everyone else, and I’m always going to be thankful to the uncle that introduced me to them with this movie. I don’t care if people call it an acid trip or say the animation isn’t up to standard. I love it.”

Final quotes: Vic: “While I wasn’t a huge fan of the animation or the Beatles before this movie, I found out I already knew a few Beatles songs.” Nic: “Always a good watch, I found myself singing to the songs and feeling genuine happiness and nostalgia from it.”

[thelastspeecher]

Stanuary ‘20 - Week Three: AUs

I’ve been busy working on my Master’s thesis and thus haven’t been able to do any Stanuary yet.  But now that I’m basically done (just gotta drop my thesis off at the thesis library Friday) I’m hoping to do all four weeks.  Just....not in chronological order.  Anyways, the prompt for week three was practically MADE for me.  Not to brag or anything, but I’m basically the non-binary ruler of AUs.

So, to really go whole hog with the AU prompt, I went with a crossover between two of my favorite AUs: the MerGucket AU and the Stay-at-Home Stan AU.  I’ve written something for this particular crossover before, so this is a follow-up to that.  Basically, Ford does research at sea, and when he has his big blow-up with Bill, jumps overboard, only to be rescued by Stan, who has somehow become a merman during their time apart.  Not just a merman, but a father, too.  Here’s Stan explaining how that came about.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

              Ford stared intently at the multicolored cuttlefish idly swimming by.

              It looks similar to the kraken I saw last month.  Do kraken crossbreed?  Or do juvenile kraken resemble cuttlefish?

              “Uh, Ford?” Stan asked, startling Ford free from his thoughts.  Ford looked over.

              “Yes?”

              “We’re here,” Stan said.  He jerked a thumb behind him.

              “You live in a cliff?” Ford asked.

              “Yeah.”  Stan looked over at the cliff.  “The door’s hidden, though.  Gotta make sure scuba divers or submarines or whatever don’t find us.”  Promptly after offering for Ford to stay at his place temporarily, Stan had led Ford into a partially submerged hidden cave, walked into the water, and transformed into a merman.  The casual nature of the act was off-putting to Ford, but not as much as the mumbled charm Stan had then cast on Ford to allow him to breathe underwater.

              Stan knows spells.  Well, at least one spell.  How is this reality?  How is my high school dropout twin brother a merman with a capacity for magic? Stan’s daughter, Molly, still nestled in his arms, snored loudly.  Stan looked down at her with a fond, loving expression.  Ford’s stomach turned over.  Stan’s not just a merman now.  He’s also a father, and a doting one at that.  Stan whispered something to Molly in a different language.

              “So, um, the door is hidden,” Ford said.  “Where is it?”  Stan looked up.

              “I’ll show you, but I need to get Angie’s brother outta the house, first.”

              “Pardon?”

              “We can’t just leave the eggs unsupervised,” Stan said.

              That’s right.  Stan mentioned something about eggs.

              “Angie’s older brother offered to watch ‘em while we went on our walk. Swim.  Whatever.  But he had a bad experience with a human not too long ago, so I don’t think he’d wanna see you.  Just hide behind that rock or something.”  Stan nodded at a large boulder near Ford.  “Once he’s gone, I’ll let you in.”

              “Okay, but-” Ford started.  Stan ignored him and swam over to the cliff.  Ford let out a sigh.  He ducked behind the boulder and pulled out his journal, flicking through the pages idly. He landed on the page where he had started a drawing of Stan, before he’d recognized the merman he was observing.

              At least I’ll be able to finish this sketch.  I wonder if I can get Stan to sit in this pose again.

----- 

              After about fifteen minutes, which Ford spent writing about this latest development, the sound of voices carried to where Ford was hiding.  Stan said something in the same foreign language he’d spoken in before.  A second voice, which sounded very familiar to Ford, responded in the same tongue. Ford closed his journal and held it close to his chest.  He could make out a flick of a green tail with light yellow fins as Angie’s brother passed the boulder.  The merman disappeared quickly into the distance.

              “All right, you can come in now,” Stan said, appearing next to Ford so suddenly it startled him.  Instead of being carried in Stan’s arms, Molly was now nestled in a sling draped across Stan’s chest.  Ford stared. “C’mon, Sixer.  I gotta put Molly in her actual bed or she’s not gonna sleep well.  She wakes up way too often as it is.”  Ford nodded silently.  He followed Stan to the cliff face, where Stan, with a practiced motion, slipped his fingers into a crack in the rock and pulled.  A portion of rock the size of a door swung open.  

              “Slick,” Ford said.  Stan rolled his eyes.

              “Shut up and get inside.”  Ford hurriedly swam in.  Stan followed, closing the door behind him.  Ford looked around in interest.

              “How is it so light in here?  Do merfolk have lamps?”

              “Uh, sorta,” Stan said, already heading off, deeper into the house.  “They use, um…I don’t know the English word for it.  They grow stuff that glows.”

              “Bioluminescent?” Ford suggested.  Stan shrugged.

              “You can ask Angie.  She might not know the English word, but she can explain it better than I can. Anyways, we have some lamps, but we don’t need them right now.  Enough light gets through the windows.”

              “Windows?”  Ford spun in a circle.  His eyes widened at the sight of a window above a couch.  “I didn’t see this from the outside.  Are they specially designed?”

              “Nah, stole ‘em from sunken ships,” Stan called from wherever he was. “You can’t see ‘em from the outside ‘cause of an optical illusion thing.  If you get close to the cliff, they’re more obvious, but not from a distance.”

              “Remarkable,” Ford muttered.

              “Ford.”  Ford turned around again.  Stan’s head was sticking out of a room down the hall.  “You’ll wanna see this.”

              “Not that I doubt you, but why?”

              “Don’t you wanna check out a mer egg?”

              “A- yes!”  Ford swam over.  When he entered the room, his eyes were immediately drawn to the large basket leaning against one wall.  The basket held two things: Molly, fast asleep and curled up into a ball, and one large, red fish egg.  Ford frowned. “You said eggs.  Plural.”

              “Slip of the tongue.  We haven’t been down to one egg for very long.”

              “Why is the basket so large?”

              “It’s called a guppy basket,” Stan said.  “It’s where eggs go and the baby mers sleep until they outgrow it. Normally, mers have a bare minimum of ten kids at once.  But when one of the parents used to be human…”  Stan trailed off.  Ford looked over at him.  Disappointment had settled on Stan’s face.  Stan noticed Ford looking and cleared his throat hurriedly, wiping away his saddened expression.  “When that happens, there aren’t as many kids.  Angie laid fifteen eggs.  Usually a clutch has at least twenty.  And of those fifteen Angie laid, only two are gonna hatch.”

              “What happened to the other eggs?”

              “Duds,” Stan said flatly.  “Clutches have a lot of duds.  That’s why mers have so many eggs at once.”  He sighed. “It’s fine, though.  I can handle two kids a lot better than I could handle ten.”

              “This is…I’m completely astounded,” Ford said, shaking his head. “You- how-”

              “They taught me a lot,” Stan said with a shrug.  “Even taught me their language, Mermish.”

              Oh, that must be the language he was speaking earlier.

              “Kinda had to,” Stan continued, “since I was born human, not mer.”

              “Yes.  You were.” Ford looked at Stan inquisitorially. “How did you become mer?”

              “I told you.  I fell in love with a mermaid and ate a magic plant.”

              “Give me the unabridged version.  I feel I’m owed that much.”

              “Fine.”  Stan looked over at Molly and the last egg.  “Let’s talk in the living room.  Molly’s a pretty heavy sleeper, but I don’t wanna roll those dice.  Babies are the complete monsters when they get woken up.”

----- 

              Ford settled himself on the couch, attempting to ignore the way his clothes floated upwards, tugging on his skin.  Stan sat across from him in an armchair.  He snickered.

              “What?” Ford asked.

              “You’ve got a cape on, like you’re Super Nerd or somethin’.  Why did you bother wearing that underwater?”

              “I-”  Ford looked back.  Sure enough, his trench coat was spread out behind him like a wedding train.  He scowled and tucked it under him.  “Don’t tease me, Stanley.  I’ve been too shell-shocked by all of this to act upset with you, but by no means am I going to brush what happened ten years ago under the rug.”

              “You’re in no position to make any threats towards me,” Stan said.  “I’m the one who cast the spell so you could breathe underwater.  I can remove it any time I want.”  Ford swallowed.  “Anyways, you wanted to know how I turned into a merman.”

              “…Yes,” Ford said softly.  Stan ignored his brother’s obvious unease.

              If he didn’t want me to threaten him, he shouldn’t have threatened me first.  So what if what I said had a bit more of a bite than he probably expected?  That’s what happens when you mess with merfolk. Stan sighed and settled into his armchair.  

              “All right.  Well, when Pops kicked me out, I took the Stan O’War out to sea.  Not my smartest idea.  Prob’ly shoulda taken the Stanleymobile.  I mean, I sailed into a storm pretty much right away.  I kept trying to bail her out, but it was raining buckets.  I went overboard.  Next thing I knew, I woke up on a beach.  My clothes were soaked, I had no idea where I was, but I wasn’t too worried.”

              “…Why not?”

              “‘Cause one of the prettiest chicks I’ve ever seen had my head in her lap.” Stan grinned at the memory, clear enough to have happened yesterday.  “And I just…I just stared at her.”

----- 

              Stan stared up at the young woman with his head in her lap.  She seemed like a personification of the sea, with eyes as blue as the ocean and hair the color of the beach he used to play on with Ford.  Faint freckles spilled across her nose and cheeks like she had spilled cinnamon but not bothered to wipe it off.  The young woman stared back at him, smiling like she had a secret as she stroked Stan’s hair.

              “Hi,” Stan finally croaked.  The young woman’s smile broadened.

              “Hello.  You almost drowned, do you realize that?”  Her voice was sweet and melodious, comforting like waves crashing onto the shore.

              “Figured.  Since I went overboard and woke up on a beach.  Did- did you save me?”

              “Yep.”

              “H-how?”

              “I’m a good swimmer.”

              “What’s your name?”

              “My full name’s awfully long and I ain’t too fond of it.  But I go by Angie.”

              “Angie.  I’m Stan.”

              “It’s a pleasure to meet ya, Stan.”

              “Your accent…are you from the south?” Stan asked.  A twinkle entered Angie’s eye.

              “One could say I’m from the deep south, yes.”

              “Kinda weird way to say it, but whatever.”  Stan began to slowly get up.  Angie stopped stroking his hair and scooched to the side, allowing him to sit up on his own. He looked over at her.  “So where…”  He trailed off, catching side of Angie’s bottom half.  Instead of legs, she had a large, ostentatious yellow tail with pink fins. His jaw dropped.  “You- you’re-”

              “A mermaid, yes,” Angie said softly.  Stan continued to gape at her.  “I- technically, I wasn’t s’pposed to let you see me, but I wanted to make sure you woke up.” She looked away.  “Even more technically, I wasn’t s’pposed to save you in the first place.”

              “Then- then why did you?” Stan asked, still trying to wrap his mind around what was happening.  Angie looked at him, her eyes soft and compassionate.

              “I couldn’t let you just drown when I saw ya go overboard.  I mean, yer only my age.  Yer fam’ly must be worried sick about you.”

              “Not really,” Stan mumbled, looking down at the ground.  He idly flicked away a seashell.  “They couldn’t care less about me.”

              “…Really?” Angie asked.  Stan nodded. “What makes you say that?”

              “For one thing, they kicked me outta the house.”  Angie was silent for a moment.

              “They shouldn’t have done that,” she said finally.  Stan snorted.

              “Yeah.  I fucking agree.”  He sighed. “Whatever.  Uh, thanks for rescuing me, I guess.”  He got to his feet and looked around.  “Do you have any idea where we are?”

              “I don’t know the human name for it.”

              Of course she doesn’t.

              “But it’s uninhabited.”

              “It’s-”  Stan stared at the mermaid.  “You- this is a desert island?”

              “No.  It’s got a tropical forest.  It’s not a desert.”

              “No, not- a desert island is an island that doesn’t have people on it.” Stan ran a hand through his hair. “Shit!”

              “Look, it’ll be fine.”

              “How?” Stan demanded.  “I’m not some survivalist nutjob.  I don’t know how to build shelter or kill squirrels or whatever.  I can’t-”

              “I can help with that,” Angie said, standing up as well.  Stan huffed.

              “Yeah, right.  Like you can help me make a little hut outta sticks.  You don’t even…have…legs…”  Stan stared at her.  Angie grinned cheekily.  “Wh-” He looked down.  Her tail had been replaced by two slender, pale legs.  Stan looked away immediately upon realizing that she was completely nude from the waist down.  “How-”

              “It’s a long story.  But merfolk can shift into a human form if need be.”  Angie looked down at the sand and wiggled her toes.  “I don’t take a human form often.  Don’t really feel the desire to.  But I want to help you out.”

              “The best way you could help me out would be to…”  Stan trailed off.  Angie looked at him curiously.

              “What?”

              “No, that’s stupid.”

              “Tell me.”

              “Do you- if you can turn human, can I turn into a merman?” Stan asked. Angie eyed him.  “I- honestly, I don’t really see a reason to stay on land. I don’t have anyone who cares about me, I don’t have any plans, there’s nothin’ tying me to staying human.”  Stan could feel dread and sadness sinking heavily onto his shoulders.

