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[mostlysignssomeportents]

The FTC has Big Pharma’s number

On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

The most consistent bright spot in the dark swirl of US politics is the competence of the Biden Administration's progressive enforcers: people like Rohit Chopra, Jonathan Kanter and Lina Khan, who keep demonstrating just how far a good administrator can go. Anyone can have a vision, but knowing how to execute is the difference between hot air and real change:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

Take a minute to contrast Biden's administrators with Trump's: Trump's administrators had an ideological vision just as surely as Biden's do, and Trump himself had a much more pronounced and explicit ideology than Biden, whose governance style is much more about balancing the Democratic Party's blocs than bringing about a specific set of policies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly

But whatever clarity of vision the Trump administration brought to DC was completely undermined by its incompetence (thankfully!). Apart from one gigantic tax break, Trump couldn't get stuff done. He couldn't deliver, because he'd lose his temper or speak out of turn:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster

And his administrators followed his lead. Scott Pruitt was appointed to run the EPA after a career spent suing the agency. It could have been the realization of his life's dream to dismantle environmental law in America and open the floodgates for unlimited, wildly profitable corporate pollution and pillaging. But the dream died because he kept getting embroiled in absurd scandals – like the time he sent his staffers out to drive around all night looking for a good deal on a used mattress:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/epa-s-pruitt-told-aide-obtain-old-mattress-trump-hotel-n879836

Or his insistence on installing a CIA-style "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility" (SCIF) so he could play super-spy while reading memos:

https://www.cnn.com/2018/04/26/politics/epa-administrator-scott-pruitt-sound-proof-booth-scif/index.html

Or the time he sent his security detail to the Ritz-Carlton to demand that they supply him lots of little bottles of his favorite hand-cream:

https://www.vox.com/2018/6/7/17439044/scott-pruitt-ritz-carlton-moisturizing-lotion

There were other examples in the Trump administration, but Priutt is such a good case-study. He's like a guy who spent his whole life training to compete in the Olympics, and finally got a shot, only to be disqualified for ordering too much room-service in the Olympic Village. Priutt was wildly ambitious, but he was profoundly undisciplined – and wildly incompetent.

Compare that with Biden's progressive enforcers and agency heads, who showed up on the first day of work with an encyclopedic knowledge of their administrative powers, and detailed plans for using them to transform the lives of the American people for the better:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

The Biden administration's competence translates into action, getting stuff done. Maybe that shouldn't surprise us, given the difference between the stories that reactionaries and progressives tell about where change comes from.

In reactionary science fiction, we enter the realm of the "Competent Man" story. Think of a Heinlein hero, who is "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."

In Competent Man stories, a unitary hero steps into the breach and solves the problem – if not single-handedly, then as the leader of others, whose lesser competence is a base metal that the Competent Man hammers into a tempered blade:

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Creator/RobertAHeinlein

Contrast this with a progressive tale, like, say, Kim Stanley Robinson's Ministry For the Future, where the Competent Man is replaced by the Competent Administration, in which people of goodwill and technical competence figure out how to join forces to create population-scale architectures of participation that allow every person to contribute their skills and perspective:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/03/ministry-for-the-future/#ksr

The right's whole ideology insists that the world can only be saved by Competent Men. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, the unifying factor that binds together conservative factions from monarchists to racists to Christian Dominionists is the belief that a few of us are born to rule, and the rest to be ruled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#mafia-logic

The Reaganite insistence that governments are, by their very nature, incompetent and malign ("The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I’m from the government, and I’m here to help'"), means that conservatives deny the possibility of a Competent Administration.

When conservatives take office and proceed to bungle the most basic elements of administration, they're fulfilling their own campaign narrative, which starts with "We must dismantle the government because it is bad at everything." Conservatives who govern badly prove their own point, which explains a lot about the UK Tory Party's long run of governmental failure and electoral success:

https://apnews.com/article/uk-suella-braverman-fired-cabinet-shuffle-7ea6c89306a427cc70fba75bc386be79

There's a small mercy in the fact that so many of the most ideologically odious and extreme conservative governments are so technically incompetent in governing, and thus accomplish so little of their agendas.

But the inverse – the incredible competence of the best progressive administrators – is nothing short of a delight to witness. Here's the latest example to cross my path: the FTC has intervened in a lawsuit over generic insulin pricing, on an issue that is incredibly technically specific and also fantastically important:

https://www.fiercepharma.com/pharma/ftc-blasts-pharmas-abuse-fda-patent-system-sanofi-mylans-insulin-monopoly-lawsuit

The underlying case is before the FDA, and it concerns the dirty tricks that pharma giant Sanofi used to keep Mylan from making a generic version of Mylan's Lantus insulin after its patent expired.

There's an explicit bargain in patents: inventors can enlist the government to punish their rivals for copying their ideas, but in exchange, the government demands that the inventor has to describe how the invention works in a detailed patent filing, and when the patent expires, 20 years later, rivals can use the patent application as instructions for freely copying and selling the invention. In other words: you get 20 years of exclusive rights in return for facilitating your competitors' copying and selling your invention when the 20 years are up.

Pharma doesn't like this, naturally: not content with 20 years of exclusivity, they want the government to step in and punish their competitors forever. In service to that end, pharma companies have perfected a process called evergreening, where they dribble out ancillary patents after their initial filing, covering minor reformulations, delivery systems, or new uses.

Evergreening got a moment in the public eye earlier this year, with John Green's viral campaign to shame Johnson & Johnson out of using evergreening to restrict poor countries' access to TB medication:

https://armandalegshow.com/episode/john-green-part-1/

The story of pharma is that it commands gigantic profits, but it invests those profits into medicines that save our lives. The reality is that most of the key underlying pharma research is publicly funded (by Competent Administrators who apportion funding to promising scientific inquiry). Pharma companies' most inventive genius is devoted to inventing new evergreening tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/19/solid-tumors/#t-cell-receptors

That's where the FTC comes in, in this Sanofi-Mylan case. To facilitate the production of generic, off-patent drugs, the FDA maintains a database called the "Orange Book," where pharma companies are asked to enumerate all the ancillary patents associated with a product whose patent is expiring. That way, generics manufacturers who make their own version of these public domain drugs and therapeutics don't accidentally stumble over one of those later patents – say, by replicating a delivery system or special coating that is still in patent.

This is where the endless, satanic inventiveness of the pharma sector comes in. You see, US law provides for triple damages for "willful patent infringement." If you are a generics manufacturer eyeing up a drug whose patent is about to expire and you are notified that some other patents might be implicated in your plans, you must ensure that you don't accidentally infringe one of those patents, or face business-destroying statutory damages.

So pharma companies stuff the Orange Book full of irrelevant patent claims they say may be implicated in a generic manufacture program. Each of these claims has to be carefully evaluated, both by a scientific team and a legal team, because patents are deliberately obfuscated in the hopes of tricking an inattentive patent examiner into granting patents for unpatentable "inventions":

https://blueironip.com/patents-that-hide-the-ball/

What's more, when a pharma giant notifies the FDA that it has ancillary patents that are relevant to the Orange Book, this triggers a 30-month delay before a generic can be marketed – adding 2.5 years to the 20 year patent term. That delay is sometimes enough to cause a manufacturer to abandon plans to market a generic drug – so the delay isn't 2.5 years, it's infinite.

This is a highly technical, highly consequential form of evergreening. It's obscure as hell, and requires a deep understanding of patent obfuscation, ancillary patent filings, generic pharma industry practice, and the FDA's administrative procedures.

Sanofi's Orange Book entry for Lantus insulin listed 50 related patent claims. Of these, 48 were invalidated through "inter partes" review (basically the Patent Office decided they shouldn't have allowed these claims to be included on a patent). Neither of the remaining two claims were found to be relevant to the manufacture of generic Lantus.

This is where the FTC's filing comes in: their amicus brief doesn't take a position whether Sanofi's Orange Book entries were fraudulent, but they do ask the FDA to intervene to prevent Orange Book stuffing because "improper listings can cause significant harm to competition and consumers."

This is the kind of boring, technical, important stuff that excellent administrators can do. The FTC's brief is notice to the FDA that it should amend its procedures to ban (and punish) Orange Book abuse. That will make it possible for you, a person who needs medicine, to get that medicine more cheaply and quickly. In America's pay-for-use privatized healthcare hellscape, this could be a life-or-death matter.

There's plenty of things the Biden administration is getting very, very badly wrong, but we shouldn't lose sight of how its progressive wing is making real, lasting change for the better. Competent Administrations are the true peoples' champions. They beat Competent Men every time.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you WIP excerpt behind the cut, as promised, friends; 7k of kidnapping your soulmate for fun and profit. (and non-chrono link for anyone on the app.)

Tana Moon follows Leech over to the group, looking a little wary herself. Tim sizes her up in his peripheral vision, pretending not to notice her approach. He’s “just” found out who his soulmate is, so he can sell the illusion of only paying attention to Superboy right now. It’s not an unusual reaction. 

It’s a pretty typical one, actually. The fact that Superboy decided to immediately show him off to everyone he knows is actually the less usual option, in fact. Not unheard of either, of course, but still. A lot of newly-discovered soulmates tend to just forget about the outside world for a few hours. Or days, even. A few missing person cases that Tim’s been involved in solving turned out to be cases of “I met my soulmate and we just eloped/ran away/went on a road trip/holed up in a hotel room without telling anyone”. 

Tim had thought it was ridiculous at the time, if obviously preferable to ending up with either a dead body or a traumatized victim, but Tim is currently in the process of planning an ethically-necessary kidnapping less than twenty-four hours after first cracking into Superboy’s file, so he supposes soulmates just bring out most people’s less pragmatic sides. 

Though he personally thinks carefully-planned ethical kidnappings are an improvement on spontaneous weekends in Vegas, pragmatically-speaking. But whatever. 

“He showed you?” Tana Moon says, glancing Tim over suspiciously. Superboy’s face reddens this time and he tugs at the slash in his own suit. 

“He, uh, saw mine first,” he says. “Kinda got into it with a dude downtown and Tim here was in the area, and like, he recognized it, obviously.”

“It’s fairly noticeable as a mark,” Tim supplies helpfully, figuring he should be being supportive of his soulmate here, and also be shutting Rex Leech up as efficiently as possible. “And Superboy came over to check on me after the fight, so it was hard to miss.” 

“Sure it was,” Leech says, his face souring. “So then you won’t mind showin’ yours to–” 

“Shut up, Dad!” Roxy hisses, kicking him viciously hard in the ankle. Leech yelps in pain. Roxy is immediately his favorite, Tim decides. By far Roxy is his favorite. The dog’s kind of cute and Dubbilex seems decent, but definitely Roxy is his favorite. 

Her dad definitely fucking sucks, though. 

And as for Tana Moon . . . 

“You’re a tourist?” Tana says, just barely frowning down at Tim. She’s taller than him. She’s also taller than Superboy, because she’s a grown-ass woman and why, exactly, is a reporter even here right now? How is that necessary or reasonable? 

. . . admittedly she’s also taller than Leech and he’s a middle-aged man, but that’s not the point here. If Tim has to “no comment” this situation and figure out how to get either his parents or Bruce to kill a story, he absolutely will. He isn’t even slightly gonna hesitate there. He is gonna the opposite of hesitate, in fact. 

