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thedistantdusk · 3 years ago

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Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

#harry/ginny fanfic #harry x ginny #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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real-jaune-isms · 4 years ago

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RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 7 Review/Remix

Last episode before the holiday break. The long long long holiday break. And here I am only posting my review the night before we come back... I was having a lot of fun playing my new video games, okay? Let’s just get right into this with the joke everyone has already made. War: What is it good for? Actually a lot, if you can believe it. Only in this specific context though, because the warfare in the American streets these last few days is disgusting and emblematic of what has been wrong with the country for a while. A government leader sending his followers into the nation’s capital on a mission of rage and personal catharsis? Ick. At least in RWBY the tyrant isn’t attacking members of his own population... Oh wait, Mantle. :P

For a moment you might be fooled into thinking we’re starting back in the farmlands of Mistral, maybe getting another look at Oscar’s earlier life or seeing a little more of Nora’s mysteriously tragic past before she and Ren met. But no, these are the wheat farms on the outskirts of Atlas and Sabyrs are charging through like raptors through the tall grass in Lost World. A battalion of Atlesian soldiers, human soldiers I might add, stand armed to meet them. But even if they’re armed they are by no means ready. Monstra keeps coughing up a new wave of Grimm, and I do mean a wave, every minute or two and Atlas is pretty damn whelmed in the face of it. There are some big bots with guns standing in straight lines, but the majority of the defense put up by Remnant’s supreme authority on military power and strength is mortal men with fear in their hearts rather than expendable robot soldiers. And the big bots seem to be lined up in a way that the ones in the front block the ones in the back, so that’s just poor planning too. It’s just a concerning sight all together, and they are not efficiently handling the coming enemy. We cut up to Ironwood in his office, and it seems he is not dealing with this situation well at all. We know he’s under a lot of stress from all the recent events, but they are in fact mostly his own fault due to his poor decision making skills in times of crisis, and his single minded drive he calls a Semblance. Speaking of the eternally expanding list of Ironwood’s bad ideas, he decides to evacuate all the civilians into Atlas’ below ground subway tunnels. Fun fact: There were Apathy among the Grimm Monstra has been spitting out. Second Fun Fact: Apathy were last seen thriving and murdering in an abandoned underground tunnel system beneath a well. If one is familiar with fantasy television pop culture of the last decade, the Crypts of Winterfell might pop into your mind as a similarly poor place to hide all your unarmed women and children. Y’know, cuz in Game of Thrones they were facing a guy who could raise the dead as his minions and crypts are just tunnels full of corpses. Just saying, this could end up being a non-birthday massacre. Whatever captain of lieutenant Ironwood was talking to is hesitant to go along with this idea, but Ironwood puts his foot down by putting his fist down. And so his voice comes on over the city-wide PA system to tell everyone they need to get down into the subway for their own safety. Compared to the organized marching and relative calm of the poor folks down in Mantle, these rich fat cats practically trample each other to run and scream down the stairs. A father is concerned his daughter is going to get snatched up by a swarm of Lancers, but seems even more upset by the squad of airships swooping in to combat them.

Speaking of airships, we cut to the one Marrow and Harriet are flying. The Ace Ops have arrested YRJ, because of course they did, and they all hear radio chatter as pilots are reporting in about how Monstra is too tough for them to pierce from the outside with any of the weapons available to them. Winter checks in over comms to report her team’s limited successes, and Ironwood tells her to stay on jailor duty for a bit. Yang snarks at Winter for continuing to follow orders despite the circumstances, but conversation is stifled by Monstra coming into view for the group. Jaune laments that the beast now serving as Oscar’s confinement is larger than they had imagined from a distance, and Vine continues to be rigid in his assertions as to just what Grimm can and cannot do. “Grimm don’t take prisoners” he says, as if that’s an irrefutable fact. It’s not like any Grimm have done anything new or unheard of recently, like talk or grow wings or exist within a river of evil sludge or shoot up miles into the air as a geyser or have gravity Dust crystals in their underbelly to fly, or as you are witnessing right now belch out ponds worth of sludge from with waves of Grimm are emerging to fight your ground troops. Yep, we definitely know every single thing a Grimm does, especially one brought here by the mistress of the entire Grimm collective who is commanding most of them here. You sure are smart, Vine... Yang continues to be riled up and ask they be let go to help, but Elm and Vine hold her in her seat. Ironwood is heard giving the Manta jets new orders and reveals Command is working on a solution for Monstra. Winter, naturally wanting to be kept in the loop, asks what that might be. He reveals the science team is putting together a bomb that might be able to take the whale out if detonated inside it. That means Winter and the Ace Ops will be delivering it into the literal belly of the beast. I don’t know if he intends for it to be a suicide mission with the bomb going off as soon as they’ve got it inside, or if it’s just incredibly risky to try and get inside Monstra at all, but Winter pales at this news and her eyes go wide before sadly drooping closed again. She composes herself and grows determined again as she accepts the new marching orders. Jaune and Yang are again audibly against these plans due to the risk to Oscar’s safety, but they are subdued as needed, though we see Winter’s act isn’t absolute and her hands are shaking.