              Pops wouldn’t ever let me back, even if I did make a million dollars. And why would I go back anyways? Ford?  He’s never gonna forgive me.  Shermie and Mom?  Mom let Pops kick me out, and the age gap with Shermie was too big for us to get close. I don’t have anyone.  I don’t have anywhere.

              “It- it might be kinda nice to start over.  Somewhere else,” Stan continued.  Angie pursed her lips.

              “You should sleep on it,” she said finally.  Stan stuffed his hands into the pockets of his drenched pants.

              “That’s a no, then?”

              “Not necessarily.  I know there’re ways fer humans to become mer.  I don’t know the details, though.  I’d have to ask my parents.  And I’ll have to explain why I’m asking.”  Angie chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.  “It’s- it’s possible.  But you’d have to prove yer worthy of becomin’ mer first.”

              “How do I do that?” Stan asked.  Angie shrugged.  “You can’t give me any details?  Really?”

              “Look, I- yer the first human I’ve ever talked to fer this long.  Even if I knew everything about the process of turnin’ humans mer, I’d have a moral obligation to be quiet until you’ve earned our trust.”  She looked out to sea.  “And like I said, you should sleep on it, first.  Givin’ up bein’ human to become mer is not somethin’ you should take lightly. And it’s not somethin’ you should do just ‘cause ya have no other options.  You should want to do it fer a stronger reason than that.”

              “Like what?”

              “Well, my ma did it fer love.”

              “Your mom used to be human?” Stan asked, aghast.  Angie nodded.

              “Yes.  She fell in love with my pa and became a mer so they could be together.”  Angie looked at Stan.  “I ain’t sayin’ ya need to fall in love with a mer, but ya need a reason just as strong.”  She shrugged. “Anyways.  First things first.  I’ll help ya make some shelter, maybe even help ya do some foraging.  And tomorrow, I can come back with my folks. They’ll help figure this thing out.”

              “Sounds good,” Stan said with a nod, his heart racing.

              I can’t believe a mermaid rescued me and might make me a merman. What the actual hell is going on right now?  A small smile tugged the corners of Angie’s mouth.

              “What?” Stan asked.  Angie shook her head.

              “Oh, nothin’.  Just thinkin’ ‘bout how odd you are.”

              “Really?  You think I’m odd?”

              “You asked to be turned mer within five minutes of meetin’ me.” Angie grinned.  “That’s odd.”  Stan managed a smile back.

              “Fair.”

----- 

              “That’s how you met your wife?” Ford asked.

              “Yeah.  But, technically, she’s not my wife.  Merfolk don’t really have marriage.  Angie and I are mated.”

              “Does being mates still involve a union ceremony of some sort?”

              “Yes.”

              “Well, as far as Mom would be concerned, then, you’re married,” Ford said with a small smile.  Stan chuckled.  “Stanley, I’m honestly flabbergasted by all of this.  It seems…”

              “Impossible?” Stan suggested.  Ford nodded.  “I feel the same way.”  He leaned forward and clasped his hands.  He saw Ford immediately zero in on the red webbing between his fingers.  “Some days I wake up and I can’t believe where I am. I’ve got the most amazing person in the world as my mate, I’ve got a daughter, and I’m gonna have another kid any day now.”

              “Also, you’re a merman.”

              “That, too.”  Stan eyed Ford.  “And now, you’re gonna be sleeping on my couch until we figure out how to get Bill off your back.”

              “Yes.”  Ford paused. “Thank you, by the way.”

              “No problem.  I’ll take any chance I can get to stick it to a mer hunter.  Angie lost one of her aunts to a mer hunter.  And I damn near got killed, too.”

              “Wait, really?” Ford asked.  Stan nodded. He laughed, but it was clearly forced.

              “Turns out Carla McCorkle went into that business.  My own ex-girlfriend was about to kill me and sell my scales to the highest bidder.  Good thing Angie intervened.  If she hadn’t threatened to down Carla’s ship, I’d, well.  You can figure it out.”

              “Sorry, did you say that Angie is capable of sinking an entire ship?” Ford asked, holding up a finger.  Stan raised an eyebrow.

              “She’s a siren, Sixer.  That’s what they do.”

              “Are you a-”

              “Oh, hell no.”  Stan tilted his head.  “Well, technically, I’m a siren.  That’s the kinda mer I am.  But that’s not my job.  Sinking ships requires singing, and even magic can’t fix a voice like mine.  It made me extra persuasive when I talk, but if I try to sing, I still sound like a frog in a bucket.”

              “Siren is both a type of mer and a career?” Ford asked.  Stan nodded.  “Hmm. Interesting.  If you don’t sink ships, then what do you do?  Do merfolk need to have jobs?”

              “Usually, yeah.  Mine is taking care of Molly.  And when the other egg hatches, taking care of Stanley Jr.”  Stan grinned.  “It’s gonna be a boy, I can tell.”

              “You-”  Ford stared at Stan.  Stan stared back.

              “What?”

              “You’re a stay-at-home dad?”

              “Yep.”  Stan stretched languidly.  “Best job in the world.”  Ford shook his head, trying to hide his astonishment.  The front door opened.  Stan looked over.  “Hey, babe.”

              “Hello, darlin’,” Angie crooned, swimming over and kissing the top of his head. Stan grinned up at her.  “I stopped by Fidds’ place to check on him and his clutch.  He said the egg was movin’ ‘round a lot today?”

              “Yep.  Stanley Jr. is gonna hatch any day now.”

              “Oh, hon.  We aren’t namin’-”  A small squeak came from the couch.  Stan and Angie looked over.  Ford was as pale as a sheet.  “We have a visitor,” Angie said mildly.

              “Yeah, Ford got on the bad side of someone pretty nasty, so he’s gonna stay here for a bit,” Stan said.

              “Understood.  I’ll go check on Miss Molly.  She’s prob’ly hungry.”  As if on cue, crying sounded through the house.  Angie chuckled.  “Speak of the devil.”  She nodded politely at Ford.  “Pleasure to meet you, Stanford.  We’ll have to have a proper introduction once I take care of Molly.”

              “Yes,” Ford mumbled.  Angie left. Stan looked at Ford, concerned.

              “What’s wrong, Sixer?  You look like you saw a ghost.”

              “I-”  Ford took a steadying breath.  “Angie is very similar in appearance to my former first mate, who disappeared from my ship a month ago.  While we were in the middle of the ocean.”

              “Okay…” Stan said slowly.

              “He- Angie mentioned someone named ‘Fidds’.  My former first mate, he sometimes went by that nickname,” Ford continued.  Dread began to build in Stan’s gut.  “Angie’s last name wouldn’t happen to be ‘McGucket’, would it?”

              “No,” Stan said.  Relief broke across Ford’s face.  “It’s MerGucket.  But when her older brother pretended to be human to work for some researcher, he used McGucket instead.”  Ford groaned loudly.  He put his head in his hands.

              “Oh, no.”

              “Took the words right outta my mouth.”

[moonlightreal]

Winx Club season 8/7

In which I see many shipping possibilities.

7 Trapped on Prometia

When we left our heroines, only Stella and Flora hadn’t been grabbed by the robot arms.  They Cosmix up and leap into action to rescue their friends!

Orion watches the action from his ship, where he explains his evil plan (to himself, apparently).  The grabby arms are a gizmo he built to dig up rubies but once it has captured the Winx he can trade them to Valtor for the magic to reignite the planet’s star.  Orion is feeling some guilt though; he wishes he didn’t have to save the planet this way.  

More fairies versus grabbers action!

Then we go to Valtor’s asteroid.  The sorcerer laughs heartily as he watches the fight.  Obscurum cheerleads.  Valtor says once the Winx are out of the way no on will be left to stop him stealing all the light in the magic dimension. Uh, I’m pretty sure SOME other adventurer would step up… Obscurum gloats about his future as king of Lumenia.  

Valtor sends Obscurum falling through a portal onto bunnies.  Spike bunnies.  Spherical bunnies with spikes. First it was just a cave, then into an alligator’s mouth, now spike bunnies.  Valtor knows about some strange places.

Obscurum is assigned a mission: to go to Irridia and transform the rest of the lumens.  Valtor hands over his “darkener” which is that staff with the purple stone that Obscurum has had in previous episodes.  The jewel in the staff shows a shadowy monster face that roars at Obscurum.  Huh.  The minion starts to gloat again and Valtor just portals him to Irridia.

Irridia!  The lighthouse-tower-lumen-city!  Purple lumens float happily around. There’s Twinkle and Lumilla talking about how nobody trusts the Winx and it’s a shame.   Twinkle gives Lumilla a hair bow as a gift and they flutter around happily together.  I so ship these two.

Until… Lumilla gets turned into a staryummy!  Purple lumens are being transformed right and left!

Orion sees the lumen carnage from his ship.  He realizes Valtor has betrayed him!  Yeah, Valtor’s a villain…

Orion leaps into action!

Twinkle tries to save Lumilla, but the bow-wearing staryum is drawn into a portal with all the other newly transformed staryums.  Twinkle seems to be immune to the spell and hides while Obscurum pops into the scene.  Obscurum starts a gloat when Orion runs up to call him on breaking their deal.

They yell at each other then Obscurum summons a giant black hole to suck everything in.  Orion is left hanging on for dear life!

Back with the Winx Flora tries to awaken the local plants to help them, but it’s no good.  The rest of the poor Winx have been being waved around by this machine this whole time, but now it gets worse-- the machine is retracting underground, pulling its captives with it!  We’re in real trouble now!

Really great shot of Flora standing between two plants trying to revive them with her magic.  It still doesn’t work.

Stella comes over with a good idea. They can’t beat the machine separately, but maybe they can together.

Stella creates an orb of light and sends her magic into it, making a mini sun to shine on the plants. Flora adds her green magic to the mini sun and the plants wake up and blossom.  Exciting music plays as the plants grow bigger and reach out vines to grab the machine, finally freeing the Winx.  The girls are none the worse for wear and congratulate Stella and Flora on their teamwork.

But the machine is mad!  It comes rolling at the Winx!  Everybody else transform!

The girls mock the grabby arms as they fly around, getting the arms to hit each other.  Bloom and Aisha do a cool thing where they hold hands and spin around, and more cool music plays.  The machine is broken.

Then we meet to discuss.  The girls realize Orion sent them into a trap.  Musa says Riven was right about him.  But why would he do such a thing?

Poor Flora realizes the plants are suffering again without Stella’s mini-sun.  The girls decide to do a bigger version of the spell, using all their power.  “Supernova!” (is that their convergence spell?  Guess so.)  they make a bigger mini-sun and the plants blossom.  Flora is delight.  Musa is more interested in shaking some answers out of Orion…

...who we left hanging off a building as he tries to resist being dragged into a black hole!

The Winx came flying towards the lighthouse and the giant black hole parked over it… and stop to ask Twinkle what’s up!  She flew out to met them and at least gives the important data that lumens were transformed into staryummies.  And she points out the very visible giant black hole.  Musa’s first thought is that Orion did it-- despite the girls knowing obscurum uses black holes.  Boy, when Musa decides you’re a baddie she’ll believe anything bad about you!

Anyway Obscurum steps up (into midair) to take credit.  He tries to toss Twinkle into the portal but Musa flies up to save her.  Musa almost gets dragged in herself but Tecna tosses a “particle net” that blocks it until Bloom and Aisha shut down the portal.

Then the two of them grab Orion .

Stella and Flora go after Obscurum, but he portals away.

Cut to Orion’s ship, where he explains.  He regrets setting the Winx up, but he thought it was his only option to save Irridia.  Bloom snaps at him, “Betraying friends is never the right choice!”  And Orion sighs.

Tecna tries to soften things by saying the excavator was ingenious, and Orion is a good inventor.  He must be, because he’s invented a soda can that turns into a chair when you open it!  That’s pretty cute.  Twinkle is delight.

Orion says the excavator was for finding underground rubies, and Stella snaps that he also used it to trap them.  Orion apologizes again.

More Tec and Twinkle byplay as the chair turns back into a can, and Twinkle lands on a tray that wraps her up in wrapping paper with a bow.  I love this.

Orion says he’s on the Winx’s side for ultra-sure now, and “my lab is at your service.”  I want Tecna to do a happysquee here, but she doesn’t.  Winx are still skeptical.  Musa says, ‘and why should we trust you again?”

Orion stands up and does a friendship speech about how they need to work together to save not just Irridia but all the stars in the universe!  Go Orion!  

Tecna seems to accept this, she say they’re going to need all the help they can get.  Tec has a point. Twinkle plays with the inventions a little more then reminds everyone that they have to save Lumilla and the other lumens who were turned into staryums.  Bloom does a little hopeful speech.

It’s Tecna who puts it out there that they should give Orion another chance.  Musa and Aisha are still uncertain.  Stella says it’s fine by her.  Aisha decides Orion has finally learned his lesson, and Orion confirms that he has.  And then we go to…

...school?!  You’ve just been speechifying about saving all the stars in the universe, and whole populations of stars being turned into staryummies, and the planet Prometia is on a timer before its ecosystem conks out without any sunlight and you’re going back to school?!

Ok, then.

They’re late again, too.  The girls once again explain where they were in one sentence soundbites each.

Professor Wizgiz Scottishly says they’re “going over complex combination spells.”  “each fairy has an essential magical energy.  When yours is combined with another’s it can grow in powerful ways...’  just what the Winx were doing this episode!