“Yes,” he lies, which might not endear him to Moon, given she’s a native, but is better than confessing to having premeditated designs on kidnapping a teen idol superhero. Especially to a reporter. 

Even if it is legally salvage. 

“I’m just in town for the day,” he continues. “I needed to get away for a little while, you know how it is.” 

“Sure,” Moon says, narrowing her eyes at him. “Who doesn’t.” 

“He’s from Gotham. And he helped the civilians get out of the area while I was fighting that guy downtown!” Superboy says eagerly, which is . . . odd, actually, and throws Tim off a bit. That seems like a weird thing for Superboy to be eager about, considering. Like . . . just very weird. 

“Well, that’s a Gotham thing, probably,” Tim says, putting on a sheepish Civilian Smile (#7). “We’re used to rogue attacks with area of effect concerns involved, so we get pretty good at clearing a street.” 

“You did awesome,” Superboy says, grinning excitedly at him. That is . . . still weird, yeah. Tim really doesn’t get it. 

Well, maybe Superboy’s just relieved to have a soulmate who knows how to stay out of the line of fire and what to do in a crisis, given how often crisises probably come up in his life. That would make sense, considering. 

“It was nothing, just a little light crowd control,” Tim tries, assuming that’s what a normal civilian would say. Probably, right? Almost definitely. “Nobody even needed any urgent medical attention. And you used your TTK really strategically and contained the guy too, that was much more impressive to pull off in a mess like that.” 

Yeah, that was normal civilian talk, he thinks, pleased with himself for managing it. 

Superboy turns pink, then grins again. Dubbilex . . . tilts his head. 

Normal. Normal. Normal civilian. That’s what Tim is. A civilian! Who’s normal! Very, very normal! 

Normal. 

He smiles Normal Civilian Smile #4 and pats Krypto’s head again. Krypto makes an enthusiastic attempt at licking his fingers off. 

Ew. 

“‘Light crowd control’,” Moon echoes. That’s what Tim said, yeah, so he’s not sure why she’s repeating it. Well–reporter, again, so It’s probably a trap. 

It’s almost definitely a trap, actually. 

Really definitely it’s a trap. 

“Sorry to just show up like this, hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says to Roxy and Dubbilex with a smile, politely pretending not to be ignoring Moon. He is definitely ignoring Moon, though. Again: reporter. She may not be a Lois Lane or even a Vicki Vale, but he’s still not giving her any information he can avoid giving her. And he’ll just ignore Leech while he’s at it, too. 

“I invited you, man!” Superboy says with a laugh, shaking his head. “We’re gonna hit the beach for a while, go hang out. Just swung by to grab Tim a swimsuit I can lend him.” 

“You came to Hawaii to ‘get away’ and didn’t pack a swimsuit?” Moon says skeptically. 

“Yup,” Tim replies with the most placidly innocent expression he’s ever worn in his life. Nothing. He is giving her nothing. Let all her reporter instincts strike against mirrored glass and high-security privacy windows and come to naught. 

Moon stares at him in silence, clearly waiting for him to fill it. Tim doesn’t fall for the incredibly obvious bait and just keeps the placidly innocent expression on. 

She frowns. 

“C’mon, man,” Superboy says cheerfully, apparently–and fortunately–oblivious to their stand-off. He grabs Tim’s arm and drags him towards the front porch. Tim seriously doubts its structural stability, from the look of it, but tactile telekinesis is hard to argue with. 

The steps manage not to collapse–possibly also because of tactile telekinesis, Tim can’t help suspecting–and Superboy pulls him straight into the house, which is . . . not particularly well taken care of, no surprise. The furniture looks like it all came from a thrift store, and not a nice thrift store. 

Admittedly Tim’s upbringing might be showing here, but also the corners need swept and there’s random boxes of assorted Superboy merch everywhere, most of which looks like cheap junk, and a huge stack of mail and four empty pizza boxes on the coffee table and overflowing trash cans with random junk scattered around, and it’s just . . . it doesn’t look taken care of, no. Which is something Tim would expect from a teenager or two, and maybe Dubbilex doesn’t know how chore wheels work or whatever, but fucking Rex Leech should at least be capable of getting out the broom once a week. 

Assuming there is one, anyway. Tim isn’t particularly optimistic on that one, honestly. 

Superboy’s room is even messier than the living room, covered in dirty clothes and abandoned comics and crumpled-up papers, but Tim’s bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it so he’s not gonna judge. Anyway, that’s Superboy’s personal space, not a common area. He can keep it however he likes, Tim figures. 

Somebody should really sweep that living room, though. And throw out those old pizza boxes, too. 

Tim isn’t judging, just–well, no, he is very much judging, actually. Specifically what he’s judging is Rex Leech, noted asshole sleazeball manager with predatory business tactics. 

Fuck that guy, seriously. 

“You want trunks or a speedo?” Superboy asks as he lets go of his arm to fly over to the cluttered dresser. Tim turns seventeen different shades of red and nearly disassociates. 

“Trunks,” he says quickly. “Please.” 

“Gotcha, man,” Superboy says easily, and then all the dresser drawers yank out at once and dump out crumpled piles of . . . mostly swimsuits and super-suits, it looks like, yeah. Like, basically nothing else but swimsuits and super-suits and a couple of cheesy-looking Hawaiian shirts. 

Well, that might be one lonely, lonely pair of cutoffs sticking out from underneath the swimsuits. But otherwise, that’s pretty much it, yeah. 

Fuck, that’s depressing, Tim thinks. 

Superboy comes back over with an armful of swimsuits, just about all of which have the S-shield either printed or stitched on them. Tim wonders why the guy even has this many swimsuits, especially considering he barely has any other clothes at all. At least not as far as he can see, anyway. 

He also wonders if he’s gonna die if he wears Superboy’s clothes. Is that a thing that might happen? Because it really might happen, yeah. 

Also wearing something with an S-shield on it feels like just a little too much to handle right now, so Tim’s hoping for a basic black option to be buried somewhere in that pile. Given Superboy’s apparent fashion sense, it seems unlikely, but hope springs eternal. 

“Take a look, see what’s good,” Superboy says, dumping the entire armful of swimsuits on Tim. Tim’s just grateful he remembered to stick to just the trunks, at this point. 

“So you spend a lot of time on the beach, huh?” he says wryly. 

“C’mon, man, it’s Hawaii,” Superboy says with a sheepish grin. “And I mean, I look good in anything but wet leather is just not a comfortable fit, you know?” 

“I guess it wouldn’t be, no,” Tim says, giving him Civilian Smile #4 again. Superboy’s ears redden a little again, and then he leans back and zips back across the room to shove all his drawers back shut. Tim lays out the pile of swimsuits on the bed, since it’s right there anyway, and then immediately feels embarrassed to be this close to Superboy’s bed. Which is stupid, even if they aren’t platonics. They’ve just met; it’s not like anything’s gonna happen. 

. . . even if Superboy is a notorious flirt and totally shameless and–

Tim is just not gonna pursue that line of thought right now, he decides. Just for his own sanity and all. 

He accidentally knocks some paper off the bed as he’s laying out the suits to get a look at them, and reflexively leans down to pick it up. The room’s a mess, yeah, but it’s Superboy’s mess. It’s still rude to just drop shit wherever. 

The paper isn’t as crumpled as some of the others, and Tim sees a glimpse of color as he picks it up. His inner detective reflexively wonders what it is, and . . .

Tim uncrumples the paper a little, and blinks down at it in surprise. It’s a little kid’s drawing, it looks like. A sunny beach rendered in bright colored pencil and simple, awkward shapes all painstakingly but clumsily colored in and–

Superboy’s suddenly right back next to him snatching the paper from him and immediately hiding it behind his back, looking absolutely mortified. Tim’s confused, for a moment. What’s he embarrassed about? It’s obviously not anything he’d have drawn himself. It’s probably just something a fan or a neighbor’s kid gave him, or . . . 

Tim pauses. Then he recontextualizes just how much of the crumpled-up paper is lying around Superboy’s room and wonders, very briefly, if a bunch of STEM majors with delusions of grandeur would’ve bothered programming their custom-designed “Superman” with anything resembling art skills. 

So . . . maybe that is something Superboy drew himself. If Cadmus didn’t program him with the muscle memory or knowledge of how to draw . . . well, then he probably would draw like a little kid, wouldn’t he.

And given Superboy’s cocky, braggart personality and defensive ego and how all that paper is all crumpled up as if in frustration . . .

“Gift from a fan?” Tim “assumes” with Smiling Civilian Face #4, pretending to be oblivious. 

“Uh–yeah!” Superboy blurts quickly as he jumps on the provided excuse, though he keeps the paper behind his back. “Yeah, just–you know, just some kid gave it to me at a signing, whatever. Uh, bathroom’s through there, if you wanna get changed. Or like, whatever.” 

“Thanks,” Tim says, and resists the itching urge to peek at a few more of those crumpled-up papers. It’s just a lot of paper, especially if Superboy’s upset with the results.

He wonders why the guy draws so much, if he’s that frustrated and embarrassed by it. Maybe it’s a rebellion thing, since it’s something Cadmus didn’t want him to know how to do. Tim would definitely understand that logic, if he were in Superboy’s situation. Or maybe he’s just bothered not to know how and trying to teach himself to make up for the perceived failing. 

Or maybe he just likes it, Tim supposes. That’s an option too. 

Probably a less likely one, though, given that it’s Superboy. Not to be an asshole or anything, just it’s a lot easier picturing the guy assuming he should be able to do something and getting fixated on trying to pull it off than just, like . . . liking to draw. Also, judging by all that balled-up paper, it doesn’t seem like there’s much there for him to “like”, either.

Tim takes the plainest set of trunks with a drawstring waist, which are black and dark blue but still have an S-shield iron-on patch sewn onto their waistband, for whatever reason, and ducks into the bathroom with them. He realizes belatedly that said S-shield is probably going to rest right up against his soulmark, then feels like an idiot for feeling flustered by that idea and just sets his bag against the wall and starts getting undressed. 

He’s definitely wearing one of the spare shirts in his go-bag for this, he decides as he stuffs his clothes into his bag. Just–definitely, yeah. 

The trunks fit once he cinches the drawstring enough, but the S-shield definitely does rest right against his soulmark. Tim has never actually considered the sight of the S-shield to be, like . . . relevant or interesting outside of work, but he’s realizing that he sure does feel differently about it now that he knows his soulmate’s one of the people wearing it. 

Which is a little ironic, really, considering Superboy wears the S-shield as a branding thing or whatever and lets Leech slap it on whatever cheap shitty merch he can think of. Like, he’s probably the least respectful S-wearer there is. 

Tim pulls on a plain clean T-shirt and a short-sleeve button-down to go over it, figuring that’s beach-friendly enough. He should’ve packed sunglasses, probably, but he was a little distracted by his kidnapping plans and didn’t think to. 

Seriously. He didn’t think to bring sunglasses to Hawaii. 

This whole situation definitely has him off his game, yeah. 

Soulmate thing, he guesses.

Tim eyes himself in the bathroom mirror, mentally decides he’s being an idiot to worry about how he looks right now, and then grabs his bag and heads back out into the bedroom. Superboy’s changed into low-waisted S-shield-themed trunks of his own and flip-flops and nothing else, which does in fact give Tim an embarrassingly good and embarrassingly distracting view of their soulmark. It’s not quite distracting enough for him to miss the fact that the amount of crumpled papers strewn around the room has noticeably decreased, though. And there’s definitely more of them sticking out from under the bed and dresser and in the back of the closet than there previously were. 