Meanwhile, Salem is having the time of her life doing her best Mickey Mouse impression. Classical music plays as she conducts the waves of Grimm sludge out of Monstra’s mouth like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice playing conductor to the stars themselves. Emerald watched from a distance, and seems less than thrilled about the whole thing. She heads down the halls and has to use her Semblance to keep a Seer from noticing her and potentially reporting her going where she doesn’t need to be to Salem. And where she’s going is the door outside Oscar’s torture room. He’s coughing up blood, and Hazel is still insisting he start telling the truth before Salem loses her patience and just kills him despite how futile it’d be. Instead Oz starts asking some questions of his own: Does Hazel know why Salem sought to recruit him in particular? It turns out she approached him with the promise of making a new world order where there won’t be any kingdoms or Huntsman Academies. Oz just has to laugh at that naiveté. When Salem gets the 4 Relics, there won’t be a world at all. She’s been around for so goddamn long, all she wants is for it to end, and she thinks taking the whole world down is the only way to get it anymore. This just frustrates Hazel, and we learn why. He’s pretty damn sure Salem can’t die at all, because when she first approached him about working together he spent the better part of a day killing her over and over and over again. This man, whom we know from the Battle of Haven to have massive reserves of Aura and strength to endure and keep fighting, kept fighting until he was too worn down and exhausted to lift his fists again. And in that time of weakness and awe at her power, Salem made her sales pitch that even if he couldn’t kill the one leading the Grimm he could at least have vengeance on the establishment sending young people to their deaths against her. Oz points out that that’s exactly why she went to him, because she could make him believe this was the right way, that it would bring him closure. It’s what Ozpin deserves, Hazel argues, and Oz does not disagree. But does Oscar deserve it? Do the innocent people who haven’t been affected by Salem or Ozpin yet? No, this isn’t for justice, this is personal. Because Salem said it would help Hazel. Has it?

We don’t get an answer to that, instead going back up to Weiss’ room in Schnee Manor where she’s reapplying Nora’s bandages. Still mostly unconscious, Nora mutters “Now what... am I good for?” I can think of a great many things Nora is useful for outside of her great strength and straightforward approach to combat, but its a damn shame no one has actually bothered to tell her that before now. Before Weiss has a chance to offer any, Blake and Ruby enter the room with cups of tea. I’m not ashamed to admit I initially thought they were hot chocolate cuz I’m not used to tea being that sort of amber color. Weiss admits that she’s done the most her limited medical knowledge can offer, and Nora needs more than that. Blake expresses her concern for the other half of their group, but almost slips up and says... well we’re just not sure, but we like to assume she was gonna say she’s especially worried for someone in particular. The shippers can fill that in how they like. Their moping is interrupted by May entering the room with some less than stellar news from Fiona and the others down in Mantle. They haven’t seen Yang’s team in a while, and with everything going to hell like this a search party is at the bottom of the priority list. She’s about ready to get back on the airship and head back down to Mantle, but Weiss protests and this sparks a debate. May points out that Mantle doesn’t have the luxury of the Atlas military protecting them so Ruby’s group and the Happy Huntresses are the only thing keeping the people safe from the chaos of the invasion, but Weiss argues that there are still people suffering up her and I have to agree. Just because a police force is around doesn’t automatically mean they’re doing the best job of keeping everyone safe. But Weiss pushes the wrong button by asking about May’s family. The Marigold’s were ashamed of the way their “son” acted, wanting to help the suffering down in Mantle. And so May would no longer let herself be called that, she became a woman proudly working as part of the Happy Huntresses for the service of the people. She kicked her Marigold name and reputation to the curb and her cousin Henry stepped up as the socialite snob instead.

This cannot have been an easy scene for Kdin to record, but we all need to give a standing ovation for her performance in it. Powerful words that likely hit very close to home. What a queen.

May is sure Weiss gets where she’s coming from with their families casting them aside in favor of a more obedient heir, her being replaced by Whitley after her outburst at the charity concert. Weiss wants to voice her disagreement, but May questions whose side she’s on in all this. Blake doesn’t like that, they’ve heard this talk about taking sides before and judging by her tone she’s none too happy to be hearing it now. May is about to give her a strongly worded piece of her mind too but Ruby stands between them to remind everyone there are no sides. All of humanity needs to be united, and Salem is the one creating the tension that’s dividing them so their real enemy is her. The only question now is how do they get out of this problem? The solution might be hiding just around the corner, literally. Whitley has been listening from behind the door, and he seems a little inspired.