Out the window, Stella notices that Knut and Kiko are painting the courtyard pink.  The ground, the benches, the hedges, pink.  Kiko complains.  Knut says, “How am I to know that ‘paint everything’ doesn’t mean paint everything?”

Stella and Flora walk over, after apparently the shortest class ever, to help.  They do a complex combination spell to turn the courtyard back to normal.  I’m not sure what this “painting the courtyard pink” was all about. Maybe we lost a line from the Italian that would’ve explained it.

Up in their room Stella says to Flora that they were good together today.  Flora suggests making a friendship flower to remind them of how much they care about each other.  They both use their magic on a flowerpot and two flowers come up, one pink and one yellow, twined around each other.  Stella suggests they name the flower Irridia to remind them of what happened there.  The flowers bloom bigger and they each have mixed pink and yellow petals.

This is super sweet.  And my brain immediately goes to, if you plucked that scene out of the episode it could be the heart of the most adorable Stella/Flora ship ever.  

But before we go, let’s check in with Valtor!  He’s tuned his magic TV to the “submarine star” which is called… Gorgo?  Gorgol?  Something that sounds like a giant monster or eldritch evil.  “It lights the oceans of Andros… and it’s our next target.’

Thanks for the preview, Valtor!

Ok, this episode… loved the friendship flower.  Loved the revelation that the staryummies are transformed lumens.  I hadn’t expected that, kudos to Rainbow for not telling us everything instantly.  Liked the spikebunnies.  Liked Orion’s inventions.

Kind of wish that Tecna and Orion had some interaction since they’re both inventors.  It seems like the writers didn’t even think of how much they’d have to talk about, how Tecna should be all over that gorgeous space-galleon, trying to learn everything she could about how rubies work with star cores… there could even be a semi-reasonable “Timmy gets jealous because Tec’s spending so much time with the space pirate” plot.  Not that I should be encouraging relationship drama plots, but we all know we’re gonna get them anyway!

The whiplash of cutting from adventure to school is… well, it’s nonsense, anyone advanced enough to be the only enemy Valtor is worried about should be advanced beyond school.  In previous seasons I assumed the Winx were just using Alfea as their base of operations, but now it’s clear that they are once again students… I think I can only explain this with time travel.  One of their jaunts with the stone of memories last season wrinkled time a little so everyone’s younger but the Winx still have all the skills and memories from their first time through.  Or something.

[lets-talk-appella]

i’m nobody’s but yours

Chapter 1/25 - Beca’s Prologue

Summary: Beca is straight as an arrow. 100%, totally, completely, straight. Except for one problem that 100%, totally, completely changes everything: Chloe Beale.

Title borrowed from Calum Scott's "If Our Love Is Wrong."

Thank you to everyone who has shown interest in and support for this fic, and a MASSIVE thanks to @acabellas, because without her it wouldn’t even exist. Stay litty, fam!

Word Count: 4k

Rating: M (for dark themes, homophobia, masturbation, and eventual smut in later chapters) Title borrowed from Calum Scott's "If Our Love Is Wrong."

AO3 and FFN

Keep reading below the cut:

Note: This fic is not inherently sad, but it’s not a happy fic, either. It’s a life fic, one that focuses on Beca’s difficulties in coming to terms with her sexuality – which she will not label in this fic – as well as depicting struggles that she and Chloe go through in developing their relationship. Themes of guilt, shame, and self-hatred are discussed, as are depictions of homophobic attitudes and comments directed toward several characters. I chose to write it this way because these are real struggles and challenges faced by many in the LGBTQ+ community. I will place trigger warnings in chapters that are more intense or contain slurs and homophobic language. I hope that, by having these issues in fic form, we can explore the LGBTQ+ experience through Beca’s eyes and find strength to face those struggles together, and eventually, be freed.

TW: homopobic/hate language

Beca’s first crush is on Dylan Erickson. They’re in kindergarten, and she likes him because he shares his Oreos with her at lunch. He’s cute, with dark skin, brown curly hair, and chocolate-colored eyes, and he always swings with her outside at recess. He holds her hand on the way to the lunchroom and she likes the way that makes butterflies erupt in her tummy. She’s pretty sure she loves him; at least, she gives him the “I love you” hand sign from across their kindergarten room every now and then.

Everything changes when a new girl, Melissa Simmons, joins their classroom following winter break. She looks a lot like Beca, with brown hair and dark blue eyes, and Beca doesn’t miss the double-take Dylan does when he first sees her. It makes Beca angry, and when Melissa smiles right back at Dylan, her blood boils.

Beca doesn’t like Melissa.

But Dylan does. It isn’t long before Dylan invites Melissa to play with him and Beca on the swings at recess. Beca tries to be a good sport about it, she really does, but the little smirk adorning Melissa’s face as Dylan pushes her on the swings tells Beca everything she needs to know.

Once recess is done, it’s time for them to head to lunch. Beca reaches out a hand to Dylan, expecting him to hold it like always, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to Melissa, leaving Beca to trail behind as the three of them make their way to the lunch room. And Beca tries not to let it bother her when Dylan spends most of lunch time talking to Melissa instead of her, but when Dylan opens his pack of Oreos and hands one to Melissa, Beca sees red.

She stands and shoves Melissa off her chair and down to the gross floor of the lunchroom. She does it because she’s in kindergarten and because she’s pretty sure she loves Dylan, and nothing has ever felt better in her short life. She fully intends to continue to the fight, but then Melissa starts crying and the lunchtime supervisors all rush over, concern written across their faces, and Beca knows she’s in trouble. Sure enough, before she can even blink, she’s being sent to the principal’s office, feeling Dylan’s eyes on her back as she goes.

She’s scolded, but only lightly; they are in kindergarten, and she hadn’t done more than push Melissa. Her real punishment comes after, when she returns to her classroom – lunchtime is over by then – to see Melissa and Dylan sitting together at the same table, hand-in-hand and talking to each other like they’re the only people in the room.

After school, Beca goes home utterly distraught at the apparent ending of her first relationship. Immediately after stepping off the school bus, she flings herself into her mom’s arms. Her mom simply sinks down, wrapping her in a big hug as she cries and chokes out the story. She tells her mom everything, even how she pushed Melissa, needing to get it all out. Her mom only holds her tighter, her fingers running through Beca’s hair as they sit on the curb outside their house.

When Beca is finally cried out, her mom pulls a Kleenex out of nowhere and helps Beca wipe her face. She tells Beca that it’s okay to be sad, but that she can’t let it make her sad forever. When she tells Beca that that kind of thing with Dylan and Melissa happens sometimes, and will probably happen in the future, Beca nearly bursts into tears all over again.

But then her mom says, “I’ll always love you, no matter what,” and Beca smiles, then screeches when her mom lunges forward to tickle her sides. They both fall to the ground laughing until the tickle attack ends and leaves them both straining for air against the grassy ground.

Later, sitting at their kitchen table between both her parents and eating her mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup, Beca can’t remember why she ever cared so much about Dylan Erickson.

Beca doesn’t think much about boys for a little while, beyond the occasional realization that they have cooties and are generally covered in some form of dirt. It’s not until she’s in the 4th grade and Nick Walker moves to her school from Michigan that she finds herself thinking that not all boys are bad. Nick is blonde, blue-eyed, and incredibly athletic even for the 4th grade. He immediately becomes involved in every after-school sport Beca’s relatively small school has to offer and already shows promise to become a high school sports star.

Pretty much every girl in Beca’s grade and in the grade below are beside themselves over Nick Walker. If Beca’s honest with herself, she doesn’t really see why. Sure, he’s cute, but the more Beca hears about Nick, the less she likes him. Beca’s more of a reader than a runner, and Nick seems to only talk about sports, sports, and more sports.

She mostly admires Nick’s looks from afar as he “dates” girl after girl in their grade. Her best friend Kelsey shows her a notebook of hers with “Mrs. Kelsey Walker” written in cursive all over the pages. She seems scandalized that Beca hasn’t done the same. So, Beca tries it, but after her second “Mrs. Beca Walker” scrawled near the top of a page, she decides she’s not really that invested and would prefer not to ruin a notebook.

When Beca’s in 7th grade, she finally gets her period a week before she turns 13. It feels like everyone else had gotten theirs much, much sooner; Alexis McMahon certainly had. At 13, Alexis looks like a 16- or 17-year-old and is the talk of the school. She’s blonde, tall, and very pretty, with curves and stylish tops and skirts that make Beca’s hoodies and jeans look like trash bags.

It’s no secret that all the boys like her and that most of the girls are jealous of her. Beca wonders sometimes if she’s jealous of Alexis, too; she certainly spends more time than totally necessary thinking about her and looking at her. It’s hard not to, when she has three of her classes with Alexis, one of which is gym class.

Kelsey, still her best friend, is in gym with her too, which is fun. They’re on the soccer unit right now, and Beca loves playing on offense with Alexis and Kelsey. Mostly, she likes to watch Alexis, but she also likes to show off a little; she’s pretty good at soccer, and she’s filled with pride when, during one particularly good play, she gets the assist when she passes the ball to Alexis, who scores a goal.

Alexis smiles at her, nodding happily, and it makes Beca’s chest feel kind of funny and fluttery. She keeps staring at Alexis, even after Alexis turns away to reset in the middle of the field. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it until Kelsey steps up beside her and hisses, “Careful Beca, someone’s gonna think you’re lesbo.”

Kelsey’s words sting and Beca flinches away. She doesn’t really understand what Kelsey means, but she knows enough not to want to be called that in front of everyone else. And especially not in front of Alexis. So Beca shakes her head, laughs, and brushes it off, not quite meeting Kelsey’s eyes.

She lets her friendship with Kelsey fade gradually after that without really acknowledging – even to herself – why exactly. She starts to withdraw, not letting herself stare at anyone she finds attractive, boy or girl. She doesn’t want people to assume anything, even though she’s not a “lesbo” at all.

Beca doesn’t let her eyes linger on Alexis again.

Beca’s parents divorce when she’s 14. On the day her mom kicks her dad out of the house for cheating on her with one of his TAs, Beca blasts her music at full volume through her earbuds. It’s the first time she uses music to drown out the sound of her thoughts.

She’d liked to spend time with her dad; he’d spontaneously take her to get ice cream with a wink and a “don’t tell Mom,” (which seems ironic now, considering it turned out there were lots of things he didn’t tell her mom) and whenever she couldn’t sleep, he used to sit on the floor next to her bed and hum “Yellow Submarine” by The Beatles until she finally drifted off.

But as she watches Warren – that’s what she decides to call him from now on, now that he’s undeserving of the “dad” title – walk down the driveway and out of her and her mom’s lives, Beca shoves those good memories and warm feelings of her father away and locks them in a tiny box where they can’t hurt her. A strange hollow ache replaces those feelings, opening in her chest and startling her with its emptiness.

As Warren gets into his car and pulls away, Beca’s mom glances over at her, eyebrows drawn together. Beca tries hard to school her expression but knows she didn’t quite fake it well enough when her mom pulls her into a hug and whispers, directly into her ear, “I’ll always love you, no matter what.” Beca focuses on the warm arms wrapped around her, the only secure thing in her life in that moment.

Later that year, the movie Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix comes out. Beca and her mom go to the opening weekend together, both dressed in Hogwarts robes (Gryffindor, of course) her mom had found at a secondhand store. Beca’s sure they’re both feeling Warren’s absence, but they don’t talk about it. Instead, Beca loses herself in the excitement of the crowd at the theater and spends her time surveying others’ costumes. She’s not sure if she’s more excited for the movie or if her mom is; she hasn’t seen her mom smile this much since Warren left.

The theater is crowded and she ends up squished between her mom and an older teenage girl. The girl has an annoying tendency to giggle and fan herself whenever Daniel Radcliffe comes on screen – which is a lot. While he may be kind of cute in the right lighting, Beca finds herself more focused on Emma Watson than anyone else. Hermione is definitely her favorite character.

Beca doesn’t see Warren on her 15th birthday. There’s a rumor floating around that he’s stopped seeing his TA and started dating someone more age-appropriate. It doesn’t matter to Beca, though. She takes the $50 out of the card he mails her and then throws the actual card in the recycling without reading it. Her mom doesn’t say anything, though Beca knows she sees the card in the bin. The double-chocolate cake she makes for Beca is massive that year.

At 15, she gets her first kiss from Drew Metrie under the bleachers at the homecoming football game.

They were sort of dating, she supposes. At least, he’d asked her to homecoming three days prior. The short notice had been annoying, but thankfully, her mom was able to take her to the mall in time for them to find a blue dress that mostly matched her eyes.

The football game is the night before the dance. Beca hadn’t been planning on going to the game, but Drew had insisted. At the game, they sit awkwardly on the bleachers with several of his other friends and their dates. Everyone seems to know each other really well; they talk through most of the game, Drew becoming involved in a heated discussion about… something (Beca doesn’t know or really care), which leaves her to stare at the field in front of her in quiet boredom. She’s pretty sure Drew had forgotten she’s even there. That is, until the third quarter, when he turns suddenly and grabs her hand to lead her down and behind the bleachers.

The kiss is good, she supposes. She doesn’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s still nice. Drew keeps his tongue in his mouth – thankfully – and cups her face gently with his hands. She loops her arms around his waist, and is actually kind of disappointed when he pulls away first.