Which is kinda cute, honestly, but Tim should probably not say that. Like, ever. 

“Thanks for waiting,” he says, smiling Normal Civilian Smile #4 at Superboy as he hitches his bag up a little higher on his shoulder. “And for the loan.” 

Superboy stares blankly at him for half a second, then seems to startle a little and puffs himself up. 

“Uh–sure, yeah!” he says quickly. “No problem, man. Anytime.” 

“‘Anytime’ seems pretty open, as an offer,” Tim jokes, because normal civilians make that kind of joke, and Superboy turns red. 

“Oh, uh–you know what I mean!” he sputters awkwardly, holding his hands up, which seems kind of a lot as a reaction, and then somehow manages to nearly knock over his dresser without even touching it. Well–that'd be the TTK, Tim guesses. 

It wasn't even that much of a joke. Like, lame suburban dad joke territory, that's all. 

“I do, yeah,” he says with a wry smile. Superboy finds a way to turn even redder and shoves his dresser back into a corner. That also seems like kind of a lot as a reaction, but Tim doesn't comment. Just seems, well . . . awkward? Unnecessary? “Are we good to go, then?” 

“Um, yeah, yeah,” Superboy says, clearing his throat and then zipping out into the hall. Tim wonders if he always flies indoors this much. “All good, dude! Let's head out.” 

“Sure,” Tim says, keeping the smile on. Superboy is still red, but floats along down the hall. Tim follows. Okay. They’re almost definitely not platonic, but Superboy clearly isn’t any more sure what to do with that than Tim is, so . . . small favors, he guesses. Like–that they’re at least roughly on the same page there, he means. 

Unless he’s just reading into things because of weird personal biases he didn’t even know he had, and Superboy is completely straight and just kind of socially awkward around civilians, and Tim’s just being socially pressured by the background radiation of living in a society that over-values romantic soulmates in comparison to platonic ones and sometimes disavows platonic soulmates altogether. 

He supposes technically they could be familial, rare as that is. It’s not like he really knows how he’d feel about having a brother. Dick’s the closest thing to one he’s ever had, and that’s just . . . not actually the same thing, obviously, even if sometimes he wishes . . . 

Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He’s pretty sure having a brother wouldn’t in any way involve this level of embarrassment and unexpected hormones and just general sexuality-questioning over every little thing. Like, that seems very much not like what having a brother would be like. 

So–maybe he isn’t straight, or maybe Superboy’s not actually a boy, or maybe both of those things are true, or maybe he’s just really, really bad at having a soulmate.

Entirely possible, under the circumstances. Tim’s not really all that good at getting close to people. If he got a little confused about how to handle having a soulmate, well . . . that wouldn’t really be a surprise, would it. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to have to figure out how to come out to his dad or Dana or the goddamn Batman. 

One or the other, probably.

. . . statistically speaking, the likelier explanation probably is not wanting to come out to the goddamn Batman. 

“Wanna fly someplace or just chill on the beach out front?” Superboy asks as he floats backwards into the living room. Krypto runs up and jumps on Tim excitedly, his tail wagging so hard his whole little body’s wagging with it. He’s a weird-looking little mutt, but he’s really friendly, apparently. “Krypto, oh my god, get off him.” 

“I don't mind,” Tim says, leaning down to give Krypto a polite little pat on the head. Krypto barks happily and wags his tail so hard he knocks himself over. 

Yeah, weird dog in general, Tim thinks. But again, really friendly. 

“We can go wherever,” he says. “You're the local, you know the best places to get a little time alone to hang out, right?” 

“‘Alone’?” Superboy repeats, his ears reddening again as he somehow manages to trip in mid-air and hits his head on the doorframe. Tim can probably safely write off the idea of “platonic” at this point, but is still a little bit wary of his personal bias interfering. Though . . . “Uh–yeah! Totally! Yeah! We can do that!” 

Yeah, Superboy really isn’t selling the “platonic” idea here either. 

Does Tim have a boyfriend now? Is this how boyfriends happen? 

. . . well, or a girlfriend, maybe. He still hasn’t ruled out the “maybe Superboy’s just trans” option. That seems like a thing that might confuse his sexuality a little, if nothing else. 

This is definitely not anything like any previous girlfriend-getting he’s experienced, though. Like, not even a little bit. He’s not complaining, exactly, because admittedly it’s actually a little bit easier going into a new relationship with a plan and a cover established, even if the plan is admittedly still in flux and the relationship’s “romantic" vs "platonic” status is still unclear. It’s still something he can approach like a case, which is much more straightforward than just floundering around trying to figure out how normal people work. 

And Superboy’s about as far from a “normal person” as it gets, so really, this is a pretty ideal set-up on Tim’s end. 

Hopefully Superboy feels similarly, though he also, like . . . is lacking some pretty important information there, so . . . yeah, that might be an issue. Bruce would definitely not have appreciated Robin telling Superboy he was his soulmate, though, and who knows how Superboy would’ve even taken that. Going in as a civilian is going pretty smoothly, though, so Tim’s pretty sure it was the right choice. 

Hopefully it was, anyway. 

“Cool,” Tim says, keeping up the placid harmless civilian face and thoughts and Totally-Not-A-Vigilante vibes. Superboy does a very bad job of pretending he didn’t just bump into the doorframe and ducks back outside, putting on a cocky grin of his own as he does. It occurs to Tim, briefly, that maybe Superboy has his own catalog of performative expressions. None of his friends really seem to, but Superboy is in the community too, so . . . well, it’d make sense, right? 

Also he does sell his likeness via a sleazy manager’s sleazy business deals, so yeah. It does kind of make sense. 

Huh. That’s . . . a thought, he guesses. 

Not a thought he’d really had yet. 

Just . . . something they might have in common, Tim guesses. 

Though so is being in the community to begin with, obviously. And they're physiologically about the same age and have similar coloring, though Superboy is–well, not actually mixed with East Asian, because Krypton did not have an actual place called “Asia”, but he does have subtle hints of that look, same as Superman. Easy to mistake for just being white, but recognizable if you know what you're looking for. Superboy would be at least half-white given Westfield's DNA, Tim guesses, but . . . 

Yeah, no, he doesn't even know how to begin to figure out the nuances of racial identity on a dead planet he knows next to nothing about, much less any potential experience parallels there might be for a second-generation half-alien immigrant with effectively zero access to their own culture, but maybe he could–

Right, okay, he needs to focus here. There's some fascinating stuff there that he can theorize about and investigate later, once he's kidnapped Superboy properly. The kidnapping is the current priority, though. Like, it is very much the current priority. 

Tim follows Superboy back out onto the porch. Everyone else is still out there, which is fine in regards to Roxy and Dubbilex and not fine in regards to Leech and . . . well, jury's out on Moon, maybe. 

Also the dog. He doesn't really know about the dog. Though said dog does run after him and jump up for attention wagging his scruffy little tail hard enough to wag his whole little body, which is sort of cute. 

Or as cute as a wet dishrag can get, anyway. 

Tim’s trying not to judge Krypto for that, since obviously he didn't ask to be born as the living embodiment of a wet dishrag, and anyway he's a really friendly dog, so judging by appearances seems like a dick move. Even if Tim kind of wants to iron him, to be honest. Steam-clean, maybe. 

At least take him to a decent groomer, if nothing else. 

“Down, you little shit, Jesus!” Kon says, scowling down at Krypto and trying to shoo him away. Krypto growls at him, which seems weird, then goes back to fawning all over Tim. Tim leans down and pats his head, figuring it might calm him down. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “He is cute.” 

“Whatever,” Superboy grumbles, folding his arms and inexplicably glowering at his dog. 

“You gonna go swim, or just hang out?” Roxy asks curiously as she comes over to them again. 

“Oh, we’re–” Superboy starts, but Moon cuts him off. 

“Want some company?” Moon inquires, pleasant and suspicious all at once. Superboy looks–conflicted, momentarily, and then awkward. 

“Um, well–Tim’s only in town for today, so . . . next time?” he hedges. Tim resists the urge to eye Moon. Can I just spontaneously insert myself in your first day with your brand-new soulmate? is incredibly rude, as a suggestion. And incredibly fucking disrespectful to boot. Like, what entitled-ass kind of thing is that to ask, exactly? 

How old is she again? Twenty? Twenty-one? He should look that up later. Well–no, she’d graduated college and started her career by the time Superman had died, which was a good eight or nine months ago now, so unless she skipped a grade or two in there, she’s gotta be closer to twenty-four, if not twenty-five or twenty-six. 

That’s . . . a thought, considering there is definitely news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. Like, Tim very definitely saw news footage of Superboy kissing her in Metropolis. And she was very definitely kissing him too.

In retrospect, that seems like something someone should’ve, like . . . done something about? Or at least addressed? And is definitely further proof of how fucking useless and slimy Rex Leech is. Sure, let the five-minute-old clone make out with a twentysomething reporter and hang out with her at home; all publicity is good publicity, so it’s fine, right? Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? 

Tim is going to absolutely decimate that bastard’s credit the first chance he gets. Leech probably already has terrible credit, mind, but he’ll make it worse. He’ll find a way. 

. . . though he’ll wait until he’s sure Roxy is eighteen and financially independent, he doesn’t actually know if she is or not. Roxy seems nice, she doesn’t deserve that particular fallout. 

“It’d be nice to get to know each other later, I’m sure,” Tim says before Moon can say anything, smiling Gala Smile #1 at her, which is a targeted psychological attack and not actually very moral to be trotting out this quick, probably. 

He has no regrets, for the record. Absolutely none. 

Moon narrows her eyes suspiciously. Tim blithely strokes Krypto’s ears, Gala Smile #1 flawless and unphased. 

“I’m sure,” she “agrees” frostily. Superboy remains apparently oblivious to the tension and grins brightly at both of them. 

“Cool!” he says. Oh, sweet summer child who has clearly never socialized with sharks, Tim thinks resignedly, petting Krypto again. Has Leech taught him literally nothing about conversational warfare, for fuck’s sake? At least living with your sleaze of a manager should be good for that, dammit! 

Then again, Leech is probably not actually competent enough to teach Superboy anything actually useful, so maybe that’s for the best. 

If nothing else, Superman could’ve taught him a bit of “bless your heart”, but apparently that’s not a thing either. 

Tim has a brief moment of dread that maybe underneath his personal list of performative expressions, Superboy might just be a straightforward and honest person, which is a concerning thought. He doesn’t even know how to talk to a straightforward and honest person at this point, after this long as Batman’s emotional support sidekick. How do you form a lasting relationship with someone who isn’t habitually using at least three layers of double-talk and constantly locked in on all your microexpressions, anyway? 

That’s going to be a weird experience, yeah. 

“Ready to go?” Superboy asks Tim, grinning brighter at him. Tim feels momentarily overwhelmed and just sort of . . . has to collect himself about that, a little. 

Or a lot.

“Lead the way,” he says, smiling at him. He’s flustered enough to forget to use an appropriately-planned smile, which is embarrassing, but Superboy just grins even brighter–which should not be physically possible, but apparently is–and reaches out to scoop him up into his arms and into the air again as Krypto lets out an offended bark. It’s totally overkill and not even slightly necessary. 