Meanwhile Oz seems to have just finished telling Salem’s dark cursed backstory to Hazel, and it seems her final plan really is to have the world so divided and ruined that when the gods are brought back to judge it they will deem Remnant a failure and destroy it and hopefully her with it. Hazel seems less than inclined to believe this story though, he still holds a damn hard grudge over his sister. Oz is getting nowhere so Oscar asks to be put back in the lead, and so he is just as Hazel is about to wallop them again. Oz is willing to trust him so he can earn Hazel’s trust in return. So he goes right ahead and tells the big guy Jinn’s name and that it’s how you summon her for one last question. Hazel seems mad that Oscar gave up the info so effortlessly after all that, but Oscar asserts that he’s not telling Salem. He’s telling Hazel, and letting him decide what to do with the knowledge and the chance to gain deeper knowledge still. Pretty rad strategy. Wouldn’t you know it though, Emerald is still listening outside the door and heard everything. She goes to tell Mercury, but he’s busy packing a duffel bag for a trip to Vacuo. Guess Salem doesn’t need him here right now so we’ll get to see him again in Volume 9 or 10. He’s less than convinced that they should try and use this behind the scenes knowledge to go against Salem, cuz if Hazel couldn’t do it then why would he change his tune now? And why would they risk their necks too? It’s not like Oz was telling the truth, right? Salem isn’t really gonna destroy the world! But the teens get another surprise lecture from Uncle Tyrian: Of course Salem plans to destroy Remnant!! You couldn’t tell from the start? Everything about her screams end of the world, and it is beautiful! And if you thought she’d do anything different then you must really be crazy... Bold worlds from a psychotic serial killer, but we already know he’s unhinged. Mercury doesn’t much like getting this rude awakening though, especially since Tyrian will be the one going with him to Vacuo. Merc and Em share one last sad look, but he’s made his bed and now he’s resigned to lie in it. Bye bye Mercury, see you after Emerald has probably switched sides and will have to face you as an enemy...

Speaking of ships soaring through the air, we go back to the Ace Ops and YJR heading for Monstra. Yang is protesting the bombing plan since Oscar is still inside, but Vine insists they can’t afford to wait and risk further death and destruction. Jaune offers a side plan, send the three inside Monstra ahead of the bombing squad to scope things out for them and try to rescue Oscar while they’re doing recon. Marrow is shocked that they’d be willing to go into the literal belly of the beast alone, but Yang asserts he’d do the same for one of his teammates if they were in this position, right? He doesn’t have an answer for that. Elm argues that trading their lives just for one other person is stupid, but amazingly it is Ren who objects. Oscar is their friend, and they will do whatever it takes for someone they care about like that. A real turnaround from his attitude of closing himself off emotionally, but I guess he’s realizing how ridiculous it sounds coming from other people? Harriet gets out of her seat to do what she does best and start talking down to someone as naïve and wrong. Feelings are stupid, the job is what matters. When you lose someone you just replace them and forget about them. We find out that Winter is indeed meant to be the new leader instead of Clover, and before Marrow there was apparently a member of the team named Tortuga, but Ren is not about to let anyone tell him that someone is replaceable. You don’t say that to Team JNPR, and we definitely don’t say that about Ren... Not now. In his outrage, Ren suddenly finds... clarity. He starts seeing the world a little differently. In less cryptic terms, his Semblance seems to have evolved and he now sees people’s emotions swirling around them as colorful bursts of flower petals. Harriet is actually furious about losing Clover, she’s lying to herself and trying to suppress her feelings. She does not like being called out like that, but the rest of the squad needs to be put on blast. As opposed to Hare’s red petals Marrow is surrounded by blue that I guess would mean sadness or depression, Elm has orange and some red, and Vine is clouded with green. The meanings of the last two are a little less clear, but they’re all definitely feeling some strong things that they’re trying to hide under a calm façade. This is the reason the Ace Ops lost to RWBY, they’re all held back by trying not to connect with each other so unity and team bonds never formed. Elm does not like being told she’s a loser because she won’t make friends, but at least it’s a a reaction, which means he’s absolutely right. She’s about to deck Ren in the face but Winter steps in to get everyone calmed down. She looks these three “fugitives” over, and makes a decision. She’s going to trust her sister’s friends. They will get the teens in close and give them a small window of time to try and get in and out before the Ace Ops need to bring in the payload and blow it all away. Harriet is pissed Winter is giving these “traitors” a chance, and questions her decision thusly. But you’re outranked, you boob, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop her from showing human decency. They have a very tight schedule to attempt this rescue, and Jaune accepts that fully. The three get uncuffed and are given their weapons back as the ship lands at the front lines. Ren tries to appeal to the doubt and regret he can see in Marrow to get him to switch sides while the getting’s good. Marrow wants to, but he sticks to the job for now. Yang and Jaune head out first, while Ren lingers to tell Winter he knows she doesn’t want to be a part of all this anymore either, and we see a rainbow of many emotional petals around her head. Either she has a balance of many emotions in check and is the most levelheaded of the Ace Ops, or she has the most emotions repressed and her mind is a tempest of feelings that aren’t being addressed and may spell her end... take your pick.