He smiles at her shyly before they return to his friends on the bleachers. He keeps talking to them, leaving her sitting on the end of the group, but she doesn’t really mind. Her lips – actually her whole body – feel warm and a little tingly for the rest of the game. She does really like Drew Metrie, even though they don’t talk much.

The next night, Drew drives to her house to pick her up for the dance. Her mom insists on taking way too many photos of her and Drew, who’s wearing a suit that’s a little too big for him. The tie matches her dress, though, which is unexpected. Drew helps her down the front steps of her house, even though her heels aren’t that high, and he opens his passenger car door for her, helping her climb inside.

The dance is surprisingly fun, considering it’s being held in their high school’s gymnasium. They dance together and with groups of their friends. It’s really more jumping up and down than dancing, but Beca prefers it that way. The few slow dances that the DJ does play are a little awkward; she and Drew just stand and revolve slowly on the spot. He kisses her again at the end of the last slow song of the night, and again, she finds herself liking it more than she’d expected to.

After homecoming weekend, though, nothing really comes of it. She sees Drew in the hallways sometimes and they always greet each other with a smile and a wave, but nothing more. They only hang out one more time, grabbing dinner one Friday at a local pizza joint, but it’s pretty obvious it’s just as friends. They stay in touch and text occasionally, but that’s it. He doesn’t kiss her again.

Just three days after Beca turns 16 and get her driver’s license, her mom dies in a car accident. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to swerve for animals; it’s one of the first things Beca learned in her driving classes. Yet, witnesses to the accident said that’s exactly what Beca’s mom did when a family of ducks tried crossing the highway in front of her.

It’s the worst day of Beca’s life.

The day of the funeral is a close second, though. She hates having to stand there as scores of people file past, telling her how sorry they are. She gets tired of hearing it after a while and does her best to tune it all out by thinking of music she likes, interwoven with her mom’s voice whispering in her ear, “I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

The realization that she’ll never hear her mom’s voice again makes her mentally blast her favorite music as loud as she can, trying desperately to fill that hollow ache tearing through her chest, reappeared and renewed, a thousand times worse than when Warren left them. She’s not sure this ache will ever ease.

She moves to live with Warren and his new wife of less than six months, Sheila. They’re only half an hour away, so she doesn’t have to switch schools. Not that that really matters; she withdraws from people after the accident. She blocks everyone out, telling herself she doesn’t care when even the friends she’d been closest to eventually give up on her. With her earbuds in and at full volume almost constantly, she builds a wall between herself and everyone else, using music as a crutch.

Living with Warren again is difficult. It makes her angry, and it also makes her sad because it reminds her of how it used to be. She hates seeing how affectionate he is with Shelia when she so clearly remembers how he used to be like that with her mom.

Sheila “the step-monster” is truly unpleasant. She doesn’t try to hide how much she resents that Beca had come to live with them.  She never says anything in front of Warren, but the glares she often sends Beca’s way are clear enough indication. Beca tries not to let it bother her; the feeling is mutual.

Beca’s with Warren and Sheila, trailing beside them in the mall one day when two men holding hands, clearly in a relationship, exit a store ahead of them. The sight makes Beca feel wistful for some reason, but makes Warren’s expression harden and Sheila’s mouth twist. Glaring, Sheila mutters something that Beca doesn’t fully hear, but she makes out the words “perverted,” and “in public.” She then asks, more loudly, which of the men is the “woman in the relationship.”

It makes Warren glance quickly at Beca and away before laughing once. Beca frowns at the tiled floor ahead of her; she doesn’t see humor anything Sheila said.

During her junior year of high school, Alicia Harrison – a girl in Beca’s grade – comes out as bisexual. She’s teased mercilessly by her peers, many of whom imply she’s sleeping with the entire student body. Others say she’s doing it for attention and that bisexuality isn’t real. Beca never joins in on the teasing, but she doesn’t stop it when she sees it happening, either.

She makes sure to never mention Alicia in front of Warren or Sheila.

Beca’s 17 and a senior when she meets Carrie Lawson.

It’s only Beca’s second day of work at the music store in the mall, but she already hates it. Her boss is an overweight, middle-aged man who always has some sort of stain on his shirt. His eyes linger too long on her recently-developed chest for her comfort, but she really needs the money. She isn’t sure what she expected – it’s not like she could make her mixes while on the job – but spending all day trying to sell CDs to people is somehow worse than she thought it would be.

She’s already been yelled at by two different customers for being too slow on the register, still needs to learn the layout of the store and merchandise, and has had to restock shelves of Justin Bieber three times already, which, ew. People need to learn what real music is.

The only bright spot in her work life is her coworker, Carrie. Carrie goes to the neighboring town’s high school, which is why they haven’t met before. Beca would certainly remember if they had; Carrie is even shorter than her, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, and very pretty. She’s also incredibly funny, kind, and just as into music as Beca is.

They bond quickly over how creepy their boss is and how crappy everyone else’s music taste is. As they get to know each other over the days and weeks, Beca learns that Carrie lost her mom about three years ago to cancer. They bond over that, too. Carrie is easy to talk to; so easy that she becomes the only person Beca opens up to. They text almost constantly and eventually start to spend time together outside of work, too.

Carrie begins to hug her a lot, sometimes even coming up from behind her while she’s at the register and wrapping her arms around her waist and pressing close to her back. Sometimes Carrie will brush her fingertips along Beca’s arm or across her lower back. Beca’s surprised to realize how much she likes the affection; she can’t remember the last time she let someone hug her. At her mom’s funeral, maybe? It’s not like she lets Warren or Sheila touch her, and she’s driven away her friends. It’s been a long time since someone touched Beca, and she’s missed it.

She tries not to overthink it.

But then, suddenly, it’s all she can think about.

She misses Carrie’s touch, Carrie’s presence, Carrie’s voice, Carrie’s perfume. She misses her friend, even when they only go hours or a few short days without seeing each other between work shifts. Carrie calls her “my little DJ,” and that makes Beca’s chest feel funny. Carrie touches her more and more, texts her more and more, sends her heart emojis more often than Beca would have tolerated from anyone else. Once, Carrie steps up behind her and brushes her lips to Beca’s cheek, leaving a burning imprint before spinning away with a laugh.

They’re not dating. They don’t talk about it. It’s just a thing.

Until it isn’t anymore. Carrie doesn’t show up for work one night, and she doesn’t reply to Beca’s texts. When she still doesn’t reply hours later, Beca calls, only for it to go to voicemail. When Beca becomes truly desperate, she tries Facebook, then email, only to get silence in return.

It’s not until almost a week later – a week filled with fear and stomach-churning anxiety – that Beca’s boss bothers to tell her that Carrie had quit. Her parents had heard rumors of Carrie having a girlfriend at her high school and had shipped Carrie away to live with her religious grandmother, without access to her phone or the Internet. Lip curling with mirth as he tells the story, Beca’s boss growls, “Good riddance. Don’t need a dirty dyke in my store.”

The words hit Beca like a truck. She has to hold onto the register for support as the words sink in. The idea that Carrie’s absence is due to her having a – a girlfriend sends the room spinning. It’s only made worse by the realization that she’s more than a little jealous of this girlfriend.

The thought makes something ugly and unbidden rise within her, something she doesn’t want to address now or ever. Beca instantly shuts down that line of thought before it can really form, locking it behind a cement wall where it presses and strains to be freed, but she keeps it restrained. The touches hadn’t meant anything. They had been brought on by emotional vulnerability and shared trauma. They’d been emotionally close; surely it was just natural for them to be physically close? It doesn’t mean anything beyond that.

She isn’t into girls. She isn’t bisexual. She’s certainly not lesbian. Even the word – so often sexualized or ostracized – feels dirty to her. What she feels for Carrie isn’t gay; they were just good friends. Beca tells herself that over and over again until she believes it, until she’s almost convinced herself. She’s straight. That’s all there is to it. She shoves Carrie forcibly from her mind, locking her into a little box of her own.

She quits her job a few days later. It doesn’t matter anyway, not when she’s graduating so soon and moving to LA (assuming Warren gets over his college kick).

Through sheer force of will, she maintains that she is straight as an arrow and that Carrie – whatever that whole thing had even been – was just a fluke.

Then, at 18, against her will and recovering from her past wounds, Beca meets Chloe Beale.

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of August 21st, 2019

Best of this Week: Superman: Year One - Book Two - Frank Miller, John Romita Jr., Danny Miki, Alex Sinclair and John Workman

Superman has always stood for Truth, Justice and the American Way. 

This has never been more true (arguably) than right here in Superman: Year One, where Clark Kent becomes a US Navy Sailor. I briefly touched upon it at the end of the last issue, but this one really resonated with me in a way that no comic has in a little while. Other books have made me feel feelings of fear, disgust and elation beyond compare, but this one makes me feel the bittersweet memories of my own experience.

I remembered my first haircut, carrying my seabag across the base, marching and all of the PT (physical training) that I had to endure for those grueling two months. Clark isn’t fazed by any of it. It takes a few clippers to cut his dense hair. He breezes through the PT, noting how hard it is for everyone else to do and when he has to qualify for using a pistol, he hits the mark dead center every single shot. There were a few superstars like Clark when I was in boot camp and seeing that written and excellently drawn by John Romita Jr., made me feel something of a kinship to one of my favorite heroes.

You can see the struggle in his shipmates faces as they sweat and heave with Clark monologuing in his mind that he can hear their lungs about to burst or their legs about to give out. That shit was me. Every single PT test leaving me winded, marching at a double time… I hated every second of it. But through all of it, I felt proud. I wanted to get through, to push myself harder than I ever could. 

Clark doesn’t feel that. How could he? He’s an alien from another planet with abilities beyond compare and he could do anything he set his mind to. But what does he choose to instead? He answers the call of duty, he chooses to serve his country and his fellow man. It’s ridiculous, but at the same time absolutely commendable and inspiring. If I were to level criticism at the first two acts of this book, however, it would definitely be the lack of real feeling of camaraderie that Sailors feel together in Boot Camp. Never once do we see Clark interact with his shipmates in any meaningful way, aside from his Captain later on. The feeling of pride is there, but the friendships and relationships that come with it does leave a little bit of the story feeling hollow in favor of a less than great, but still good subplot later.

Another problem I have is… I don’t know how accurate print media and comics are allowed to be with military rank and titles, but Kurtzberg is supposed to be a Captain, but wears the insignia of a Petty Officer Second Class and Chief Petty Officer at two separate points. It’s a mildly irritating and nitpicky thing, but what can you do?

Of course, Clark's path diverges greatly from my own. A little bit before the pistol qualification section, he gains the attention of a Captain Kurtzberg and after his perfect scores, he's allowed to try out his skills further with an assault rifle, which he also excels at. Kurtzberg recommends him for more advanced training and soon after, he trains to become a Navy SEAL. I don’t have a singular clue as to what the SEAL lifestyle is like, but training he’s made to endure is even worse, though you wouldn’t know it from how he reacts to it all.

It’s here at SEAL training that the first seeds of the subplot, later becoming the hook of Act Three are sewn. Clark begins to hear the calling of the sea. It’s something that some deployed Sailors still feel to this day, the Siren Song or Mermaid Call that drives most men mad with how beautiful their voices are. Kurtzberg calls Clark out during one evening of PT and makes him to push ups on the shore of the beach after Clark tells him that the Captain should see how pretty “they” are. Unable to sleep during the night, Clark sneaks out of his barracks to watch the beings on the coast when Kurtzber appears next to him, warning him to not tell anyone about what they’ve seen as Kurzberg too knows of their beauty and the world of wonders that they live in. 

If you’ve been reading Superman stories for a long period of time, things may start to click as what or who may be calling Clark. After our hero accidentally starts a bar fight while trying to defend the honor of a woman, he’s punished by having to use his toothbrush to clean the head (bathroom) and garbage cans. After finishing his chores way into the night, he makes a dummy in his rack (bed) and sets off to explore the sea, taking to the water like a fish since he doesn’t actually need oxygen. 

He follows the sounds of the voices calling and finally see them, Mermaids, laughing at this strange human. One in particular catches his eye, Lori Lemaris, one of Superman’s original love interests from the late 1950s. He follows her as she laughs, until her voice turns to tears, seeing a submarine having crashed into their city. In one of his first of many acts of heroism, Clark lifts the sub off of the city, saves the people and helps them rebuild just before Morning Colors. Lori begs him to stay, to become her husband and King, but he tells her that the people up there need him, but that he will be back. As always, Clark is torn between two worlds, but his first thought is always to honor his commitments because he’s such a good guy.

Romita Jrs art shines best in these few pages for me. Lori is absolutely beautiful, playful and the visuals of the underside of the ocean are stunning. Everything’s a beautiful hue of blue except for the vegetation and Lori, who’s colored with yellow and purple clothing. Clark looks amazingly strong and happily curious as he saves the people of Atlantis. Romita Jrs. lines are amazingly crisp and he makes great use of only a few hatch lines to shade things. Everything is thoroughly enjoyable to look at, even the way that everything flows under the water is awesome.

Clark manages to return back to the barracks just in time as Kurtzberg watches on, knowing where Clark’s been and thinking to himself that the young SEAL better keep those memories clean and pure because he’s witnessed something amazing. He swam with the angels. There’s a three page long training montage where Clark shows just how efficient he can be in combat, embarrassing one of his shipmates so hard that he’s pulled aside and given his first assignment.