Tim isn’t complaining, just–well–

It’s really flustering. 

“Air Superboy up, up, and away!” Superboy says cheerfully as they float up over the others’ heads. His face is way too close to Tim’s face. 

Tim is gonna need a bit longer to collect himself this time, he’s pretty sure. 

“Do I get an in-flight meal?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Superboy laughs, which is even worse than his grin, and then takes off across the beachfront with him. It’s another bridal carry, which is quietly mortifying but could be worse, probably. Maybe. 

Somehow. 

Superboy flies them straight across the beach and then straight out over the water, skimming them along just above the waves. Tim makes a briefly startled noise, reflexively tightening his grip on the strap of his bag. 

“This isn’t waterproof,” he says just as reflexively, and Superboy laughs again. 

“I’m not gonna drop you, dude,” he says. Tim actually more assumed Superboy was intending to either dive-bomb them both into the water or just dump him in on purpose, because that seems like Superboy’s sense of humor, but maybe that was an unfair assumption. 

He really is not prepared for how it feels to be held in close against Superboy’s bare chest and arms like this, even if he’s still wearing a shirt himself. The idea of possibly doing that while they’re both wet seems a lot worse. 

Yeah. Definitely worse. 

Tim should’ve worn long sleeves. And maybe a wetsuit. And maybe a few layers on top of that. 

Jesus. 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he says, barely resisting the urge to loop his arms around Superboy’s neck as the other hangs a right and swoops them back around towards shore. Flying over the water like this is a pretty cool experience, admittedly, now that he’s not worried about Superboy dumping him in the water. 

Well. Less worried, anyway. 

Camera next time, Tim promises himself, glancing back over Superboy’s shoulder towards the shining horizon. The sun reflects off the waves bright and beautiful, and the sky is a smooth and perfect blue dotted with sparse but billowing clouds, and everything smells like salt and sea and leather, which is probably Superboy, even without the jacket on anymore. 

Definitely camera next time.

“Definitely holding you to that, actually,” he says, and Superboy laughs again and brings them down in the surf just past the tideline with a splash. Neither the splash or the water goes high enough to soak Tim's bag, so he figures it could've been worse. 

Assuming Superboy isn't planning to toss him or anything before he can put his bag down somewhere safe, anyway. 

They both settle down into the surf and onto their feet, and Tim becomes very aware of how close together they’re standing and also how very, very shirtless Superboy is, and in fact the only thing between their soulmarks is the very thin layer of cotton of Tim’s own shirt, and if he leaned in just a little bit . . . 

Jesus, Tim thinks faintly, and forces himself to take a step back before he can make it weird. 

He smiles Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 just to make sure he doesn’t look like a creep or anything, and Superboy grins excitedly at him. Tim allows himself all of two seconds to be overwhelmed by that gorgeous expression and their physical closeness and the reflection of the light in Superboy’s eyes, as bright and perfectly blue as both the sky and water, and then reasserts standard operating procedures and keeps Generically Pleasant Civilian Smile #2 locked in place on his face. 

“The water’s really warm,” he observes, glancing down at it. “Is that normal?” 

It’s probably not an impending supervillain thing, he tells himself. 

Maybe global warming or something, though.

“I mean, feels normal to me?” Superboy says with a shrug. Tim considers mentioning the average ocean temperature, comparatively speaking, or at least the average temperature of the water off the docks in Gotham. Admittedly, Gotham waters barely count as “water”, legally speaking, but that’s not the point. 

“It’s pretty out here,” he says instead, and Superboy grins at him and leans in. He’s pretty sure it’s more an instinctive thing than a deliberate one, just from the way Superboy does it, but that doesn’t exactly make it less flattering. 

Or flustering. 

“I mean, it’s Hawaii, man!” Superboy says, grinning wider before kicking at the surf. “‘Course it’s gonna be pretty!” 

Actually you specifically are possibly the prettiest damn thing that I have ever seen, Tim thinks, but isn’t stupid enough to actually let out of his mouth. Superboy, unfortunately, continues to be all warm and grinning and lit up by the island sun. Tim did not come prepared enough for this. 

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’d be the guy who came to Hawaii and got a monsoon,” Tim says wryly, and Superboy laughs brightly. 

Tim really did not come prepared enough for this. Like, not at all. Not even slightly. 

“Guess you’d just have to come back, then,” Superboy says, grinning wider again and kicking at the surf again as he floats back up out of it. It’s–weird, a little, looking up at him like this. 

Well, not weird, just . . . yeah. 

Something like that. 

“Guess so,” Tim agrees, feeling embarrassingly flustered. Superboy’s friends can probably still see them from the porch, distant though it is, but part of him is still just considering very weird and dumb ideas like maybe tugging Superboy back down to earth and into the surf and just . . . confirming the little sexuality crisis he’s been having since breaking into the other’s file and seeing their soulmark in it, maybe. 

Just, you know, ruling things out. Making deductions. Going through the process of elimination. 

Kissing him, maybe. 

He could very, very much kiss Superboy right now. They’re on a gorgeous beach in the surf and under the sun and Superboy is floating in front of him and grinning as happy and excited as could be and Tim’s stomach is fluttering in a stupid and also-embarrassing way, and . . . 

He could kiss him. That’s all. 

“I mean, it’s a nice place to visit, right?” Superboy says casually, linking his hands together behind his back. 

“The tourism industry seems to think so,” Tim says wryly, and wonders what the “normal civilian who didn’t come here specifically looking for his soulmate to kidnap/salvage him to begin with” thing to say is here. He has absolutely no idea, because he actually has absolutely no idea how normal civilians react to superheroes. Robin is . . . not exactly an urban myth, necessarily, but definitely not a publicly-recognized superhero. He’s a vigilante that’s just barely allowed to operate outside the law, and not one with any kind of publicity or celebrity involved. 

eSuperboy, on the other hand, is not only a superhero, but a professional superhero. He’s selling his likeness and doing events and has signed a stupid predatory contract with a sleaze of a manager that technically shouldn’t even be legal, given Superboy isn’t even considered a legal person by the government. Apparently no one has ever realized that, though, or at least no one’s ever let Superboy realize that. 

Tim really doesn’t love that that’s a thing, to put it mildly. 

Actually, he just fucking hates it. 

Superboy laughs, and looks very, very pretty doing it. Tim continues to wonder what a normal civilian would do here, and for lack of a better idea falls back on small talk. 

God, his best plan right now is small talk. What is his life, even? 

No wonder he’s gonna have to take six months to kidnap Superboy, ugh.

“So, uh–this seems like a weird question to be bringing up this late in the conversation, but what’s your name?” he asks, because it’s occurred to him that he actually has no idea what Superboy goes by when he’s off-duty. He knows he doesn’t have a secret identity, of course, but there’s no way his friends just call him “Superboy”. Well–maybe his slimy asshole manager does, but otherwise. “I mean, if that’s okay to ask. Marks or not, I understand if you don’t feel like we’re there yet, given the whole superhero thing and all.” 

Robin knows Superboy doesn’t have a secret identity, after all, but Tim Drake is a normal civilian and shouldn’t act like he knows too much about any superhero in general, so–

“Naw, it’s fine, I don’t even have one,” Superboy says, for some reason just beaming at him, which is . . . weird, Tim thinks, but nowhere near as weird as that answer is. 

“You don’t . . . have one?” he repeats slowly, and Superboy shrugs easily. “Like–not at all?” 

“Yeah, everybody pretty much just calls me 'Kid' or 'SB', when it's not Superboy,” Superboy says. “Oh, and Knockout calls me 'Pup' when she's around but like, that's really just a 'her' thing. So, you know, you can call me whatever.” 

Tim stares blankly at him for a long, long moment, speed-runs all five stages of grief, and also discovers a couple of new and unexpected ones. 

Alright. Well, he officially regrets literally nothing about this impending kidnapping. 

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Um–sorry, I guess I just assumed you’d have a more . . . civilian-ish name too, I guess?” 

“I’m a clone, man,” Superboy says, looking amused. “The only other name I’ve got is ‘Experiment Thirteen’, which is definitely not something I answer to."

Tim discovers a few more stages of grief that hit with all the subtlety of a spiked baseball bat and makes himself nod as much like a normal person as he can. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I’d go for that one if I were you either,” he says. “Kind of a mouthful, if nothing else.” 

Superboy laughs, then grins at him again. He is actually doing so, so much of that, Tim’s realizing. Tim was really not prepared for how much of that he’s been doing, in fact. He just did not come prepared for any of that at all. He’s got some nebulous kidnapping plans, but everything else here–from the supervillain attack to Superboy’s ripped suit and exposed soulmark–has been a crime of opportunity. 

He probably should’ve done more research. Actually, he definitely should’ve done more research. He kind of just panicked and bought a ticket and flew right over, and just because Dick didn’t stop him doesn’t mean it was a good idea. He just–he should’ve done more research. Planned more. Not shown up without something concrete. 

Admittedly Superboy doesn’t hate him yet or anything, but this was just . . . yeah, this was not his brightest idea at all. Not even slightly. 

Why didn’t he do more research? 

“You really can just call me whatever you wanna, don’t worry about it,” Superboy says with an easy shrug as he settles back down into the surf, which, unfortunately, puts him back into kissing range and is therefore incredibly distracting. 

Dammit, Tim thinks, trying to beat his stupid teenage hormones into order. 

“Whatever I wanna?” he repeats. 

“Except for Experiment Thirteen,” Superboy says with another grin. Tim politely pretends not to notice the slight tightening of the corners of his mouth as he says the word “experiment”. 

“Uh, okay,” he says, clearing his throat. He guesses Superboy doesn’t really care what his name is, then, but being told to just call him whatever he wants to is . . . well, a weird feeling, maybe. “What do you do when you just want to be a civilian for a while, though?” 

“I don’t,” Superboy says. 

“. . . don’t . . . what?” Tim asks slowly, not sure if he should be dreading the answer or not, but–

“Be a civilian,” Superboy says. 

Tim’s running out of new stages of grief, he’s pretty sure. 

“Ah,” he says. 

Superboy–for a second, Tim thinks he looks self-conscious, but then he’s grinning again before he can be sure, and . . . 

“Why would I?” Superboy says, puffing up proudly. “I’m Superboy, man! Nothing else I’d rather be.” 

Given how limited Superboy’s options for anything “else” he could be probably are . . . well, Tim’s not sure what to think of that statement. 

He doesn’t think it’s anything good, though. 

Yeah, no, he thinks as he looks at Superboy’s too-bright grin and thinks about how he just said "nothing" and not "no one". Definitely not anything good. 

Who wouldn’t pick being “Superboy” over being “Experiment Thirteen”, after all? 

And what else would Superboy even know how to pick, if he thought those were his only options?

[from-memphis-with-love]

All In

Summary: It's the swinging '60s, baby, and Elvis Presley is the grooviest spy this side of the Rockies. He's in Monaco on a new mission, breaking hearts and breaking codes.

* Elvis doesn't like losing, but he's good at it. 

Losing isn't so bad when he has to, it’s just a role to play like any other. Winning, though—a victory lap or getting the girl—that's what Elvis loves. He’s too competitive, that's his problem. 

Usually. Today is different.