As this militant Schnee considers her options, we go homeward to see Weiss and the others heading for the front door. May isn’t keen to stay her any longer than needed, and the kids need to make a choice about where she’s dropping them off. Either they go to the front lines here in Atlas or back down to Mantle to help with the chaos there. No other options, and especially no breaking their jailbirds out for an assist. May doesn’t have the optimism and heroic hope that Ruby still holds dear, she won’t entertain the idea that this can become a complete victory all around. This isn’t that kind of world. Either they help one place, or they help another. And even then, that’s no guarantee wherever they go will be successful at stopping the invasion. It’s very depressing, and it’s on these kids to accept the facts and make the hard decisions. If you take a look at the last few Volumes, Ruby does seem to have a bit of a habit of ignoring the dreadful possibilities/facts in favor of pursuing a hopeful and bold plan that could fix everything immediately so she doesn’t have to cope with reality and actually grieve her mistakes and losses... I’m not saying it makes her a bad character or that she’s wholly wrong for trying to see a bright side whenever possible, just that this is an unhealthy strategy for a leader with so much on her shoulders. But before anyone has time to make a decision right now, there’s a hard knock on the front door. Everyone draws their weapons and approaches slowly, before Weiss cautiously opens the door. In a most definitely welcome surprise, she is greeted by Klein!!! She missed him dearly, and apologizes for whatever fault she had in his being fired, but while cycling through personalities he assures her she has nothing to be sorry for since it’s all Jacques’ fault, the bastard. Turns out, Klein is here to use his medical knowledge to treat Nora. What, didn’t you know all butlers to heroic millionaires have field medic training? Alfred Pennyworth set the gold standard, I dare say~ But of course, Weiss didn’t call him and none of her friends know his number so who told him to come?... Would you believe it, Whitley is responsible and we could not be more proud of him! Weiss certainly is, and she gives him what might be his first genuinely loving hug in years. Klein heads upstairs to begin treatment, while the rest of the group share a hopeful moment. But this silence too comes to a crashing halt as there is further ruckus outside. This time Ruby answers the door, to see a smoking crater in the front driveway. RWB rush outside and kneel at the edge of the crater as the smoke clears. Penny has crash landed, and lies there in a pool of what we can only presume to be her green synthetic blood. All she has the strength left to do is apologize before she passes out and the screen darkens with her. There lies the end for the next 6 weeks, and we were left to panic and speculate all the while. Too bad I’m a lazy bugger who only got this review out now and there’s no tension left before the thrilling continuation comes tomorrow morning. So lets all get one last panicked sleep in before the living nightmares come for our girls! Penny is totally gonna be under Watt’s control, the Hound is coming, it’s all gonna be a huge damn mess... Can’t wait, can you?~

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themarvellouswriter · 5 years ago

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MOB! SEBASTIAN x TALL! READER

PART V OF THE MASTERPIECE SERIES

Warnings: Nothing, slight swearing (and family drama?) Word Count: 1.9k Genres: Angst and light fluff. Family drama Notes: We meet the famous Winchesters and the Halins. And like, TJ Hammond is so cute? Like baby? Protect? Yes sir. Yum sir. Also, I’ve made a VERY subtle SPN reference, so if you find it, do share and I’ll give you a shout out!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up with a smile. Despite not having known Sebastian very long, you were completely enamored by him and his charming personality. You felt him shift beside you. He’d insisted on keeping you company in your room till he’d eventually drifted off and you didn’t have the heart to wake him. You watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. You push his soft hair away from his face. “You should take a picture if you like my face so much,” he said, opening an eye to look at you. You gave him a sly smile. “Maybe I would’ve if someone hadn’t lost my phone.” Sebastian’s face turned pink as he bit his lip. You cooed at him, pushing him out of bed. “We have a meeting with my family. We need to prepare,” you said, getting out of bed. He pouts but then it melts into a coy smile. “Meeting the parents so fast? Someone is eager.” You roll your eyes good - naturedly. “When you get kidnapped and have a bounty on your head, things do move along rather quickly, don’t they?” He stands up and stretches, revealing a very nice expanse of his abs. Your gaze flickers down, he notices and smirks. “Like what you see?” “Oh yeah, definitely. I could stare at you all day but,” you say with a shrug. “Family matters. Pun intended.” He gives your cheek a chaste kiss which leaves your knees weak and face hot. Simple gestures of affection were much more exhilarating than passionate ones in the heat of the moment. He’s gone by the time you recover and you mentally chide yourself for being so vulnerable around him all the time. You get ready for the day and go downstairs to wait for Sebastian.