Things take a dark turn as Clark and his team are made to infiltrate a ship that’s been hijacked by pirates. During the training, as Clark thought to himself just how easy it would be to kill, he started to get a pit in his stomach. Things weren’t sitting right, especially as Kurtzberg egged him on by saying, “That there is how to kill a man good!” This stuck with Clark as he did his bet to avoid killing any of the hijackers. He saw how monstrously they murdered the crew of the ship and he felt himself getting more angry, but he still couldn’t bring himself to take a life. 

Things reach a head as the team reaches the control deck and Clark still refuses to kill any of the enemies. Kurtzberg lambasts Clark and orders to give him some corpses, until one of the hijackers pulls out a grenade. Everyone starts to panic as the mission goes FUBAR, but Clark utilizes his strength to stop the grenade, subtly, making it seem like it was a dud. 

While he ended up saving the lives of his fellowsailors, his reckless actions reward him with an honorable discharge. Kurtzberg advocates for him, but ultimately Clark has to pack his sea bag and say goodbye to his friends. Before he departs, he has something of a heart to heart with Kurtzberg. The Captain tells him to hone his skills, that he could do amazing things with his gifts and Clark salutes him, walking into the ocean to find his destiny.

The way this scene is framed, with the lighting indicating an early morning, makes everything seem like the future is absolutely bright for Clark. Having Kurtzberg abandon his badass attitude of authority and strength to give Clark advice while shaking his hand like a man is an amazing and heartfelt sight. For the first time, Clark doesn't have to try to lower his strength, it just comes naturally.

All of this is bittersweet. Clark Kent wanted something different than his life in Smallville. He knew that he would have to hide his abilities if he stayed, he knew that he could do so much more for the world. He chose to serve his country, one of the best things a Patriot can do, but his heart was too good for it. His skill and power raised him to a position that did not align with his own moral code. Clark would never kill, but no good deed goes unpunished.

The third and final act of this book comes with Clark returning to Atlantis, seeking out his new love, Lori. She reacts happily once she sees him again, calling him the love of her life and saying that he should meet her family. Then they… frolic in their special hiding place until the next day. She tells him to wear his best as he is to finally meet her father, Lord Poseidon. He emerges from the shadows in his iconic red and blue with fish swimming all around him and the flora lighting up in his presence. 

Poseidon isn't amused, seeing Clark as a little standing frog and proceeds to put Clark through impossible tasks to win his daughters hand. Clark begins to find the true scope of his powers as he concentrates and releases his heat vision on one of the enemies. It's a stellar display of power and control as Clark monologues that this fire inside of him was his and his alone. Alex Sinclair did an amazing job of portraying the ability and powerful it is with intense and vibrant reds.

Poseidon pulls out every stop that he can to try and crush Superman. He sends his best warriors, but Clark doesn't even acknowledge them trying to crush him. Stone automatons fall to his might. A giant squid swallows him whole and vomits him back up, unfettered by the stomach acid. Becoming increasingly enraged, Poseidon summons the Kraken and uses the fabled beast to try and crush Superman to death. 

As the tentacle lifts and Lori cries, thinking her one true love has died, Clark stands right back up with a smile. Lori jumps for joy, the people are stunned and in a silent rage, Poseidon calls off the Kraken and plots revenge on the frog that he couldn't crush.

Throughout this entire act, Poseidon monologues to himself about the bug that wouldn't be crushed or burned or destroyed in any way. Clark just smiled, snickered and mocked Poseidon the entire time. There was no malice in his smirk, just the boyish exuberance of love and youth. Poseidon though Clark wanted his crown, but really he just wanted Lori, a place to finally be himself and a peace of mind that he's never truly had.

Superman: Year One has been amazing thus far. While it's only a few peoples take on what would happen if Superman joined the military, I feel like it's a great and accurate one in line with who Superman would be as a man. Given the lessons that he'd learned from Pa Kent, how could we expect him to be ready to kill at any moment? Instead, we see his compassion for humanity shine through as he's even willing to preserve the lives of absolute monsters. 

John Romita Jr. captures the apathy of an effortless Clark in his early career, the wonder when hears the beautiful call of love from the sea and the conflict of a man caught between duty and morality. To say that this is some of his best art in years would be an understatement when it concerns this entire story. While the last issue focused heavily on the vast normality of the midwestern United States, this issue feels more tight and focused on the inner turmoil of Superman. The locales feel more linear, allowing us to explore more of Clark's own inner thought processes. He is surrounded by other strong men, but he is in a league of his own until he meets Lori.

Superman: Year One is a great journey of self-discovery. Other Superman stories have tried similar themes with varying degrees of success. Superman: Earth One went in the hard direction of Superman being an apathetic douche that knows he's a God and lowers himself to the level of men until someone bigger makes him want to protect the citizens of Earth. Superman: American Alien grounded Superman near as much as this book does, but what makes them different is the journey Clark takes to find himself.

This book warmed my heart something fierce with it's incredible storytelling and art. With issue two being this good, I can only hope that the next one will be nearly as amazing. Given that the preview of the next one shows Superman holding up the Daily Planet globe, we are absolutely going to be in for a treat. 

Highest of recommends.

[gumnut-logic]

Gentle Rain (Part Six)

Title: Gentle Rain

Warm Rain Series

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Author: Gumnut

24 - 26 Jan 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Sometimes it is so gentle, you don’t realise it is happening.

Word count: 2937

Spoilers & warnings: Virgil/Kayo, Scott/OC, spoilers for Warm Rain up to this point in the timeline.

Timeline: Six months after ‘The Proposal’, almost a sequel.

Author’s note: For @scribbles97  I had so much fun with this one sitting on my back porch on a gorgeous sunny day. Many thanks to both Scribbs and @the-lady-razorsharp for help on this bit. Also for @vegetacide for some plotwork we did for further into the story. Next chapter is half written and I’m still having fun :D I hope you enjoy this fic that has a mind of its own.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

It was like some kind of daydream caught in a whirlwind.

The week had passed with medical consultations and chats with Scott over the network. His eyes lit up when he smartly inquired about Kayo asking her to Tracy Island.

“So you coming?” Was that expression hopeful?

“I’m considering it.” She bit back a grin. Why should she make it easy?

His eyes narrowed at her. “What could I offer to entice you?”

“Oh, you’d like to entice me, would you, flyboy?”

He really did have a beautiful smile. “I think I could.”

“Then entice away.”

He posed thoughtfully. “Now what would a gorgeous looking young woman like yourself find attractive on a tropical island. Let me think.” He tapped his lips with a finger.

She choked on a laugh. “Really?”

He held up a finger as if struck by a thought. “Marshmallows. We have the biggest, fluffiest marshmallows in the Southern Hemisphere. Absolutely delicious roasted over a slow fire.” He licked his lips.

Her eyes almost fell out of her head. “Scott Tracy, you are a flirt.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“And brazen about it.”

“Do you mind?”

That brought her up short, but she didn’t hesitate. “I think I can handle it.” And she was grinning.

His voice dropped an octave. “Good.”

She shivered.

Wow.

She still got one over him. He never did find out if she was coming to visit or not. She held him at arms length the entire week, taunting him.

He seemed to enjoy it.

Kayo picked up the game and swore Virgil to secrecy. Virgil threw up his hands and refused to be drawn in to any of it. The fact he was called out to a rescue two minutes later aided and abetted her little conspiracy.

Scott left the hospital two days before she did. Now it was her turn and she found herself aboard the Tracys’ private jet, all leather and luxury. Virgil was flying while Kayo attended to her, and it was just the three of them flying over the stark red brown landscape of the Australian Outback.

She had luggage, a new hoverscoot, and a belly full of butterflies. There were popular rumours about where exactly Tracy Island was and what you would find if you ever managed to actually get there. Mansions, a secret city…heh, one website claimed Tracy Island was on the other side of a wormhole somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. Another claimed it was easy to find by tracking birdlife.

Em didn’t really know what to think. The concept of a tropical island was steeped in stereotypes in any case. Perhaps palm trees would be present. The rest was likely up for grabs.

Kayo sat opposite her, occasionally looking at her with just a touch of concern. Em hadn’t said much since they had left Perth airport and she probably looked terrified.

For crying out loud, you’re a fully qualified professional, you’ve faced down much more in your life than a family of billionaires. Hell, she once stared down a patient holding a knife in her face. She was Em Bloody Harris, stop being such a wimp.

A little focus and a little spine.

She straightened and Kayo looked up. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Conversation. “Are you all pilots?” A frown. “Do you fly?”

A small smile crept across Kayo’s face. “Yes, and I most certainly do. Though I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of my Thunderbird.”

Em’s eyes widened. “You pilot a Thunderbird? Which one?”

“Thunderbird Shadow.”

The Thunderbirds were well known across the world as angels of mercy. They appeared at the most desperate moments, often long before any other rescue organisation could possibly have made it. There was the grey, blue and red rocket plane, the green behemoth that nursed all the equipment, a red rocket, a yellow submarine and the Voice Who Answered. There was also rumour of another plane, but sightings were rare and little was known about it. Em’s eyes widened. “You’re the ghost Thunderbird.”

The smile widened just a touch. “You could say that. We take our security very seriously.”

“Yet you’ve invited me.”

Kayo raised an eyebrow. “You checked out.”

It was hard to work out how to feel about that.

“Em, I don’t invite on whim. I thought you would like to visit and I know I will enjoy your company. The background check was just procedure.”

Em dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “Please don’t tell them. They don’t need to know.”

She could tell by the security specialist’s reaction that she knew exactly what she was talking about. Equally quiet. “They won’t hear it from me.”

“I don’t blame International Rescue. It wasn’t your fault. The only one deserving blame was the bastard who caused it all. I hope he rots in hell.”

“He is.”

Em stared at her. “He’s dead?”

Kayo’s expression was horribly cold. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Classified.”

Blink. “Okay.” She swallowed. “I hope he suffered.”

The other woman didn’t answer, but something sad flickered briefly over her face.

“It is awfully quiet in here. Should I be worried? You two aren’t plotting a mutiny or anything, I hope.”

It was like a switch had been flicked. Kayo’s expression changed completely, smiling up at Virgil as he entered the cabin. “No need for a mutiny, love. I have plenty of other ways to get what I want.”

Virgil didn’t quite roll his eyes, walking past to grab a drink from the fridge. “Can I get you anything?” He waved a bottle of water in their general direction.

“No, thank you.” They chorused together.

Virgil looked back over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?”

Em bit her lip, but couldn’t help parroting the sweet innocent smile Kayo sent her fiancé’s way.

His gaze darted back and forth between them, more alarmed by the moment. “Okay, I’ll just be upfront piloting the plane. Don’t summon the devil by accident.” And he stepped smartly back into the cockpit.

Em turned to Kayo to find the woman fighting back a grin. Em’s lips twisted as their eyes locked. A heartbeat and they both burst out laughing.

-o-o-o-

“Skies are clear, winds 20kph and from the south. You are cleared to land, Tracy Two.”

Through the open patio doors, John could hear the distant engagement of T2’s VTOL. Nowhere near as loud as her Thunderbird sisters, but strong enough to lower her safely onto Thunderbird Two’s runway.

He estimated no more than fifteen minutes before Kayo and their visitor would arrive in the lounge.

Sooner the better before Scott burnt out Thunderbird imPatient’s hover jets with his irrational ‘pacing’.

The slickly repainted hover chair now sported a pale blue-grey chassis with a slash of cherry red and sky blue down each side. The number one had been neatly inscribed in Thunderbird font on both sides. How Virgil had fit it in the last three weeks, John had no idea.

They had been horribly busy. Alan had been forced to take on Thunderbird One much to Scott’s annoyance. They simply could not function without her. As it was, Virgil had been burning most days at both ends, between rescues, hospital visits, and Tracy Industries on top of his regular duties.

They had only just gotten back to rhythm after Virgil’s accident. Now they were a man down yet again for at least another two months, probably more.

At Christmas.

Christmas never failed to increase the need for International Rescue. It was called the silly season for a reason. The collective IQ of the planet appeared to drop around this time of year, regardless of religion. If John could believe in astrology, he might have been inclined to blame the cosmos, but in reality it was often just stupidity.

At the moment he was seriously considering leaving the missing fishing boat caught in a cyclone off Broome, in the north of Western Australia, to the local authorities. They should never have been out, they had received clear warning, and yet had gone out anyway.

But IR’s sensory systems were far more advanced than any other. He had already interfaced with TB5 in an attempt to short cut a location, but the electrical activity in the cyclone denied him a lock at that distance. Thunderbird Two should be able to get a fix on the fishing boat’s transponder within a few hundred kilometres and with TB4 on board she should be able to render any assistance required.

He watched Virgil bring the light jet into land smoothly knowing that in a moment he would have to ask his brother to fly out again.

Gordon was already on his way to the hangar.

And Scott was spinning around in circles.

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“I can take eight Gs in a spiral dive. This is nothing.”

“Fine, but can you stop anyway?”

His big brother sighed and slowed to a standstill, staring at the toes of his left foot, stuck out awkwardly in front of him.

Over the last hour John had become acutely aware that something was bothering his brother above and beyond his injuries and resultant incapacitation. He had become fidgety, restless and agitated. It was out of character. Scott was a ball of energy at most times, but it was controlled energy, channelled and targeted at need.