The sun slices through early-morning clouds, casting long shadows across the potted bougainvillea on his balcony. A lizard darts across the sun-warmed travertine. Elvis leans back in his chair, the white lacquered wicker creaking beneath his weight as he takes a sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice. It’s tart and tangy, made from Sicilian blood oranges flown in specially for hotel guests. He could get used to this, he thinks, even though anything would be better than his last job in Albuquerque.

The view from his room is breathtaking—a panorama of the glistening Mediterranean Sea, palm trees standing sentinel along the shore, and the winding streets of the principality. Above it all, both figuratively and literally, sits the Casino de Monte-Carlo, an opulent sugar cube of a gambling house that has seen countless fortunes won and lost. 

Elvis squints against the lettuce green sky, the warm breeze ruffling his jet-black hair. Crossing one long leg over another, his tailored trousers stretching over his lithe frame, Elvis savors the moment. At a perfect 6 feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and a marble-chiseled profile, he cuts a striking figure even in repose. 

It's a perfect August day, the kind that makes one forget there's always work to do, even in a paradise like this. 

A knock at the door interrupts his reverie. “Room service,” a muffled voice calls out.

Elvis rises and pads for the door, greeting the uniformed attendant with a warm smile. “Morning,” he says, stepping aside to let the man enter. 

The attendant wheels in a cart laden with covered dishes. “Where would you like me to set up, sir?” he asks.

“The terrace, please,” Elvis replies, watching as the man efficiently arranges the dishes on the table. “Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for a name.

“Jean-Luc, sir,” the attendant supplies with a slight bow. 

“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” Elvis nods approvingly and hands the young man a few crisp bills, a generous tip reflecting his own working-class roots. He knows two things for sure: Jean-Luc works exceptionally hard for his money, and he probably knows more than he should about every hotel guest. He might prove useful. 

Jean-Luc's eyes widen slightly as he pockets the tip, his posture straightening imperceptibly. "If there's anything else you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask." His tone carries a hint of conspiratorial understanding, a recognition of the unspoken agreement between them.

Elvis gives him a smile, equal parts charming and enigmatic. "I'll keep that in mind."

With a final nod, Jean-Luc takes his leave, the door closing softly behind him. Elvis settles back into his chair, his mind already racing with the possibilities of this new connection.

On the table before him, a sumptuous breakfast: buttery croissants, jam, slices of blackened bacon, and a variety of cheeses. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the salty sea air. Elvis unfolds the crinkled newspaper, his sharp gaze scanning the headlines for anything of interest. He's expecting a message, a signal that will set today's events in motion. He knows Reginald would never let him down. 

As he turns the page, a small butterfly of a note flutters to the ground. Reaching down, his fingers trace the embossed CIA seal, the paper smooth and cool to the touch. 

Ah, there it is. 

Elvis' pulse quickens as scans the writing: 22 Avenue de la Costa. He turns the scrap of paper over in his fingers, searching for any additional clues, but the reverseis blank. The message is clear enough: whatever awaits him, it's not going to be a walk in the park. He’s been in the game long enough to know that when Reginald plays things close to the vest, it means the stakes are higher than ever.

His handler had been unusually tight-lipped during their briefing. But that’s just the way Elvis likes it. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. And such secrecy could only mean one thing–this job is tough. Dangerous. The kind of high-stakes operation that gets Elvis’ blood pumping. Let the games begin. 

Glancing at his watch, he notes the time: 9:58 AM. The casino won't open for hours, giving him plenty of time to plan his approach. He'll need to be cautious, though. The Duke and Duchess of Castellano, his well-connected friends, have arranged for him to join an exclusive poker game later that evening, one in which he will have to lose. Drawing attention to himself before then wouldn't be wise. 

Finishing his breakfast, he stands and stretches his limbs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Monaco is a playground for the glitterati, their perfect little jewel box on the Côte d'Azur. But beneath the surface, he knows, lurk secrets and dangers that most people never see. Dangers they could never even dream of. 

With practiced efficiency, he hurries across the suite, his mind already shifting into mission mode. He pulls a sleek black case from beneath the bed, his fingers dancing over the combination lock. Inside, an array of gadgets and weapons gleam in the morning light—tools of his trade, each one carefully chosen for maximum impact and minimum detectability.

He selects a few key items: a miniaturized camera, a set of lockpicks, a small vial of a clear liquid that definitely isn't water. Each one designed disappear into the hidden pockets of his suit jacket, concealed with a skill born of years of practice. Elvis learned long ago that preparation is key in this line of work—you never know what you might need until you need it.

It's time to become Anderson “Andy” Davis, a first-time Grand Prix entrant and new pet project of the Monegasque elite. He opens his closet and selects a lightweight blazer and a crisp white shirt—a smart, sensible choice that won't draw a second glance. Dressing quickly, his fingers deftly fasten the buttons, the silk smooth against his skin.

As he checks his reflection in the mirror, Elvis allows himself a small, secret smile. His handsome features, so often a liability in his line of work, are expertly disguised by the subtle changes in his posture and expression. With a final adjustment of his cufflinks, he grabs his room key and heads out the door, the steel heavy in his pocket. 

Ready or not, here comes Andy.

[probablyasocialecologist]

There are enough highways, apartments and offices, malls and hotels, restaurants and theme parks—this despite an ongoing crisis of housing affordability. In the over-carbonised economies of the world’s wealthiest countries, maybe we don’t need to build any more, or only do so in a very targeted manner: hospitals and archives, cooling centres, housing and amenities for climate refugees. Even in these cases, there is often the capacity to reuse and redistribute what we have—to reconsider the role of design as one of maintenance, repair, and adequate comfort.  Some buildings are needed. Class A office space and luxury condominiums, not so much. After the Covid lockdowns, the vacant office space in New York City could fill twenty-six Empire State Buildings. Seems like enough. Yet there are still cranes in the sky, still new towers on the boards—indeed, the production of the built environment (and not only in New York) is essential to a growth economy. Any form of enough-ness goes against this premise of relative economic strength being measured by growth, or really by the growth of growth—how much has the GDP gone up, and at what rate? To suggest that, individually or collectively, we already have enough goes against the very foundation of consumer culture. Many life worlds are organized largely, if not exclusively, around accumulation, wanting and getting more—more stuff, more space, more savings.  The health of the US economy in particular is measured by rates of consumer spending, and through this measure implicitly directs the global supply chain. What, for example, is the carbon cost of the resurgence of interest in Barbie? The plastics, the shipping, the advertising, the repainting of houses. And given the carbon intensive energy regime that hums beneath this always-growing global economy, all of this—stuff, space, savings—is dripping in oil, vibrating with carbon intensity, keeping the arrow of emissions pointed inexorably upwards. The Austrian/Puerto Rican economist Leopold Kohr referred to this as Skyscraper Economics—how high can we build? How much can an economy grow? Is there a measure of health, or wealth, that is not about this competitive increase, but about a horizontal redistribution? At last year’s Beyond Growth Summit in Brussels, this was framed as a distinction between “ecologically harmful growth competition and well being cooperation.” Architecture’s fealty to growth, investment, and financialization is caught up in this distinction, and faces the challenge of finding opportunities for creativity within a new set of constraints. Why, when a new building is announced on Instagram or in a glossy magazine by some proud firm or client, do we see square footage, a few swanky features, but no mention of the estimated carbon emissions of the building’s life-cycle?

[finnish-kingdom-hearts]

A post game idea where Casey and Alan are back in the lake surviving in the Dark Place. While being chased by the shadows, Alan takes a hit to the head and goes down hard. Casey gets him back on his feet but Alan is barely conscious. Casey drags him down an alley but it turns into a dead end. Casey drops Alan to the ground behind him and fights off the swarm of pursuing shadows in a grand last stand.

When Alan comes to, the last remnants of the shadows are dissipating, bullet holes pepper the walls and the motionless form of Casey lies on the ground surrounded by empty flares. Alan scrambles over to a bloody Casey. He frantically searches the warped city’s skyline. The neon lights of the Oceanview Hotel catch Alan’s eye. Alan grabs Casey into his arms and books it for the hotel’s entrance. He dashes down the halls, evading the wandering shadows until he find the familiar yellow police tape.

In the safety of Tim’s room, the two men patch up Casey with Breaker’s stash of supplies. Alan guards the makeshift safe room when a silent efficiency, the entire floor is eventually reduced to silence from his handiwork. When Casey finally opens his eyes, he wakes up to an exhausted Alan resting in a chair next to his bed and a very relived Tim watching over them both.

[xf-cases-solved]

i'm aware that ACNH hasn't been relevant since the plague, so i'm not really sure why this headcanon even came to me in the first place--mb it was gifted to me by god like a prophecy or some shit idk--but i came to the sudden and unrelenting realization the other day that, if given the opportunity, scully would get WAY too into animal crossing

[this ended up being a ridiculously long stream of consciousness headcanon ramble, so i'm putting it under a read more bc it is silly and self-indulgent, but i had to write it out somewhere 👇🏽]

to clarify, the scenario i'm specifically picturing is if switches existed in the 90s and original-run scully got to play new horizons

she would never pick it up on her own accord, but imagine her at her godson's birthday or something and he introduces her to this silly little game that has cute animals and "oh, that's nice and wholesome, glad there are at least some video games out there that aren't all about violence" etc etc

but then somehow she ends up with her own copy. mb she does it for the social aspect of having something to share with her godson or whatever, the why of it doesn't matter. what matters is that, due to some series of events, scully ends up with a copy of animal crossing that she then proceeds to lose her entire sense of self inside of

it's the literal perfect game for her! first off, it's incredibly chill, and lord knows she can never get enough chill time. second off, the little quests in the game would stimulate the parts of her brain that like Tasks and Puzzles and Validation. she'd get a huge kick out of figuring out how to breed all the different types of flowers, and knowing during what time of day/type of weather/time of year certain bugs or fish were around. the good grades she would get on her house and island would fuel her. she would have the EXACT right amount of trees. no weeds. all the fruits. she'd find the most logical way to terraform her island so that it was both cute and efficient. she would lose HOURS to this shit, ok?

and it would take mulder a little while to notice

bc scully obvi wouldn't play at work, and also would be kind of embarrassed that she was spending so much time with a video game, so she'd hide it. but the longer it went on, the more there would be slip-ups

mulder asks her one day when they stop for gas in some random town how much the sunflower seeds she grabbed for him cost, and she says, "75 bells," before immediately correcting herself and saying, "cents! 75 cents!" (this wouldn't be the last "bells" slip)

mulder's on the phone with her one night rambling about a case, not really noticing that she hasn't been listening to a word he's been saying until he hears her mutter, "oh fuck you, astrid," and when he questions her she hastily explains that astrid is her annoying new neighbor (who is decidedly NOT a kangaroo, obviously)

she's always been brilliant, but suddenly she knows a lot of seemingly random trivia about different types of beetles and butterflies for some reason

he wonders if she's always had such a strong aversion to sea bass

eventually he catches her in the act, probably when he bursts into her hotel room through the adjoining door one day to tell her a new theory, only to find her curled up in her bed wrapped in her comforter, clutching her little yellow switch, and staring at him like he just caught her with a vibrator

and ofc he makes fun of her a little, but mostly he thinks it's cute

until

she makes him get a copy so they can trade items

which he does, bc 1. he always likes to have a reason to spend time with her outside of work, and 2. he cannot tell her no

which is how, on nights when there aren't any monsters to chase down or aliens falling from the sky, he finds himself lugging virtual supplies to scully's island (bc "i need more hard wood, mulder" and like, it's not the type of hard wood he wants to give her, but ya kno), and getting chastised for how cluttered his dumb animated house is ("you won't get a good ranking from the happy home academy if you don't coordinate your wallpaper, carpet, and furniture, mulder"). he hasn't picked a weed on his island the entire time he's had the game and it drives her Insane, which is why he does it, bc watching her silly little character running around his island in a frenzy plucking weeds is adorable (and god, how pathetic is it that he finds her adorable even in animal crossing character form??)

he does find some personal entertainment from the game. he likes collecting shooting stars and swimming and trying to guess which pieces of art are counterfeit. mostly, tho, he just likes how much scully likes it; he likes how, when she's playing or talking about the stupid game she laughs easier. he likes seeing her do something silly, just for the fun of it, and he likes that she lets him be a part of it

she invites him to her island one night, and she takes him to the shore, where she shows him where she terraformed a little area with a bench, flowers, and a telescope, and tells him she made it for the two of them to go stargazing together

their dumb little characters sit next to each other and watch pretend stars in the dark, and they both feel immensely loved

(she'll ask him if he brought her that new seasonal wardrobe he got later. she needs it to complete the set, but she can wait. not like, a super long time, obviously--the happy home academy sends their letter tomorrow and she'll be pissed if she doesn't get an A--but they can stay out under the night sky together. for a little longer, at least ❤️)

[maskofthenarcissist]

Adoration

(Vega x Reader)

A very drunk Vega begs for your attention.

reader is gender neutral, and any physical traits are excluded.