You’re dressed in a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater with your favourite heeled boots. Sebastian comes down a few moments later wearing a maroon Henley that makes you sob inwardly at how good he looks. His hair are slightly damp and curling at the ends. He sees you waiting for him and gives you the softest smile that’s ever been directed towards you. [A/N: You know what I’m talking about.] ‘He is about as dangerous as a newborn kitten.’ Suddenly you realise that you’re towering over him and you inwardly kick yourself for wearing heels. ‘Stupid Y/N, you’re supposed to look small and cute, not like an obnoxious noodle.’ Sebastian is quick to notice the quick shift in your mood. “What’s wrong?” You sigh and say, “It’s the stupid heels I’m wearing. I hate towering over people. Especially people that I like.” He grins. “I like that you’re taller than me. Its incredibly sexy.” He moves closer and closer with each word. “Very, very hot.” He tilts his head to kiss you, catching you by surprise.

“Do you actually like it? Or are you just saying that to pacify me? It wouldn’t be the first time, you know. It’s happened before.” You’re pouting now but you also want to know if your height is a turn on for him. “Trust me. I like you just the way you are. Heels and all,” he whispers, kissing your nose. You scrunch up your face at his actions. “Sap.” “Call me what you want but I never lie.” Despite his reassurances, you’re still slightly self conscious. Noticing your hesitation, he sighs and pulls you in for a bruising kiss that leaves you gasping for air. His hands are tightly gripping your hips, pressing you against him. His tongue is in your mouth and you swoon. He’s an amazing kisser, and seeing him being so passionate about ridding you of your insecurities makes you feel special. One of his hands moves lower to grip your bum and the sudden squeeze has you yelping in his arms. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed. He laughs softly and rubs the nape of your neck. “Convinced?” He asks. You let out a muffled ‘yes’ and pull away.

Your face feels warm as you follow him outside and leave his place for the second time in two days. “Am I still kidnapped now that you know who my parents are?” “Only if you want to be,” he grins. “You’re such a courteous kidnapper. Imagine not being kidnapped and going on dates. Magic,” your tone is teasing and his smile widens. “Oh?” “Oh yeah, first date. You torturing a guy and me finding out that I’m on someone’s hit list. Second date in the middle of the night finding out that my entire family is made up of gangsters. Third date, confronting said family about keeping secrets about being gangsters. Isn’t this fun?” “You’re taking this surprisingly well. How?” You shrug. “I honestly have no clue. I’m just trying to survive one day after the other. No point in worrying about something you have no control over.” He looks at you. “What?” “You’re amazing. You’re the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. You’re something different, special. Really special.”

You shyly look away as your house comes into view. You see Sofia leaning against her car parked outside. You get out as Sebastian parks into the driveway. “Hey, Sofia. What’re you doing here?” She looks up and waves as you walk towards her. “Your mum called. She told me to get ready for a family dinner? I mean, we already have the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. Why can’t this wait till then?” You purse your lips. “I found out something about them and now I wanna have nice chat with them. That’s it.” She shrugs. “She wanted me to be with you, so here I am.” She looks over your shoulder. “And you’re with him. Pretty boy Sebastian.” You roll your eyes. “If you’re here. You might as well help prepare for dinner!” Sebastian walks up and greets Sofia, cordially. The three of you go inside and begin preparations.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, everything is ready and Sebastian has changed into a formal suit. This one is steel grey, perfectly complimenting his eyes and you can’t stop staring, as he finishes laying the table. Watching his muscles flex and the cloth stretch along his back. Sofia notices and forces you into wearing a dress. You pout but go along with it, especially when Sofia whispers how Sebastian is unable to keep his eyes off of you. As soon as the clock strikes five, the doorbell rings. You suck in a breath and open the door. You meet the rest of your family’s eyes and quietly let them. You dad enters first followed by your mother, then your oldest brother Dean and his husband Castiel. Sam’s eyes are large and pleading as his fiancée Jessica drags him inside. She shoots you a sad smile and takes her place at the table. There is an older, sharply dressed woman behind them. Sebastian gasps as he sees her. “Mother?” She gives him a frosty smile as she walks past you and settles down next to your father. “When I said family meeting, I kind of meant my family. No offence,” you murmur against Sebastian’s ear. “None taken. I’m as surprised to see her here as you are,” he whispers back and you both exchange a look. Everyone is settled at the table. You father at the head, with Mrs. Stan and you mother at his sides. Sebastian next to his mother and you next to him and Sofia next to you. Next to your mother is Dean who gives you a subtle reassuring wink, Castiel who looks more interested in the food than the people around him. Sam and Jessica at the end with the latter right next to Sofia. In the back of your mind you vaguely realised that this was the first time your dining table had been properly used.