Apparently, he had sprung a leak and, like a dropped garden hose, was bouncing around the room, out of control.

“Is there something wrong, Scott?”

“No.” Sharp and abrupt and so obviously a lie, John was almost insulted his brother thought it would work at all.

“Could have fooled me.”

“What?” He was poking distractedly at TB imPatient’s controls. The hoverchair did a sudden donut and backed ungracefully down the steps into the sunken lounge.

“Can you please not kill yourself on my watch. Virgil would be pissed.” That usually meant a pissed Kayo, never a good thing.

It was so much more peaceful in space. In space there was a comms off switch.

-o-o-o-

One minute there was a massive expanse of Pacific Ocean, next an island appeared out of nowhere.

Em stared out of the window at the dual spiked volcanic rock in the middle of blue water. As they drew nearer, she could make out the remains of the volcanic caldera, the hints of coral beneath the lagoon and the house amongst the rocks.

As the jet angled into land, her side of the plane dipped towards the ocean giving her a stunning view of the little island paradise. Knowing the pilot, probably on purpose.

Yes, there were definitely palm trees.

“Wow.”

Kayo smiled at her. “It’s home.”

The runway came into view, lined by palm trees. Em frowned. That didn’t quite look long enough...or wide enough. “K-“

The underside of the plane echoed mechanical movement, and a sudden roar above that of the jet engines started up. Their speed dropped off abruptly and Em felt her stomach shift inside her. The nose of the plane lifted and they descended vertically.

Kayo was watching for her reaction.

Em arched an eyebrow. “So not your average personal jet?”

The other woman smirked a little. “I’m sorry, but you’ll find that the Tracys don’t do ‘average’.” Was that pride? Perhaps just a little?

Em couldn’t help but grin.

Several butterflies were firmly stomped on.

Their speed slowed to almost a standstill as the ground approached, the jet hovering before gently touching down on the tarmac. Then, to her surprise, the jet’s wings folded back on themselves and they taxied between two lines of palm trees towards a cliff face.

She couldn’t quite see from her angle, but it appeared the cliff opened because moments later they were trundling through an entrance.

And past the massive bulk of Thunderbird Two.

She couldn’t help but stare.

“Damn.”

It was whispered, but Em heard it anyway. Kayo was up and out of her seat in the next breath and disappeared into the cockpit without another word.

Em was left to frown a little and stare at the giant green plane as the jet slowed to a stop in its hanger off to one side.

Thunderbird Two was high up on its landing struts, but as their jet came to a halt, there was a rumble of machinery and a chain of green cargo crates trundled past. One labelled with the number four settled beneath the giant green plane and the craft lowered, swallowing the crate whole.

Thunderbird Two was even larger that touch closer.

Kayo entered the cabin once again, her expression annoyed. “Virgil needs to fly out.” It was very clear the woman was not happy. “Some idiot went fishing in a cyclone.”

Virgil Tracy flew Thunderbird Two. It was well known. But now she had met the pilot she had trouble reconciling the kindly man with the gentle baritone, the soft smile and so much expression in his eyes every time he looked at Kayo, with the image of the superhero rescue operative of popular myth. He wasn’t what she expected.

But then a mental image of the saviour wrapped in metal, tossing brickwork with giant claws, as he busted into that hole beneath the collapsed hotel in Perth, flashed up.

Well, Superman did have his Clark Kent.

There was a hiss as Kayo enabled the cabin exit, an apparently automated set of stairs rolling into place. Virgil hurried from the cockpit, flashing her a quick smile before pausing in front of Kayo, his hands landing on her shoulders. Em looked away to give them privacy as he leant down to kiss her.

A whispered ‘fly safe’ and his boots hit the metal stairwell.

Moments later, the hanger was filled with the stirring roar of Thunderbird Two’s engines and she watched as the behemoth taxied out into the daylight. She couldn’t see the runway from where she sat and she had no idea how the huge plane managed on such a narrow tarmac, but seconds later, that roar swelled into a crescendo and the plane around her vibrated with the power being expended as the craft no doubt launched.

As the roar disappeared off into the distance, she looked up to see Kayo still standing at the exit, her back to Em.

“Kayo, are you okay?”

“Fine.” And the woman turned around a smile forced onto her face.

“Yes, Virgil.”

That earned her a glare. “Let’s get off this plane.”

That shut down the conversation. Em tried her best not to take it personally. It was obvious that Kayo wasn’t used to sharing her problems and honestly, it wasn’t any of her business.

Not much was said as Kayo helped her into her hoverscoot. The device was a smaller version of the hoverchair, less bulky now she had no legs to support. It had variable height so she could look a person in the eye if necessary. The harness supported her back, keeping her upright, while the remains of her legs were cushioned with anti-pressure in the small seat. She had chosen to wear what would have been a knee length summer dress today, the convenience of covering up her injury taken to full advantage, her stumps wrapped in soft socks beneath. The sleeveless dress hugged her overall slim figure, and was appropriate for the tropical clime

This was made abundantly apparent the moment she descended the stairs into the hanger. The hanger doors had since closed, the metal structure towering above her. In fact, the entire hanger was massive. But where she would have thought the air should be cool, it was gently warm, perhaps a remnant of the recent exposure to the outside.

Saltwater lingered in the air.

The cavern echoed with smoothly operating machinery. Some kind of automaton was interfacing with the cargo section of their jet and offloading their luggage and in the distance there was more movement of an unknown purpose. Kayo secured the plane before joining her and leading her over to an elevator.

“Gordon left with Virgil, but Scott, John and Alan are upstairs.” Kayo shot her a smile and Em managed to corral the butterflies just a little. “Did Scott ever work out whether you were coming today or not?”

“Heh.” Okay, so she was grinning now. “I strung him along quite nicely. He offered me all kinds of things to get me out here.”

Kayo actually let out a laugh. “Really?”

“I think the last offer was a Lamborghini.” Not that she would ever accept such a thing, it was hilarious to play the man.

“He offered you a Lambo?” A frown. “What colour?”

“Oh, I had a choice. Green or yellow.”

“Hah. Don’t trust him. He’s offering you Virgil or Gordon’s.”

Em’s eyes widened. “Really? You have Lamborghinis?”

Kayo snorted. “They’re boys. Did you expect anything less?”

She thought a moment as the elevator rose. “I don’t know. I never considered luxury in relation to International Rescue.”

The elevator slowed a moment before changing trajectory and travelling up at an angle. The movement was so smooth, her ‘scoot hardly reacted.

“Oh, they work for it, but the boys do have their toys.” Kayo’s smile was infectious.

“I told him I would only consider a blue one.” It had been teasing and off the cuff, but those eyes of his prompted everything.

“Points to you, Em. You picked his colour.”

And the elevator slowed to a smooth stop. She barely had chance to think before the doors opened and Kayo led her into a large lounge area.

Just in time to see Scott Tracy collide with a wall.

-o-o-o-

End Part Six.

Part Seven

[e350tb]

Steven Universe: Marooned Together - Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

A lot can change in five years.

New Earth grew every day - for the first time, proper buildings, built from proper materials looted from Homeworld’s abandoned colonies across the universe, had sprung up. There was the hospital, four storeys tall, vibrant with white electric and blue-green neon lights (nothing particularly new, but of much greater quality than what existed at the Diamond’s Lament.) The Museum of Earth had moved to a bigger, more permanent building after the find on the swamp world ,as well as a few other successful recovery missions since. There was even permanent housing going up, replacing the old shacks and shanties. The streets were being paved, the lights no longer flickered on occasion - the time of scavenging and making-do was finally coming to an end.

It was giving way to a new age of uncertainty.

Captain Franks was determined to expand the human resistance. New uniforms were being rolled out - a standard grey jumpsuit, augmented with body armour and a helmet that was longer at the back, covering the ears. Recruitment was being handled by Commander Lewis, who pulled  heavily from the young humans of New Earth; the ones who didn’t remember their old homeworld, whose minds could be filled with stirring tales of human culture and wisdom.

What Franks didn’t know, of course, was that she augmented these teachings with a faint hint of human exceptionalism. Franks believed he was getting soldiers. He was actually receiving fanatics, something he would have noticed, had he bothered to check. But he didn’t mingle with the ranks; he was too busy trying to dream the next big strategy to fight back against Homeworld. He was completely oblivious to his growing cohort of underlings who hated, hated gems - and weren’t impressed by his soft stance towards them.

Garnet was doing very well for herself these days - she had one of the first apartments on New Earth, although she was often away. Sometimes she went on her own scavenging voyages; others she joined Amethyst’s crew in pirate raids. Sometimes she even helped Simon out at the Diamond’s Lament, or ran errands for Jeff. Often, she simply chilled. It was a pretty good life.

And yet, she saw darkness ahead.

Today, she stood next to Peedee and Blue Pearl as the Human Resistance marched by, band playing and boots stomping on the dark-blue tarmac-like surface of the street. The small groups of gems and humans that watched them march by regarded them with suspicion, even fear, but the Resistance marched regardless; for most of them, this was a show of force. Take note gems; our time will come.

“Dickheads.”

Peedee’s whisper was quiet and venomous. It also wasn’t an uncommon sentiment. With the exception of Franks, who either could not or chose not to see the behaviour of the underlings, the people of New Earth knew exactly what sort of person marched before them.

“And Jeff lets them march,” replied Garnet, crossing her arms.

“He has to,” replied Peedee, “They’re the biggest defence force we have, even though they’re next to useless. If Homeworld comes, we’ll need ‘em. Jeff wants to set up community defences, though; some kind of, I dunno, Home Guard?”

“I’m worried,” Blue Pearl said softly, “That they may be getting out of hand.”

“Me too, Bloop,” replied Peedee warily, “Me too.”

Garnet said nothing, her face set in a deep frown as she watched the last line of troops pass by. One soldier turned his head, and their eyes briefly met.

It took a lot to unsettle Garnet. The contempt in that man’s eyes was just enough to do so.

“...aaaand… done.”

Stevonnie stepped back, casually tossing the old bucket to the side as they inspected the sandcastle they and Lapis had built.

It had been a long time since they’d had a mission, and if they were honest, Stevonnie had enjoyed the break. While they didn’t regret helping Amethyst with pirate raids, scavenging about with Jenny and the other extraction teams, or keeping Captain Franks from getting himself killed, the little moments they spent with Lapis on their island were often the most special.

Now was one such time. They had spent the morning building a sandcastle with an old bucket and spade. Stevonnie had built the castle proper - Lapis had manipulated water to ensure the sand was just damp enough to stick, as well as filling moats and waterwork around the structure. The end result was quite nice - a moated castle with a few little streams running through it, centred on a big, multi turreted keep in the middle.

“There we go,” declared Stevonnie, “Castello de la Lazuli is finished!”

“Castello de la Lazuli?” quizzed Lapis, “Not Stevonnie?”

“Nah, nah,” replied Stevonnie, “See that tower?” They pointed to a particularly tall one. “That’s where Princess Lapis Lazuli lives. She’s been locked in there by an evil prince called… uh… Prince Kevin.”

“You really don’t like the name ‘Kevin’, do you?”

“Nope!” said Stevonnie cheerfully.

Lapis nodded, crossing her arms.

“I don’t get it,” she said, “Why doesn’t Princess Lapis control the moat water to make a giant fist and punch her way out?”

“Uh, um…” Stevonnie snapped their fingers. “A terrible curse! Kevin hired a fearsome wizard called… called Marty to enchant Princess Lapis so that she couldn’t do that, and… and so she could never walk away from the castle, or she’d fall asleep forever!”

“Sucks to be her,” said Lapis, “So how does she get out?”

“There’s a bold knight!” replied Stevonnie excitedly, “And their name is Stevonnie! And they go on a quest to free Princess Lapis from the spell! And, uh, they have their noble friends; Lady Peridot, the Dread Pirate Amethyst… uh… Garnet, who’s too cool to have a label…”

“Makes sense.”

“Anyway, they make it to the castle, and they fight this huge dragon!” continued Stevonnie, “But then it turns out the dragon only wants to make friends, so Garnet teaches it the power of friendship and love. And then Stevonnie enters the castle and fights King Kevin…”

“Wasn’t he a prince?”

“He promoted himself. Anyway, there’s this big fight, and Stevonnie stabs him in the spleen…”

Stevonnie mimed a stabbing motion.

“...and they go up the tower to Princess Lapis,” they continued, “And they’re there - the, uh, the moon’s shining in the window, and… um…”

They ran a hand over the back of their head.

“I… uh… didn’t think of how to end this,” they said, “I mean, how do you break a curse, right? You, uh, you gotta… um…”

They blushed, clearing their throat.

“...you know, I’ll work it out later,” they shrugged, “Point is, day is saved. Everyone lives happily ever after.”

“Wish our lives were like that,” muttered Lapis.

“Hey.”

Stevonnie put their hands on Lapis’ shoulders and smiled.

“Maybe we’re just still on the way there?”

There was a long silence, save for the sound of the light breeze on the beach. Stevonnie’s face felt hot - must be sunburn, they thought - and yet there seemed to be a strange tension in the air, one they couldn’t quite pin down…

“Stevonnie! Lapis! Y-y-you-I-they need you on New Earth!”