Vega returned to Japan for affairs involving Shadaloo. You knew this could mean anything... but it most likely meant an assassination. As one of its Kings and as a being of intelligence, he could be trusted with the business side of things as well as the social. But Vega’s tasks rounded up to ending someone’s life either efficiently or with extreme sadism. Either suited him just fine.

He also brought you along. Were the two of you something of an item? Perhaps that’s what the jet or hotel staff thought. He knew how to flatter pretty things and it was even better when they were strong enough to capture his attention. He thought of such worthy people as investments. He chose you mainly because of your uniqueness. It was something different from the beauty he normally saw. Yours was your own and couldn’t be captured.

This both excited and frustrated him.

Vega, drunk, lied across the sofa in the hotel room, arm thrown over his head as if in a dramatic reenactment. Normally when he was inebriated he remained entirely composed and coherent, yet this time the drink was much heavier. And his exhaustion didn’t help.

After all the time he spends crafting the perfect mysterious, unaffected persona of a Lord of Shadaloo who often has his own schemes... and here he was in quite the vulnerable position.

Vega’s eyes rolled over to you. “Come here,” He croaked out, raising a hand to beckon you over.

You set aside your shopping bags - and sensitive documents on the target. They were actually in this very hotel, wiretapped, and the plan was to stay up and prepare. Though, you weren’t sure how he was going to manage this now, and you approached him with a raised brow. “How much did you drink? You’re leaving me to stake out your target?”

You set up that tap yourself after disguising yourself as a cleaner, which involves knocking out a real one and taking her clothes then placing it back on her and making it look like something had simply fell onto her head when she came to. That took effort on your end and you were hoping the rest would be picked up by Vega...

Vega waved your concern anyway. “Don’t be so stern. That will give you wrinkles.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want?”

Vega rose from the sofa and gently captured your hand in his, bringing it to his cheek. “Brush my hair.” He insisted.

“Hm?”

“Do it.” He ordered, then gazed up at you with a sigh. “Won’t you?” He asked in a gentler voice.

Surprised that he insisted, and furthermore trusted you with this, you stepped into the bathroom for his brush - one of them anyway, from where he put up his supplies. You returned and loomed over him a bit and, carefully picking out a lock of his hair and brushing through it slowly, keeping your eyes on his expression. He looked unbothered, so you gathered more of his strands and started to brush from his scalp as well. He let out a content sigh after about five strokes, then unexpectedly reached for your hand again, brush still held. “All of it, dear.” He said, gathering out the rest of his hair for you. You continued, starting at his roots and working down. Some of his hair was tangled understandably from his previous fight, but he voiced no displeasure at you working through them. Instead, he closed his eyes and hummed out his exhalations.

“When should I stop?” You finally asked.

“Keep going. And tell me how much you like it.” He ordered. “My hair is beautiful, is it not?”

How needy, you thought. But the strands were quite lovely and had a pleasant scent. You were impressed with how long but tidy he kept it, running softly against your fingers. Whether it was brown or bleached, the way it always seemed to flow caught your eye.

“It is.” You agreed. It was quite a sight. “So soft, too.” He hummed out his agreement, and you kept going. “I love how long it is. Your braid is cute, but I want to see it down more.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You should.” You insisted, brushing your fingers through the length now and then twirling a lock around your finger. He whispered out something you didn’t catch, but you kept going. “If you ever wanted to curl it too, that would be nice. I wouldn’t want you to put your hair through anything you didn’t want, but I think it’d look good.” You allowed the lock to effortlessly escape from around your finger, moving like silk. “It’s so soft.” You commented again, forgoing the brush and running your fingers through his hair now.

Vega huffed.

“Cut it.”

You stopped. “Sorry?”

“Cut it all off.” He ordered. “Get my scissors. Or even my claw. And cut my hair.”

“You can’t be serious.” You blinked, looking over the drunk man.

“Or do you like my hair more than me?” He frowned, now facing you as he sat completely upright on the sofa.

How dramatic he was. He stared at you with upmost seriousness and yet you still couldn’t believe it. “You told me to compliment your hair!”

“Yes, and?” He huffed. “I shouldn’t have to tell you anyway - why did you keep all those comments to yourself?” How shitfaced was he? He was acting childish now! He took hold of his brush and plucked it out of your grasp, tossing it aside. Your eyes instinctively followed the path of the brush, but then Vega seized your jaw and turned it to face him again, and very close this time. “Worship me,” he uttered. “Sing me praises. Tell me you desire me.”

“You’re drunk.” You reminded.

“And beautiful! So tell me that. Now.”

At least you could oblige that, if not so he could release you soon... but staring at him this closely made it undeniable anyway. It reminded you exactly why people thought you were close to him. “Fine. You’re beautiful.”

“More.” He moaned, hand moving from your chin to your cheek.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve seen.”

He pulled you down from where you were standing, to your surprise. But maybe you shouldn’t have been. only your hands on his chest and your knees at his sides stopped you from completely lying on top of him. He was looking up at you with a devious grin, and you only frowned at him despite how much your face was burning now.

“Vega, stop.” You spoke seriously. “Am I going to have to work on this alone?”

Your answer came in the form of an impassioned kiss, the heavy taste of red wine on your tongue.

Oh, how the man you chose to love absolutely tested your patience.

But speaking of patience, you supposed maybe this target could wait.

[pedripics]

Barça's Little Buddha - Champions Journal Issue 16

Sometimes it's not just what you say, but how you say it, and as Graham Hunter discovers, Barcelona wonder kid Pedri is as cool, calm and collected in conversation as he is on the pitch.

For everyone involved, the atmosphere of a TV interview at the training ground of a major football club is usually at the rarefied end of the scale. This one is with Pedro González López - better known as Pedri - so it's important that everything is spot on. In truth, the empty room we've been given is functional and dull - two things we don't want the interview to be. However, there's nothing dull about the activity taking place: there's a whirl of moving parts and participants, busy constructing the 'studio' where part of this interview will be filmed. It's an intricate, intense and necessarily efficient business. A cameraman, two cameras worth tens of thousands of pounds, a producer, spotlights, backdrops, microphones, three club press officers, an interviewer (me) and ... the player.

Pedri appears to be in the eye of this hurricane of activity, unruffled and unperturbed. It makes a great metaphor for how Pedri plays - what it looks like when rivals fret and flock around him, trying to shackle his elegant imposition of intelligence upon Europe's football fields. But, right now, accompanying that preternatural calm is a gently amused smile. It is neither sardonic nor condescending; rather, it is the smile of someone who is deeply self-assured. And importantly, it reaches his eyes.

"My first club in Tenerife, Tegueste, were big on values. They instilled in us the idea that we shouldn't get angry during matches or argue with the referee - there's no point. They also taught us to have fun. Now, these days I do get angry occasionally. That's normal. But the self-discipline to stay calm and to do better next time you're on the ball can make the difference."

Not to overdo the theme, but Pedri's self-possession also helped him govern the emotions of moving to the Camp Nou in 2020. Just over two and a half years before, he'd been on trial at Real Madrid's Valdebebas training ground, which was a miserable experience: it was snowy, training was disrupted and those in charge told him he wasn't yet at their level. So, turning up at Barcelona with the impression that he might be put under contract only to be immediately loaned out meant guarantees were in short supply.

"When my family and I arrived at our hotel, I made a deliberate effort to stay calm. I knew that, at any time, the club might tell me they weren't going to sign me."

He was 16, small and slight, joining a great club in great turmoil. At the time of signing, he had only started for Las Palmas, in the second division, three times. After completing his first full senior season with the Canary Islanders, the best option that staying put at Barcelona seemed to offer was joining Barça B. But that's not what happened.

"The day Ronald Koeman told me that I could stay with his first team, that I might get a few minutes, was a huge shock - I really didn't expect it. The surprise opportunity filled me with determination to keep training hard, to compete fiercely and to immediately try to grab as much playing time as possible."

From his Barcelona debut (September 2020 against Villarreal) until the end of that season, Pedri played 73 times for club and country. He scored his first Champions League goal at 17; at 18 he won Spain's Copa del Rey and was named in the EURO 2020 team of the tournament (he also won the Young Player award for good measure). And now, aged 20, he has won his first Liga title.

No offence to the great sides that Pedri has faced across Europe, but his most ferocious rival so far might still be his own grandmom. The González family run an eatery in Tenerife and, as a kid, Pedri, his brother and mates would move the tables and chairs to play 2v2 football. One time, a wayward shot smashed a glass lantern; Grandma González was so furious that she tried to burst the ball with a knife. You soon learn tight control after a fright like that. So, is Pedri's ability to be surrounded by four or five opponents but skip free with the ball innate, or was it learned in the family restaurant?

"It's a bit of both. I was able to do some things like that when I was younger, and it's down to the work with all the coaches. But certain things stick with you and often you do things naturally, without thinking."

Champions League defenders, you have been warned: the boy's a natural.

[papiermachecat]

Helloooooo anyone who still follows me! I figured I’d better do a writeup of my pilgrimage to Slane with some notorious fellow tumblr hags because most of THEM are headed to Wembley for multiple shows which is fine and I’m not jealous at all because it’s FINE.

Amongst other things, in this writeup I will address A) my first time flying internationally (0/10 would do again but did not enjoy) B) the very flexible meaning of “5 minute walk” coming from an Irish or British person, C) the Irish weather (glorious), and D) the personal shortcomings of everyone I met on the trip (this section WILL be lengthy)*

Anyway my last day of school with students was Thursday June 8, and yesterday I had to be at work to do summer cleanup & checkout. In between I flew to Dublin???? Met my friends?? Almost died(more on that later)! And came back home! It’s insanity. So I waved goodbye to the buses on Thursday, raced home, dyed my hair (? I was not thinking clearly), packed, and was at the airport by 5:45 PM. “Wow!” you might be thinking, “She’s clearly very efficient and organized!” Unless you’ve ever spent two (2) minutes with me, then you know better. So yeah, flight was uneventful, Aer Lingus is kinda crappy but if you were seated in the first 10 rows you had a chance of getting an ice cube in your water so there’s that.