You swallow and start to speak but your father beats you to it. “Y/N. Be a dear, let’s eat first and then talk.” You nod and begin serving. The meal is tense and it feels like everyone is on edge. Except Castiel who looks virtually unbothered by what’s happening around him. When everyone is nearly finished, your father looks at you. “That was lovely. Thank you.” The rest of the table mutters their agreement. “Now, to more pressing matters.” You feel Sebastian envelope your hand in his and give it a squeeze under the table. You felt warmth flood through you and you met your father’s eyes. “Yes, it is true that we’re the Winchester crime family. And yes, Sam and Dean knew. And all of us decided to keep it from you so that you could you do whatever you want without being associated with us. And this is why Georgeta is here.” He shoots his wife a look. “Look Y/N. Just because we didn’t tell you about this, doesn’t mean that we love you any less. Sam and Dean put up quite a fight when we told them of our decision to not include you. But we all decided it was for the best. To keep you safe and out of trouble.” You bit your lower lip, chewing it between your teeth. “So, everything was a lie? Like you own a pharmaceutical company? And that Dean and Cass are involved with supplying the government with arms? And that Sam is a professor?” “Not everything. The best lies are based on truths,” interjected Dean. “Cass and I supply arms to everyone with the means to pay for them. Sam’s our bookie. Jess is the best defence lawyer in the country. Mum owns many, many pharmaceuticals and dad manages everything.” He looks at you sympathetically. “We just want you safe. Getting involved in this is rough. And none of us want that for you. Plausible deniability in case things ever go sideways.” You swallow and sit up straighter. “If I hadn’t found out, would you ever have told me?” “No.” Its Sam who answers. “Absolutely not. Its too dangerous.” You grit your teeth. “Just for me? Nobody else? Nobody else is prone to doing crazy shit? Nobody else is in danger? How do you think I would feel if something happened to anyone of you? Would I not be devastated?” Your voice is shrill and you feel angry tears prickling your eyes. “You think by keeping me out of the loop you’re keeping me safe but you’re doing the exact opposite! I would never be on my guard because I would never know who my enemies are! I can protect myself, I don’t need any babysitter to keep me safe.” A tear makes its way down your cheek and you feel slightly smug as you notice your family’s rueful expressions.

“Well, this was a lovely meal. But I think we have other things to talk about,” came a heavily accented yet light voice from Sebastian’s mother. “Mama,” mutters Sebastian warningly. “Oh hush Sebastian. We know that little Y/N here more upset by the fact that this was kept a secret rather than the secret itself.” She looks at you, her mouth curling up into a smile. “Isn’t that right, little one?” You slowly clench and unclench your hands. “Yes it is. I had a right to know.” “And I agree! Secrets between families can tear it apart. This is why I have a proposal for you all. I say that Sebastian and Y/N get married.” The table then exploded into a cacophony indignant noises.

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okwonga · 4 years ago

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“We Must Free Our Imaginations.”

Here is the text of a short address I gave at the start of an evening of tribute to the late Binyavanga Wainaina, one of the greatest literary voices of our generation. The event, at Berlin’s HAU Theatre on 27.09.2020, was part of a programme called “Radical Mutations: On The Ruins of Rising Suns.”

----

This is a very special weekend. Long before it was chosen to pay tribute to Binyavanga, it was a weekend reserved for dreamers, for bringing unimaginable good into reality. Yesterday would have been the 88th birthday of Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, one of the architects of the destruction of apartheid. Yesterday was also the United Nations’ International Day for the Total Elimination of Nuclear Weapons. Yesterday was also the first day of the rest of my life.

Like my father, Binyavanga was a revolutionary. Like Binyavanga, my father died in his fifth decade, far before his time, long before his best work was to be done. Like Binyavanga, he was born in East Africa: in the neighbouring Uganda which is so present in much of Binyavanga’s brilliant memoir, One Day I Will Write About This Place. He fled his country from Idi Amin, a man who was too often mocked by those who should have been busy trying to stop him, a man who ended up feeding his enemies to crocodiles. He was killed at the age of forty years and three hundred and forty seven days, and I have been counting down to yesterday for most of my adult life.

If anyone understood the importance of imagination, it was Binyavanga. He had the guts to be openly and happily homosexual in his home country, and to be openly and happily queer for many of us is to escape the gravitational pull of centuries of oppression. Many of us have had to tear ourselves free from friends, from family, and most of all from ourselves. To accept oneself as homosexual is often an act of spiritual resilience which, above all, requires imagination. It is the bravery to dream of a better world, even as every voice in your life and every cell in your body tells to resist who you are, tells you that you should not exist. Beyond the magnificence of his prose, which skipped off the page like free jazz, Binyavinga had that bravery.

If anyone understood the importance of imagination, it was my father, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson Okwonga. He was killed in an attempt to resist the insurgency of Uganda’s current president, Yoweri Museveni. He was killed in that conflict because he was able to imagine a world where, if he lost that conflict, hundreds of thousands of people from his region would be slaughtered in revenge. Tragically, he was correct.

If anyone is just beginning to understand the importance of imagination, it is me. On Friday, my life as I knew it came to an end. That is when I reached the age of forty years and three hundred and forty-seven days, the same age as my father. No man from my bloodline has made it this far in over eighty years. I never had the guts to imagine what would come after this moment; I was too busy trying to get here. And now I am standing at the edge of a ten- thousand-foot cliff, ready to sky-dive down through the clouds. This weekend my new life began. It is mine now and so are all of the dreams that come with it. Those dreams are now my responsibility, and I will guard them as fiercely as I guard anything in this world.