Stevonnie turned, watching Lenny scurry down the beach from the direction of the warp pad. They couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… disappointment? Why, they couldn’t fathom.

“What is it, Lenny?” they asked.

“W-w-we found an in… an installation!” replied Lenny, “Ye-Yellow Diamond. Could be weapons plans! Amethyst and Franks are organising a r-raid!”

“You mean Amethyst’s organising a raid and Franks is getting in the way,” said Lapis dryly.

“I… yeah,” nodded Lenny, “Any-anyway, they want you to c-come over for a briefing, i-i-if you’re not in the middle of something or anything!”

“I…”

Stevonnie looked down at the sandcastle, up at Lapis and then finally back towards Lenny. They felt themself deflate for just a moment, but again, they couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

“...sure thing, Lenny,” they said at last, “Lead the way.”

The briefing took place on the bridge of Franks’ flagship, the Lawrence - a place that could be described as overwhelmingly, depressingly grey. To say it was monochromatic would have been too kind; it was three-dimensionally bleak. The interior looked not unlike a submarine: dark, covered in red buttons and glowing screens, and more than a little claustrophobic.

Franks was seated in his captain’s chair, Commander Lewis poised dutifully to one side. Stevonnie waved as they’d entered - if looks could kill, the one Lewis shot their way would have obliterated them at an atomic level. Amethyst, Peridot, Lenny, Garnet, Jeff and Jenny sat around the conference table, looking over a crudely drawn map of a star system.

“Stevonnie, Lapis,” nodded Franks, “Take a seat.”

They did as they were bid, and Amethyst stood up.

“Alright, here’s the sitch,” she said, “Jenny found a new space station Ol’ Yeller’s building in one of her mining systems. Some kind of weapons lab or something, maybe. Anyway, we sent it to some of the ‘Dots on New Earth to analyse. Lenny?”

Lenny stood up, biting her lip nervously before beginning.

“Th… uh… C got a little t-team going,” she said, “Uh, Peridot-RFD, P-Peridot E Cut…”

“Get on with it,” snapped Lewis.

“Hey, these Peris deserve credit!” replied Amethyst.

“We’re planning a mission, not giving participation trophies to a bunch of little green…”

“Commander Lewis, that’ll be sufficient,” interrupted Franks, before Amethyst could disembowel the commander, “Continue?”

“Y-yes, th-th-thank you,” said Lenny, “I-I-I b-believe the s-s-station is a… is a platform to r-research bi-biological and geoweaponry. L-like… like…”

“Like the Cluster,” said Stevonnie, their tone grim.

There was a long silence, and the air coalesced into something thicker, an impossibly heavy vapor that was near-suffocating.

“Y-yes,” replied Lenny, “Like the Cluster.”

“Which is why we have to blow this thing to hell,” said Amethyst, pounding her fist into her palm, “And as badass as most of us are-” She glanced ever so briefly to Franks and Lewis, “...we’re gonna need some help. So we’re bringing in the HR.”

Lapis rolled her eyes, and Stevonnie fought the urge to chuckle - thankfully, Franks didn’t seem to have caught that.

“The Lawrence and the Crystal Avenger will keep Homeworld’s fleet assets busy,” said Franks, “Using the following battle strategy, our ships will…”

“Did he really just say fleet assets?” Lapis whispered as Franks carried on in the background, “What even are those?”

“Ships, I think,” Stevonnie whispered.

“Well why doesn’t he just say that?”

“I think he thinks it makes him sound smarter.”

“...which should divert the attention of their battlewagons,” finished Franks, “Garnet?”

“We’ll come aboard in two teams,” said Garnet, “Jenny and I will sabotage the chemical storage lab, while Stevonnie and Lapis will destroy their record files. The HR will cover the shuttle bays so that we can escape when we’re done.”

“If I may,” Lewis butted in, her face set into a frown, “I don’t believe the HR should be used to babysit some-”

“You may not, Lewis,” grunted Jeff, “One more thing; if you find any evidence of non-gem captives in Yellow Diamond’s possession, we need to know. Anyone we can save, you know?”

“Got it, Jeff,” said Stevonnie, “We’ll keep an eye out.”

“Very good,” said Franks, “We’ll sail in twenty-four hours. Dismissed.”

He got up, marching out of the room with Franks at his heels. For a few moments, Amethyst stared after him.

“Dude knows we hadn’t actually finished, right?” she asked.

She shrugged and turned around.

“Okay, one more thing, guys,” she said, “Peridot?”

“A couple of our scavengers have seen an unidentified object that occasionally approaches New Earth, but then immediately turns around,” said Peridot, “It could be a Homeworld scout.”

“Or it could just be a UFO,” shrugged Jenny.

“It’s unidentified, it’s by very definition a UFO,” said Peridot testily.

“Yeah, but it could be-”

“It is not the Roswell Aliens!” shrieked Peridot.

Jenny chuckled, sitting back and crossing her arms.

“Whoever this is, we kinda wanna know who they are,” added Amethyst, “So they at least stop creeping on us or whatever they’re doing. So if you find any files about them on Yellow Diamond’s Biological Funtime Base, let us know.”

She got up.

“Okay,” she said, “Now you’re dismissed.”

The assembled gems and humans left the room, Stevonnie trailing at the back. Briefly, a scrap of graffiti carved into the table gave them pause.

PIRATE BITCH = NEW NECKLACE WHEN LEWIS TAKES OVER

They frowned deeply. They’d have to bring this up with Franks, and they resolved to do so as soon as they got back…

[survivorsupport]

Gasoline&Harmonies

Ever bought something brand new from the store, only to arrive home and tear open the packaging like a salivating canine and find that your freshly acquired and carefully wrapped possession was already cracked, scuffed, shredded? I know that you have, and within that knowledge I am equally as aware (if not more so) of the fact that though your face may or may not have betrayed the holocaust of anger roiling around inside of your chest at your misfortune, the great fire was burning bright and hot.

But I wonder if you know what it is like to realize that the shiny cellophane paper printed with raving reviews of its supposedly phenomenal contents is you, your own body, mind, heart and soul? I wonder, dear one, if you could ever begin to understand what it feels like to have your life inside of a cardboard box sent in the post marked as FRAGILE: HANDLE CAREFULLY, and then crushed mercilessly under someone else’s foot.

Typing this now, my mouth fills with a faint sour taste, one akin to noxious chemical burn searing canker sores that would never fully heal to the roof of my mouth and destroying my esophagus completely. It is a taste that I know, a flavor my palette only encountered once yet never, ever forgot. Gasoline, in a metal cup that you served me in a ditch just far away enough from society that no one could hear me scream, no one could bear total witness to the inhumanity of your callous actions. An inhumanity that was brushed underneath the rug that we never moved when we vacuumed, underneath my bed where I hid my favorite toys, begged of the dust bunnies to watch over them (the way the man they sing the songs about, the reason we dye Easter eggs and eat chocolate bunnies was supposed to watch over me).

 It is not an evil thing, gasoline. Rather it is an incredible accelerate, a catalyst to the inevitable demise of the stratosphere. I thought that my throat must feel exactly the way the ground does as a vehicle speeds over it at 90 miles per hour, burnt rubber. I think that day was when my vocal chords were forever altered in a way so that I no longer could sing beautiful hymns. Irreparable damage done to the tone of my melodies that did not make it so that I was never able to sing again, instead the defamation of my insides and my purity was mutated to a frequency only certain ears can hear.

Sadly, flammable chemicals were not the worst horror I would ultimately bear.

I will not go into detail about the things that took place under the blanket of darkness. An artificial darkness created by off-white walls that mother insisted were painted with actual top-coat and not just a thick layer of primer. A sheet of white color that remains sticky even after it has been drying for an impossible amount of time, an avalanche of snow so cold and lackluster, its ivory body streaked with dirt, caked with mud, and littered with debris. The walls were a color that somehow made even direct sunlight feel like cave darkness, like an eternal winter spent in Alaska.

A single window, above either my bed or yours, my mind’s lockbox has mostly blurred the memory of the iciest, most lonely and hopeless chrysalis my caterpillar alter ego would ever know, icier than any place meant for a creature meant to grow their wings out properly. I was forced into a morbid metamorphosis that irrevocably warped my ability to fly, and while almost the entirety of my essence had transformed into a new being completely, a tiny slice of my heart, mind, body and soul were cryogenically frozen.

There will always be a memory, a whisper of the frost that will never die, that I can never truly kill, no matter how many ways I try. In between my ears is quite a loud and busy place, often as I tell a story the words that I was so sure of a moment before dissipate completely into the foggy layer of my neurological stratosphere that hangs just above my temples, though only on the inside. This fog is not unlike the kind that plagues the Northern Pacific, even on Independence Day the brightest of any and all star rays cannot do any damage beyond faint and miniscule Swiss cheese holes in this pseudo-atmospheric reminder.

Through the fog, I once heard a child’s voice, a lullaby so sweet and delicate I dared not breathe. Faint at first, willfully reasoned away as the wind catching chimes on the front porch on a particularly stormy day. But the soft and supple nursery song then grew to a dull yet cutting roar that could not be drowned out and could never be mistaken. Notes lilting through the tunnels of my nasal cavity, the complete and all-encompassing harmony healing the raw, red, bloody trails that carried oxygen to my brain. I had not realized just how much time had passed since the last clean breath I inhaled had filled me with the human body’s least noticed and yet most sacred necessity. But we tend only to notice oxygen when we are deprived of it. And the way a song on the radio reminds you of a break-up or a road trip, this tune conjures up the feeling of suffocation, tearing in every way possible, skin or soul, or heart. I may be alive, but there is a part of me that knows the way it feels to truly suffocate.

Cracks are okay, they let the light in.

Darling I know your scars, as I’m the one who received them.

My tears fill bottomless wells, somehow you prefer dying of thirst.

I’m sorry you’re throbbing- but I felt the worst.

I know that you love to read, escape to Neverland

where you fight off pirates in your sleep,the floor hasn’t ever met Tinker’s feet

and you grew up nice and balanced

(although if that had happened we’d likely never meet)

Even still you love to scribe, your version of events was how you survived

you wrote infinite alternate endings where I stayed alive.

But please don’t disrespect me, my ashes deserve the memory

of recognizing our travesty, still you choose to live in the desert

sand every way that you can see.

And of course no one ever drowned in the desert, So you wonder how you cannot breathe?

Return with me, for once, though the theme of my lullaby is my pain.

The setting of our horror film, that primer coated bedroom,

filled with such a humid inhumanity-

stealing the last spark from my fading hopeful eyes-

summertime, or hurricane season, no one heard (or at least pretended not to)

the caterpillar’s final cries.

Instead you grew up to hide just like I did, in the folds of the dark blue curtains,

Pink insulation peeking out from behind them, killing the last shred of possibility,

That there could ever be light in this place.

You call that cave a chrysalis- there’s been fiction shelved with fact.

The cold prison where I died (and you grew) was a pupa.

Moths are drawn to the light, For Godsakes, a child would have gotten that right.

Most of my senses are dulled now, as I have worn away my nerves with all the ways I tried to numb wounds that were much too severe for my psyche to bear. The cruelest truth is that my blanket of chemical amnesia ended up taking my capacity for any feeling at all (especially joy) and leaving only the softest whisper of emptiness as my homeostasis. A sound so low that it is felt and not heard, the hiss of the horror haunts me no matter what time of year. I wonder if you know what I mean when I say that every part of who I am disappears in between those ivory lines or dissipates along with supple, serpentine trails of smoke. It is as if the world as I once knew it still exists all around me, present in body. Shades of red and pink muscles stretched across bones, covered in skin and adorned with scars I’ve never seen before and wavy lines on my fingertips that are unique to me, and only me. I know a certain secret that is written within the vices long since tucked in the box labeled “taboo” and hidden in the back of morality’s messy closet.

Visualize a time lapse, mental moving pictures of smoky garages, dried herbs and blown glass, red eyes and a cough so bad that I threw up several times. Then blue footballs and yellow submarines that carried me with velvet arms into a living purgatory, an absence of all memory. Fermented fruits that tasted worse than even the contents of that gas can did and burn just the same way all the way down my body. Ivory lines that numb my tongue and shake the world, then icy ones melted in the most unnatural and revolting igloos. Finally the taste of toasted marshmallows on my tongue, roasted by hand with no stick, instead foil underneath. Does this make you feel uncomfortable, the details of all the awful things I’ve done to because of the awful things you’ve done to me?

I grew into a creature who I wasn’t meant to be, somehow with your filthy hands you changed my very DNA. So, I became a moth instead of a butterfly- and all we seek is light. A moth is desperately pinging from streetlight to strobe-lights, looking for a source that will make up for all the darkness faced alone in that prison. I sought it through every facet I could find. I gave my body, and I gave my mind. I gave my money and I gave my pride. I gave the love I could have saved for myself and I loaded up the rig with it. I traded green papers in parks for bags of white, step into my teacup and spin around all night. That’s all I’ve ever done, is spin, and I don’t know how to stop, a carousel in Hades, attended by my flesh and blood. I can’t remember a time when I did not feel alien, empty.

I would not say you ruined me, as without you I would not exist. Instead you ruined who I might have been, how I might have lived and loved and lost. Certainly, you were the first person to teach me what it felt like to be lost, and I remain that way to this day.