Upon arrival at Dublin, I met up with the fabulous @aggresivelyfriendly fresh from Italy and we had the loveliest taxi driver chat with us through sunny Dublin and drop us at the door of our very hip boutique hotel and I thought wow, these taxi drivers are so nice! Can’t wait to meet more of them! HAHAHAHA anyway

At the hotel we met up with fellow Americans @chasm2018 and @accidentalharrie , soon joined by the best UK/Ireland team since Harry & Niall, the delightful @cantquitu and @justharried as well as the famed, Harry-endorsed Mr. Justharried, who not only endured our company but even gave a good show of enjoying it! A fine man indeed 😘. Anyway yes, we hugged, we chatted, we ate, it was GRAND. A plan was formulated! Pop down to early merch, see a few sights, have a little lunch, shop a bit maybe, then dinner…all sounded lovely. Bit of walking, they said. Not very far, they said. Just down the road! they said.

So anyway we get to early merch—just a 10-15 minute walk with lovely weather, and there was NO LINE. None. Walked in, walked up to the counter, bought stuff, done. Blew my mind tbh. Okay great! Headed over to have snacks (the authentic Irish delicacy they call “nachos” idk if you’ve heard of them) and drinks at a church in front of a bronze bust of Arthur (I think?) Guinness, tended to by a very charming waiter who seemed accustomed to crazy Americans who want ice in their water. 10/10.

Side note: I wanted to hear some authentic Irish music. You know, walk by a pub and hear some Celtic ballad being sung while emotional old men all hold up their mugs of foamy beer, right? Well. As it turns out, their musical selections in a bar are pretty much what you’d hear here and I saw NO emotional old men swaying with their pints up as they sang along :/. But we wandered and cantquitu told us tales of her misspent youth in the thrift shops and it was lovely! 10/10

Another “”5 minute walk”” and we were at dinner, which was so lovely. No ice water, naturally, but lovely nonetheless! I had a traditional Irish salmon and tortellini with edamame. FUN FACT: 75% of the world’s supply of edamame is grown in Dingle, Ireland, famously home to Fungi (pronounced FUN-ghee) the dolphin, may he rest in peace. (Parts of that fact are actually true btw, but not the edamame part.)

A quick jaunt (45 miles or so) back to the hotel for more drinks and then off to bed to rest up for HARRYYYYYYYY!! I began to have serious regrets about my footwear choices, and rightly suspected that Saturday could be worse, but HARRY!!!!

STATS: step count: 18K // Ubers taken: 0 // successful acquisitions of a beverage with ice in it: 2 // painful blisters formed: 3

So on Saturday I switched up my shoes and hopes for the best. A quick 5 minute/6 mile walk* to the coach pickup spot and shortly we were on a stifling bus to Slane!! Expect a 20-30 minute walk to the venue, Ticketmaster told me HAHAHA anyway we get dropped off in a cow pasture (FUN FACT: Irish pastures are the lumpiest in the world*), somehow adopt two Irish teenagers who didn’t know until day of that they were supposed to have a chaperone over 25, poor things (I better never catch Lenna & Lily—cantquitu’s beloved nieces—complaining about hags in the fandom!), and off we go! Anyway after the short cow pasture walk and a bridge crossing there was a security check and I thought gosh this wasn’t bad at all! Surely security wouldn’t be set up 46 miles from the venue right? So I strolled through this wooded area, pleasant weather, good company, nice breeze…for perhaps 2-3 hours? Idk might’ve been a bit shorter but I definitely at one point said “Do you think this is some kind of prank? Like just to see how far we’ll walk?” Genuinely, it was FOREVER. My footwear choices had not been sound, my blisters from the day before were so ouchy oh and FUN FACT: the average preferred walking speed of my companions is a 5-minute mile. Which is like a 3-second kilometer, I did the math.*

ANYWAY. The first sign of civilization we saw was a stone wall with a hand-painted sign that I will post here

Please note this is not my photo and must be older as there are now 23 KILLED. SO FAR. Cantquitu told me that is one of her favorite Irish traditions* idk seemed a bit dark to me but 🤷🏻‍♀️

So we’re clearly there, right?? Hahahaha no. Another few billion miles later there’s another security check, then a ticket scan, THEN we’re at the top of a massive hill with merely 6 more miles* to walk to get to our Hollywood pod. I’ve drawn you a map of our route which I will post here.

Once we were settled, it was as you’d expect. So happy. So much fun. I ~almost forgot about the death march I had endured and tried to forget about the inevitably worse one awaiting us—though turns out there was an easier path home—still ages, and done in a sea of people, but easier!

Anyway you all probably saw the show or the best bits of it on video but here are my standout moments that wouldn’t have been captured on a livestream:

• the ADORABLE Scottish couple next to us with the guy being THE biggest harrie—knew every word, every drum fill, every 1-2-3-4…his girlfriend was a sweetheart too but just may have been the lesser into Harry between the two lol—we hugged goodbye and I hope they have a wonderful life ❤️

• the absolute shock of hurrying back from the bathrooms (such as they were 😬) while I Wanna Dance With Somebody was playing and seeing like…nobody….dancing. The disrespect!!!!

• the fact that About Damn Time and 24K Magic were the favorites from Annie Mac’s set that’s RIGHT! YAY AMERICA!!!!!! Idk some other songs played that I guess people liked or whatever but let’s be real

• if you have seen a pic of Harry in his favorite little brown leisurewear up at the castle you can thank…I want to say justharried? Might’ve been the mister who originally spotted him? but it was 1000% justharried who played Paul Revere and soon the entire crowd was staring at him. He moved his arm in a gesture that was NOT a wave but looked at the start like it possibly COULD have been a wave and literally the whole crowd started waving at him…it was so cute but needless to say he retreated soon after before re-emerging for Mitch’s set

• During Fine Line I looked at aggressively friendly and she was crying and then I of course immediately cried as I do and then we swayed and cried and it was just…a moment. Telling myself that things will be alright has become very difficult in my life these past few years and it felt both cathartic and bittersweet and just…all the things ❤️

• My entire posse collaborating to get my feet OUT of my shoes and IN to cantquitu’s extra flip-flops she’d brought along (a size too big for her but two sizes too small for me—before you start picturing me as Sasquatch or something I wear a very normal size US 8!) which genuinely felt SO much better and I don’t think I’d have made it back otherwise, thank you ❤️

And I’ve thought of so many funny things to say but tumblr crashed the first time I wrote this and I had to redo it again and I lost it so just know, it was worth every bit of blood (and yes there was blood), sweat (soooo much sweat) and tears (Tam’s fault!!) and I’d do it all over again no question!!

[musingsbyellecse]

Self Care is About the Little Things

Self Care is about the little things. I have been really stressed out this week, and honestly the 2 weeks before as well. I’m starting to have ideas about the way things have aligned to create this three week long buildup of events that led to this week, but that’s for another time. 

I wanna talk about self care, but like for real. Not the foo foo self care stuff that’s only surface level and reactionary, like having been struggling emotionally, financially, and/or mentally for the last few weeks, months, or years, and then somebody tells you to do a face mask. And I don’t mean the big, periodic, but intentional self care things either, like meditating, praying, venerating, etc. on a full moon or a new moon. No, I mean the self care you can do every day or week. The little things that refill your power bar moment by moment as it gets drained by the world outside of us.

I mean going on a short, 30 minute walk after your lunch. What if you don’t have an hour-long lunch? Valid. I mean coming home to a messy apartment because your apartment had bed bugs so you had to move to a hotel for 2 weeks and the day you got back (and spent the day moving back 2 weeks’ worth of clothes and toiletries, plus all the many items that would be ruined while your apartment gets heated up to 150 degrees to crisp all the bedbugs–sorry, I digress). After dumping all your things in your apartment, you had to pack for a trip to Catalina Island for Valentine’s Day. Then, when you get back to your apartment full of shit from your hotel stay, you throw your multiple luggage bags down and have to work your full time job. You come home, already tired from working full time, to an apartment that is, quite literally, a shitshow (okay, no shit but you get what I mean). 

I don’t know about you, but when my space is messy, my life is messy. I had so much cleaning and organizing and laundry to do, and when I was at work, I had so much emailing, scheduling, and planning to do. I decided to write down the long list of things I needed to get done at home: unpack all my suitcases, put away all my laundry, put toiletries away, put away all my spiritual supplies, etc. Plus, “rearrange the kitchen, rearrange the bathroom, rearrange the closet.” (When I go in, I go in.) Looking at this huge list of things to do can be overwhelming, but I realize I have to get it out of my head, and on to something I can visualize and tackle one-by-one. Plus, I love crossing things out.

Back to what you’d do if you didn’t have an hour lunch and you just came back from bed bugs and an island trip: You’ve got a lot of things on your to-do list, and maybe some of these things are space renovations. Well, if you were me last night, you would have gone grocery shopping to have an excuse (albeit a reasonable one) to be in the kitchen, because that’s been a space on your list for a minute. You play your favorite album, artist, or playlist that gets you through it (mine is When I Get Home followed by A Seat at the Table, both by Solange) while you put the groceries away and you wash the literal pile of dishes on your sink and stove. (Don’t judge me, I know you’ve been there.) With this good music and being able to visibly see mess disappear, you start to get in a little groove, “What can I do next? How else can I make some mess disappear without too much exertion?” You turn to your messy pantry. You’re getting rid of things you ain’t have no business continuing to hold onto, you put all your seasonings back on one, easily accessible shelf, you reorganize your snacks and ingredients so they make sense and are efficient with space. Hell, you might even spend a few minutes reconfiguring the arrangement of a fruit basket and cereal boxes. You’re in a nice funk! You love that this album/artist/playlist always helps you recenter and find peace (Thank you, Solange). 

You’ve now spent a good part of your evening rearranging and cleaning one thing at a time. You may not have busted out the Clorox and scrubbed every crevice, but you got that pantry looking good again! You finally cleared off the kitchen table that was really just the “I don’t know where else to put this shit” table (same for the top of the microwave). You finally did something with them cardboard and storage boxes in the corner. You step back and marvel at your work. You think, “I actually want to be in this kitchen now!” You have two candles on your table and your favorite album/artist/playlist playing, and you decide to finally sit down and write your first blog post, something you’ve been wanting to do for a while, but didn’t know how to start, and didn’t make time for it. 

But you did this time. After a shitty week, and a shitty 2 weeks before that. The rest of your apartment may still be a shitshow, but at least your bed is clear and your kitchen looks nice. It’s the little things out of this grand event of life. It’s going step by step. That’s self care.

-From 2022

[beardedmrbean]

New York City Hall has announced the termination of its prepaid debit card program for migrants.

The program, in place since March, provided debit cards to migrants in city-funded hotels to help cover basic needs but was heavily criticized by conservatives and has been scrapped by New York City officials just two days after Republican Donald Trump was confirmed as president-elect.

The initiative was launched as a temporary support mechanism, part of a one-year pilot program, to help migrants by providing them with limited financial assistance for essentials like food and baby clothing.