We must imagine, every one of us in this audience. We must be vigilant enough to imagine the threat of what is coming. We must not be like those public figures in Uganda who scoffed and giggled as they dismissed the rising threat of Idi Amin. We must not be like those public figures in America who laughed when it was suggested that Donald Trump was a threat to American democracy. We must not be like those public figures in the United Kingdom who, even now, still sneer when it is suggested that the current British government is acting entirely in its own interests. We must not be guilty of a failure of imagination. We must understand the full extent of what it is that they intend to do. We must free our imaginations. Not because it is fun, but because our futures depend upon it.

Yet we must be especially brave in our dreams, because it is far harder to envisage love than it is to envisage horror. Against the frightening backdrop of our current social, political and ecological moment, we must still somehow find a vision of joy. It is vital to resist. It is yet more vital to insist upon a better future for all of us. Last night I was reading the Twitter feed of Mariame Kaba, the African-American prison abolitionist, as she shared her thoughts on the upcoming American election. “These two political parties act as constraints on so much of people's imaginations”, she wrote. “That's the thing that I just hate the most. Your desires for something better are being shrunken every single minute...I feel continuously sad and furious about the deliberate suffocation of people's aspirations”, continued Kaba. “People who constantly scream about *realism* and try to foreclose even *THINKING* about something else, something different than the current order. This suffocation is spirit-murder.”

We should not merely vote for those people who uphold the basic principles of democracy. In our daily lives, we must demand the unimaginable. In The Black Jacobins, his exceptional history of the Haitian Revolution, CLR James wrote that “slavery seemed eternal”: but thanks to the vision of countless enslaved people, slavery ended. There must have been a time when apartheid seemed eternal, but then the concept was introduced to Winnie Mandela. We are now at a point in human history where our civilisation faces the twin threats of fascism and ecological collapse: where, one by one, it can seem as if the lights of resistance are quietly being snuffed out.

It is at such times that I turn to the words of Benjamin Ferencz. Ferencz, at the age of 27, became a lead prosecutor at Nuremburg, overseeing the trial of men responsible for the murders of over one million Jewish people. Over one million human beings. Ferencz, who is himself Jewish, is the last surviving prosecutor of those trials, and he is now a hundred years old. In a recent interview, he spoke of the importance of imagination. “People get discouraged”, he said. “They should remember, from me, it takes courage not to be discouraged." When he was reminded that genocides are still happening, even as we speak, he nodded. And then he also pointed out that, thanks to all those dreamers out there, there have been vast advances in his own lifetime for women, for queer people. “We’re on a roll”, he said, interrupting his interviewer. “We’re marching forwards.”

Somehow, we must be able to imagine the most thrilling of futures: to imagine love, imagine peace, imagine happiness. Binyavanga wrote that “working in a creative field, I have to use all the resources I have”: and I think that is what we should all begin or continue to do. Today is the first weekend of the rest of my life, and it is the first weekend of the rest of yours. In order to pay tribute to Binyavanga, let’s get to work.

#BinyavangaWainaina Berlin

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shijiujun · 5 years ago

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[ENG] History3: Trapped Novel - Chapter Two

~6,500 words (proofread by @weilongfu)

Translation Masterpost can be found here

Disclaimer: Translations are entirely mine - these are not official translations and some phrases have been changed for better English interpretation so you’ll definitely see better/different translations elsewhere. Also keeping in mind when we translated this we aren’t exactly thinking about the style of writing and this translation is as close to the novel as we can make it XD So yes, some parts may be a little awkward to read. And yes some teeny weeny details and words may not turn up in the translation because the Chi to Eng mind acrobatics didn’t work out. If you see asterisks, scroll all the way to the bottom for notes!

Full chapter below the cut

Chapter Two

The sound of a gun’s silencer echoes from inside a black sedan, and both Wang Kun Cheng and his driver are found dead inside with bullet wounds through their right temple, just hours after their meeting with Xing Tian Meng.

Time of death, 9pm.

Meng Shao Fei lies on his bed, thinking back to the meeting with Interpol during the day, where Team 3 and Interpol exchanged information on this case. Although Wang Kun Cheng’s men insist that the person who murdered their leader was Tang Yi, but as seen from Team 3 and Interpol’s investigation, there were no signs of struggle and fights inside the club where both parties met, and moreover, Tang Yi has a perfect alibi.