              Our family will not talk about it, Daddy even asked if I made it all up. They still bring you up at holidays, though they know if you’re attending I will not be. You called me on my birthday last year, and I wasn’t even disgusted. I was at a loss, and I still am. I do not know where the story ends of how I lost my innocence. What I do know that it’s my duty every day to live, not as if I have never tasted gasoline, but to use mouth wash every morning, look into my hazel eyes and remember that there is nothing but honor in being a survivor. Every day I remind myself that though my melodies are off-key, they are notes as beautiful as the ones Orpheus played on his lyre, and I feel the singing girl in my head float softly closer and closer to the light. One day soon she will be free, I will be free, and you will be damned to hell, or whatever horrid after-life that you deserve. I sleep well at night now, though I cover my windows with blinds.

[seniorbrief]

My Father Was the BTK Killer. Here’s Why I Managed to Forgive Him.

Travis Heying/Wichita Eagle

The man knocked on Kerri Rawson’s door around noon on February 25, 2005. She looked out at him from inside her apartment near Detroit—he was holding an FBI badge.

She almost didn’t answer. Her father, a code compliance officer in Park City, a suburb of Wichita, Kansas, had taught her to be wary of strangers, and this one had sat in his car for an hour outside her home. But she decided to let the FBI agent into her kitchen, where she had made a chocolate Bundt cake. From then on, the smell of chocolate cake would make her queasy.

The man asked if she knew what BTK was. Yes, she did. BTK—Bind, Torture, Kill—was the nickname for the serial killer who had scared her mom decades ago and who was responsible for murdering ten people in Kansas between 1974 and 1991.

The FBI guy was her dad’s age, in his late 50s, wearing glasses and a necktie, nervous. Kerri was a 26-year-old substitute teacher taking a day off, still in her pajamas. The man said her dad had been arrested as a BTK Killer suspect. He needed to swab her cheek for DNA. (Here are the strangest unsolved mysteries in each state.)

At that moment, in Park City, Kerri’s mother, Paula Rader, 56, sat down to lunch at home, waiting for her husband, Dennis. Cops rushed in, guns drawn. A week later, Paula’s lunch still sat uneaten in the house she had shared with Dennis since the early 1970s. She’d never sleep there again.

Cops arrested Dennis as he was driving home for lunch. In Wichita, officers picked up family and friends for questioning. At the police station, Paula defended Dennis. Back in Detroit, Kerri yelled at the FBI agent. The last time she had seen her dad was in Park City at Christmas. He’d looked sad. She remembered his bear hug, how he smelled, his brown uniform. This could not be true, she told the man. Dad had called last night, asking if she’d checked the oil in her car.

At that point, she did something she would do many times over the next seven days: defend and then doubt her father at the same time. She told the agent about Marine Hedge. Hedge, 53, was a grandmother with a silky southern accent, five feet tall, weighing no more than 100 pounds. She’d lived six doors down from the Raders and disappeared in 1985, when Kerri was six. Hedge’s body was later found in a ditch. Paula had been fearful. “Don’t worry,” Dad had said. “We’re safe.”

Kerri remembered that when Hedge disappeared, her dad wasn’t home. “It was stormy, and I didn’t want to sleep by myself. My mom let me in her bed—that’s how I know he was gone.”

After the FBI agent left, she took down a picture of her father from the hallway and stuck it in a closet. She Googled “BTK” for proof that he was innocent but then told her husband she was matching her memories to BTK’s murder timeline, wondering if her whole life might be a lie.

The next day, police and politicians gathered in Wichita’s city hall. “BTK is arrested,” the police chief announced. Kerri was furious when she learned that to link her dad to the BTK Killer, cops had obtained one of her Pap smears taken years before at Kansas State University’s clinic. They used it to confirm that the Rader family DNA closely matched DNA in the semen that BTK left at the scene of a quadruple homicide in 1974. The FBI guy had asked Kerri for a cheek swab so he could double-check her DNA.

The first nights, Kerri and her husband, Darian, slept as if one of them needed to be on watch—she on the couch, he on the floor. TV crews camped outside, and when Darian drove to work, they followed.

Darian watched his wife change. Athletic and nearly five foot ten, she was no girlie girl, and he loved that. She could walk for days carrying a backpack. But now, she was the BTK Killer’s daughter. She even looked like her dad: same dark hair, same eyes. She shared his middle name, Lynn. She felt as if she’d done something wrong.

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

Kerri searched her memories. The night of Hedge’s murder, Dad had taken Brian, her brother, on a Boy Scout campout. Was it an alibi so he could sneak out and murder their neighbor? In 2004, around Christmas, after BTK threatened in letters to the police and news outlets that he would kill again, Dad had driven her to the airport to pick up her brother. But Dad had wandered off. Was he mailing one of those letters? Watching the news to see if he was mentioned? She minutely analyzed her whole life.

Kerri remembered how he spoke sharply if she sat in his chair or failed to put her shoes away. Cops said BTK made strange marks in his communications to them. She recalled weird marks Dad made on newspaper stories. “Code,” he’d called it.

Three days after her dad’s arrest, Kerri flew back to Kansas City. On the plane, she escaped by reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. But on her layover, she saw her father’s face on the airport’s TV screens.

Mike Clark, the family’s pastor, visited Dennis Rader in jail a week after his arrest. Clark called Paula afterward, and Kerri watched her mother take the call, with a yellow legal pad in her hand. Paula wrote, “He’s confessing,” and underlined it as they talked.

It was true. He had murdered the Oteros: a mom, a dad, and two children, ages 11 and 9. He had tortured victims, sexually defiled several. He had taken Hedge’s body inside Christ Lutheran Church, where he was congregation president. He posed her and took photos. BTK had started his crimes in 1974, before Kerri was born.

Everybody assumed the BTK Killer was a sadistic genius. But the real BTK is an ordinary, inarticulate doofus, Darian thought. And a good dad, Kerri said. With Paula, he’d taught the kids’ godliness. Kerri had two college degrees; Brian, her older brother, had been an Eagle Scout and was training to serve on U.S. Navy nuclear submarines.

Dennis couldn’t understand why no family members visited. Kerri wrote him: “You have had these secrets, this ‘double life’ for 30 years; we have only had knowledge of it for three months … We are trying to cope and survive … You lied to us, deceived us.”

The family dreaded a trial, where his crimes would be described. Dennis pleaded guilty to spare them. Kerri felt relieved until the plea hearing. Her dad told a TV audience at length how he had killed people, lingering over how he’d murdered the Otero kids. He seemed to enjoy the story. He even brought up Kerri. “Joseph Otero had a daughter; I had a daughter.”

One night the next year, while Darian slept, Kerri lay beside him and wrote her father.

“Should I tell you that I grew up adoring you, that you were the sunshine of my life … true, even if it is coming out jaded and bitter now … Sometimes I just want to go out and buy the biggest, buttery tub [of popcorn] I can find and wave it in your face and say, ‘Ha, you won’t ever have this again’ and ask was it worth it? In the next breath I want to ask if you’re staying warm at night … I’m so sorry that you’re alone in that small cold concrete cell and sometimes I just wish I could give you a hug.”

She never sent that letter. And when her dad wrote, his letters sometimes went into the trash, where she dumped cat litter on them. Other times she’d write, and he would not reply, later telling her he’d been busy.

Dennis committed his first murders at age 29. At age 29, Kerri became a mother, and suddenly she truly despised her dad. In 1974, he had killed two children. In 1977, he had strangled Shirley Vian while her six-year-old son watched through a keyhole. In 1986, he killed Vicki Wegerle as her two-year-old stood in a playpen. “Man hurt Mommy,” the child told police. Kerri stopped writing to her father and cut him out of her life.

Sue Parker, a therapist, treated Kerri for five months in 2007. Parker saw a woman with above-average intelligence, poise, and post-traumatic stress. (Kerri gave permission for Parker to be interviewed for this story.) Many factors determine how well people can recover. “It’s about the severity of the trauma and how long it goes on, but it also depends on the coping mechanisms the victims have … their support system, who they have around them,” Parker said.

Kerri had had good people around all her life, Parker thought. A loving husband. Church. Friends. And good parents. Not just Mom. Dad too.

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

The cops said Dennis Rader fancied himself a James Bond character with cover stories—Boy Scout volunteer, congregation president. But the BTK Killer had also been a good dad, Parker said. “Maybe it was all a cover story,” she added. “But if it was, it was a cover story that actually worked.”

While betrayed on a level only God can understand, Parker said, Kerri seemed healthy and strong when she left Parker’s care. After her daughter, Emilie, was born, Kerri clung to teachings about God’s love. But when a sermon on forgiveness was announced at church, she stayed away. She had a second child, Ian, in 2011, but her dad’s betrayals kept poisoning her life. When Emilie was five, she asked her mother where her grandfather was.

“In a long time-out,” Kerri replied.

Could Kerri see him? Emilie asked.

“It’s a really long time-out,” Kerri answered.

One day at church, Darian and Kerri listened to a woman describe being raped. She said she forgave not to help the rapist, but to lighten her own suffering. Kerri talked about that idea for days. In August 2012, she announced at church that her father was a serial killer and told her story. “I have not forgiven him,” she said. Marijo Swanson, a friend, talked to her. “If we choose not to forgive or not work at healing from the betrayal,” she told Kerri, “we continue to give the other person power to control us and our feelings.”

That fall, Kerri suffered a fracture in her tibia. She was laid up for weeks. Shortly afterward, forgiveness poured over her one day. She sobbed so hard while driving that she had to pull the car over. The anger was gone. In December, Kerri wrote to her dad for the first time in five years. She told him she would never forget his crimes or be at peace with them, but she was at peace with the man who had raised her. Then she wrote of her life and of the grandchildren he would never meet. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to make it for a visit but know that I love you and hope to see you in heaven someday.”

After that letter, Kerri changed. “Before she forgave him, she thought of herself as BTK’s daughter,” Darian said later. “But as soon as she forgave him, she was Kerri again.”

In February 2013, Kerri spoke at church. “[God] told me, ‘You have a dad problem; you have a trust and obedience problem. You trusted and obeyed your earthly father, and he hurt you, so now you’re holding out on me. Let’s fix that.’”

She said, “I told Him that ‘I love you.’ He said, ‘Then show me.’”

Courtesy Kerri Rawson

And so she had done it, she told them. She had forgiven him. She wrote again to her father, telling him once more that she forgave him. Her father was stunned. “Forgiveness is there between the lines,” he wrote in his rambling style. “She recalls all that we did as a family—many good memories, and that helps her make the day. That is true love from a daughter’s heart. What else can a father ask for.”

That was not the end to Kerri’s struggles. In September 2013, Stephen King said in a TV interview that he’d written a story inspired by the Rader family called “A Good Marriage,” about discovering a monster in the house. Furious, Kerri gave her own interview, lashing out at King. Among people giving her rave reviews: Dad.

“She reminds me of me,” he wrote to the Wichita Eagle. “Independence, fearless, uses the media. I was touch[ed] by it … People reading … will see we had a ‘good Family.’ Nothing to hide; Only me with my ‘Dark Secrets.’ Like she said, I was a good Dad, (but only did bad things).”

Memories came back to Kerri. In 1996, the Raders had lost a cousin to a car wreck and were losing a grandfather to illness. To comfort the family, her mom made manicotti, but the Raders got into a fight at dinner. “We had this old rickety table and someone—I don’t remember who—pounded on it, and the legs broke and all the dinner came crashing down … My dad was so angry at my brother, he put his hands around my brother’s neck and started to try to choke him. I can still picture it clearly, and I can see the intense anger in my dad’s face and eyes. Close to manic.”

For Kerri, life continued to be complicated. “I fight my dad sometimes in my dreams, never understanding who let him out of prison,” she said. “I’m always very fearful of him and very angry in my dreams. Sometimes I’m even fighting for my life or frantically trying to convince others of the truth.”

On a bitter morning in January 2015, Kerri is in Wichita. “Coming back here to Wichita is like stepping into enemy territory,” she says. She wonders whether people might recognize her, and she talks about forgiveness. “I feel bad for the 30 years of … bad things because of one man, my dad … I forgave him. But I didn’t do that for him,” she says. “I did it for me.”

She returns to her old block and points. “There’s my grandma’s house, and there’s where Mrs. Hedge lived … And here is where our house was.”

It is a vacant lot. The city razed the house to discourage gawkers. “To get to my grandma’s house, I had to walk past Mrs. Hedge’s house, and now [at age six] I was afraid. And the guy who killed her was living in our house.”

She shows where a tree house stood, built by her dad. She indicates with her arms how big his garden had been. “He turned my bedroom into a nursery for plants when I was three, and I’d sleep with my brother in the bunk bed. I was so annoyed with my dad. But now you realize that kept him out of trouble. He was trying to stop. So it was plants—or murder.”

She points to a depression in the grass: the grave of Patches, a pet dog long dead. The cops were so suspicious of the BTK Killer that they had dug up the dog’s remains to see whether BTK had buried any secrets with them. He had not.

But nothing about her life was spared, Kerri says. Not even the graves of long-dead dogs.

Next, find out the most notorious criminals in each state.

Original Source -> My Father Was the BTK Killer. Here’s Why I Managed to Forgive Him.

source https://www.seniorbrief.com/my-father-was-the-btk-killer-heres-why-i-managed-to-forgive-him/

[iamthewalrus444]

Fabulous

he burnt his finger </3 [IG]