So far, more than $3 million has been spent on the program, helping almost 3,000 migrant families living in hotels with limited resources to buy essential supplies. The cards provided about $350 for a family of four.

As the city scales back this direct support, officials say they are exploring alternative ways to assist migrants, though no specific plans have been confirmed.

In a statement emailed to Newsweek on Friday, a New York City Hall spokesperson said: "Through the immediate response cards pilot program, we were able to reduce food waste, redirect millions of dollars to our local economy, and provide more culturally relevant food to more than 2,600 migrant families in our care.

"As we move towards more competitive contracting for asylum seeker programs, we have chosen not to renew the emergency contract for this pilot program once the one-year term concludes.

"For over two years, we have provided care to more than 222,000 migrants while saving $2 billion in asylum seeker-related costs. Thanks to our resettlement efforts, intensive case management, and national-leading Asylum Application Help Center, more than 160,000 migrants have left our shelter system and taken their next steps towards self-sufficiency.

"We will continue to implement and learn from innovative pilot programs like the immediate response cards program as we care for hundreds of new arrivals every week."

The program replaced a boxed-meal delivery service, which is reported to have cost twice as much as the debit-card program, as reported by ABC News. The debit card initiative was also credited with being a way to save money by not providing migrants with food items they would not eat and instead giving them autonomy to choose their products.

Financial tech company Mobility Capital Finance, or MoCaFi, was hired to run the program for a one-year term and receives about $400,000 under the agreement, ABC News reported.

In an emailed statement to Newsweek on Friday, CEO and founder Wole Coaxum said: "MoCaFi is pleased to partner with the City to deliver emergency response efforts for communities in need while streamlining processes for asylum seekers with children.

"Our platform enabled families to access fresh food of their choice from grocery stores, convenience stores, supermarkets, and bodegas. Since the beginning of the year, more than 2,600 families have benefited from our services, while spending several million dollars in the local economy.

"This work aligns with our company's mission to ensure efficient use of tax-payer dollars."

The decision is expected to receive mixed responses from local advocates, community leaders and migrant aid groups. Partnerships with local nonprofits and community organizations could provide more targeted aid.

Newsweek contacted migrant support groups in New York City for comment via email on Friday.

New York, as a sanctuary city, has historically embraced policies that aim to protect and support immigrants. However, the scale and speed of recent arrivals have created pressure to find sustainable solutions, with about 700 asylum seekers entering the city each week.

[thirsty-boba-fett-posts]

Part II of this fic that doesn’t yet have a title and isn’t even on the Masterlist yet but it’s gonna be a BIG OL’ SAGA.

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES UNDER THE CUT

She slept better than she had in at least a week. Jabba’s old slave quarters, once an austere room with no ‘fresher and two rows of bunk beds stacked three high, was now a comfortable apartment with a large futon. It was still a windowless room, but that made sleeping through eight hours of daylight easier. She didn’t relish traveling through the night on supply runs to and from Mos Espa, but it made for a faster, more efficient trip if she avoided the heat of Tatooine’s twin suns.

When she awoke the suns were low in the sky. She washed her face in the room’s newly installed wash basin and stretched out her sore muscles. There would be other courier jobs - she could saddle up her dewback and head into town to see which merchants needed supplies couriered overnight from Mos Eisley or maybe even somewhere closer, like the moisture farms or Mos Pelgo.

The man in black, as stern and imposing as he’s been that morning, approached her as she filled her water skin from the spigot in the sallyport. He held out a small sack and fished a stack credits from inside of his cowled cloak.

“Go to Anchorhead and bring back the palace droids Honwoo reprogrammed. Take two days if you need to - here’s enough credits for a stay at the Sidi Driss Inn, and there’s more when you return.”

She took the sack and the credits with a bewildered expression on her face. Sidi Driss Inn is a luxury hotel, she thought. Did the new daimyo really intend to pay for her to spend the day sleeping at a resort?

The man, a lieutenant of the daimyo, she supposed, called over his shoulder to her as he walked away.

“Get your water from the kitchen from now on. That spigot is rusty and that old tank needs cleaning.”

The burlap sack contained a rather expensive assortment of dried meats, cheeses, pastries, and even fresh fruits. She hadn’t had fresh fruit in years - this daimyo was lightyears more generous than the previous two. She wondered if he was struggling to find good help, but his gravely voiced deputy seemed like he ran a tight ship. Maybe the new daimyo was a puffer pig who needed to surround himself with strength and loyalty. That would explain the uncommon generosity.

She set off with the twilight towards Anchorhead on her dewback, who was fresh and energetic from a day of sound sleep and a belly full of rich kitchen scraps. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. The moonlight reflected pale blue off of the sand of the Dune Sea. She sampled each of the decadent foods in the burlap sack and shared them with her dewback when they stopped to rest at the halfway point between Mos Espa and Anchorhead. If he intended to outfit all of his contractors so generously, she would be silly not to work exclusively for the daimyo.

She arrived in Anchorhead as the first sun crested the horizon, before the merchants and shopkeepers opened for the day. She decided to see if a room at the Sidi Driss would even be available at this time of day. A few hours of sleep in a luxurious room before businesses opened for the day was more than she could hope for, but she felt the optimism of one who has been blessed by an unseen benefactor.

“Checking in?” asked a chipper desk attendant.

“I don’t have a reservation,” she replied, tentatively.

“You came in on a dewback, did you not? We have a reservation for you secured by the Daimyo of Mos Espa.”

Wonders never ceased.

A valet took her dewback to the stable to be hosed off and fed while she was shown to a corner room on the hotel’s top floor. It was opulent - a large bed, a ‘fresher stocked with expensive soaps and oils, and a balcony overlooking all of Anchorhead. She had been given plenty of credits for the room, so she supposed that the daimyo intended for her to spend them all on the sumptuous accommodations. She indulged long in a bath in the wide round tub before wrapping herself on a fluffy robe to settle in for a nap.

She awoke a few hours later to a note slipped under the door of her room.

Honwoo will have your cargo ready at sunset. The Daimyo of Mos Espa has opened a tab for your expenses and wishes for you to take yourself shopping at the hotel boutique at your convenience.

Surely, the Daimyo of Mos Espa had lost his mind. Had she somehow been mistaken for someone else? A dignitary or prominent merchant or guild member? She felt like an imposter, then reread the letter and realized that it addressed her by name. She knew she was a reliable courier, but were reliable couriers so hard to find in Mos Espa that they needed to be plied with luxury accommodations and shopping sprees?

She thought it best to follow the daimyo’s instructions. He was paying her way, so she may as well do as she’d been told and enjoy herself. She ordered a breakfast of colo claw fish and a fruit platter with a side of blue milk. It was more food than she’d eaten at a single meal in years and the experience of being well and truly full was delightful.

When she finally made her way down to the hotel lobby, a concierge met her at the base of the stairs.

“I’m to escort you to the boutique.”

This was getting weird. She briefly considered if she should continue going along with what felt like some kind of dream, but surely the daimyo must have his reasons for treating her to so much finery. The boutique was small and the clothing was perhaps impractical for someone who spent much of her time on a dewback crossing the desert, but she could not remember the last time she’s bought herself anything new and she could not resist the opportunity. The concierge even managed to convince her to pick out a dress with all of the requisite accessories - although what occasion she’d have to wear such an ensemble, she could not fathom.

Feeling overwhelmed, she returned with her new wardrobe to her room to decompress from experience and get a few more hours of sleep. She dreamed of Boba Fett as she remembered him from years ago - a figure in green armor and a distinct helmet - wielding a beskar ax to cleave the chains that bound her to Jabba The Hutt. But Boba Fett was dead and she awoke with a sense of loss that she hadn’t known she could feel for a stranger.

The valet brought her freshly bathed and well fed dewback to her and helped her load him up with her expensive new clothes. The suns were just beginning to set, which meant that the cargo she was hired to transport would be ready for pickup at Honwoo’s Repair Shop. She mounted her dewback and tipped the valet generously before making her way through town.

Honwoo and his human droid technician, Mathus, met her at the shop’s bay doors with crated droids ready to be loaded up for transport. She dismounted and introduced herself as labor droids began loaded and strapping crates to her dewback. Mathus handed her a data pad with a packing list, and she gave it a cursory read through before signing and handing it back to him.

“You should be all set in a few minutes. Do you need to fill a water skin before you head out?”

“Sure,” she replied, gratefully. He walked her to the shop’s sink and as she filled her water skin, the two made casual conversation. Mathus enjoyed his job as a technician and liked working for Honwoo, an honest and agreeable Rodian.

“So how do you like working for Boba Fett?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

…

LET’S GOOOOOOOOO

@meshlaxbunny

@daimyosprincess - the dewback’s name is Guapo

@baufraus

@dukeoftheblackstar

@acatalystrising

@die-herzlos-engel

Y’all we have to name this thing. Help. Please.

[thaamini]

JFMS: Powering Dubai's Hospitality and Key Industries with Reliable Manpower Solutions

In Dubai’s fast-paced industries like oil and gas, hospitality, mechanical, and agriculture, having reliable manpower is crucial. JFMS Manpower Supply Company stands out by providing specialized labor solutions given to these sectors. Their hospitality manpower services support hotels and resorts in Dubai by offering skilled staff ready to meet the high standards of service excellence. Similarly, in fields like agriculture and mechanical work, JFMS ensures companies receive experienced workers who can handle the demands of Dubai's challenging projects. Known for its industry-specific approach, JFMS offers businesses flexible and efficient staffing solutions that keep operations running smoothly.

[ghost-on-mars1]

I can't think of anything smart to say so more soc AU bullshit

Ienaga is a Healer, that's what she studied, but also mostly self-taught herself to be a Tailor. She runs a mildy suspicious hotel somewhere in Ketterdam, but she is also called upon by whatever gang she currently allies herself with as an emergency doctor, when actual professionals cant be contacted. Shes not unwilling to use her tailor powers on others either. She'll take you to a suspicious side room in her hotel, but desperate times call for desperate measures right? (Mfs will do anything for gender affirmation) She probably continues to be a cannibal.

Edogai is a durast who works in taxidermy. He uses his abilities to make his works better in more efficient ways. He works for the 7th, and in exchange they give him a supply of... materials. Though he would work for them purely because of Tsurumi, no other return needed. Since false skins wouldn't be super important here, he can probably make an assortment of other chemicals and materials as a durast. So he's the one making all the inventions like Wylan.

Yuusaku I think would have been a grisha. What type of grisha isn't too important because he still wouldn't have killed, but I think he would be an inferni for the sake of symbolism. I don't know if there are flag bearers in the second or first army so the fire I think would be a nice way to keep the symbolism of being a guiding light in battle except more literally now. The second army and the first don't really like each other but I think it's fun if Yuusaku is some sort of exception, or at least very well liked by the other grisha.

Mishima I for some reason really like, even though he had like 4 seconds of screentime. He is not grisha, but he is an excellent tracker. I think it would be funny if he was treated a bit like a K-9 in Ketterdam. He can track down people very easily and knows many shortcuts to use in a chase.

But Usami is the actual attack dog in the form of being the most brutal. I think he's definitely one of the most feared members because of how cruel he can be. He's the one who takes the most dirty jobs, and he enjoys them.

[sewagetreatmentplant01]

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