As Wang Kun Cheng was shot at close range after he left the club, it is impossible that Tang Yi, who was at another location attending an evening gala dinner — they have CCTV footage to prove that he entered the hotel at 8.30pm and left only at 1am in the morning — was the culprit for the murder. They aren’t ruling out the possibility of a third party committing the murder at Tang Yi’s orders, but the surveillance cameras in the area were tampered with and damaged before the murder happened, so before they can find further evidence and witnesses, Tang Yi is definitely not the culprit. However, he is curious about one thing… in the 48 hours after news of Wang Kun Cheng’s death was made known, Cambodia’s drug syndicate’s leader Chen Wen Hao immediately returned to Taiwan. Both Chen Wen Hao and Wang Kun Cheng used to be members of Xing Tian Meng, especially Chen Wen Hao. Xing Tian Meng is able to grow to its scale today because it was he and Tang Guo Dong who built the organisation up from scratch.

Even after Chen Wen Hao was sentenced to prison for 24 years due to the skirmish with Si He Hui, but during this time, the person who visited him most frequently was Tang Guo Dong. From this, it is obvious that they were very close to each other and had a deep relationship. If this was so, what reason would Tang Yi, who took over Xing Tian Meng in Tang Guo Dong’s place, have to go create trouble with Chen Wen Hao’s men, and even going so far as to kill the man?

Unable to sleep no matter what he does, Shao Fei finds himself leaving the bed and walking over to his bulletin board, filled entirely with profiles of people and information related to Xing Tian Meng. Staring at the drawing he made, he mumbles, “Four years ago…”

Four years ago, Chen Wen Hao immediately fled for Southeast Asia the moment he was released from prison, and his whereabouts have been unknown ever since until now with his return to Taiwan. Four years ago, Tang Guo Dong and Li Zhen both died on that hill, and no one knew why they met in secret, and there were so many rumors about Li Zhen illegally colluding with the mob. Four years ago, Tang Yi was shot at the scene and managed to live after many attempts at trying to resuscitate him. He became the only survivor of the incident, the only witness who possibly knows what happened on that day.

Meng Shao Fei looks at Tang Yi’s portrait sketch again, and asks it, as if he’s speaking directly to Tang Yi himself, “Aren’t you going clean with the mob? Aren’t you staying away from drugs? And didn’t you say you would never kill a person? Why are you giving up on your principles NOW? Why did you go touch Chen Wen Hao’s people?”

Shao Fei cannot think of any possible answer, and scratches at his head in frustration, pacing back and forth in his apartment.

The Tang Household

Standing at the balcony and looking into the night view in the distance, in Tang Yi’s hand lies a black, metallic lighter. He recalls what Boss Tang said to him eight years ago…

“Drizzle olive oil in the wok and circle it for two rounds? Can we do three rounds?”

At that time, Tang Yi had just turned 20 years old, and the thing he liked to do most was to bother Boss Tang in his space when he could, asking him to pass his cooking skills on to him.

“That’s fine too. The point is you have to make sure the entire wok gets the same amount of heat, that’s why we circle it,” Tang Guo Dong stands next to the stove, an apron tied around his own waist and guides Tang Yi to pay more attention to cooking as he smokes.

People always say that the lines on one’s foreheads represent the passing of time and age, as it catches up with you, and with every horizontal line therein lies a story that belongs to it, but in Tang Yi’s eyes, every mark on Boss Tang’s face is the culmination of both wisdom and duty. No matter how severe the problem is, once it lands in Boss Tang’s hands, the problem can be solved easily, just like no matter how complicated the cooking and recipes are, he is always able to handle it, all the while smoking at the same time.

In comparison Tang Yi is impatient in both his personality and cooking and thus, he deeply respects this man who is both like a father and teacher to him. He wonders if there ever will be a day, where he’s able to catch up to Boss Tang and this 30 year age gap, and from Boss Tang’s mouth hear-

I feel at ease leaving everything to you.

“Don’t smoke when you’re cooking,” Tang Yi says, immediately dropping the garlic and bell peppers he’s holding and snatches the cigarette pressed between Boss Tang’s lips.

The man whose cigarette was snatched away smiles a little helplessly, then crosses his arms and continues guiding Tang Yi, “After you put in the noodles, you need to stir it in the wok, otherwise it’ll stick to the base.”

Tang Yi looks at the food cooking in his wok and says, delighted, “It looks just like yours!”

“We’ll have to try the dish to know.”

Tang Yi tastes a spoonful of the food from the wok, frowns, then picks up the spicy sauce next to him and adds another half a spoon in, “Not spicy enough.”

Tang Guo Dong, who tried the dish at the same time, is frowning on the other hand, because of the spiciness he is tasting in his mouth. “Xiao Tang, you’re eating this so spicy?”

“Strange, why is it that no matter how I cook I just cook it the same way you do?”

“To govern a country is like cooking, have you ever heard of this?”

“No.

Tang Guo Dong smiles, then opens his mouth to explain, “All these years from handling and dealing with the gang’s every single matter no matter how big or small, I felt that, when we do things, we cannot be overly impulsive and rush into things, nor can we be complacent and passive. we have to think through each detail carefully in order to do things well. Take cooking for example, every brother is like an ingredient, you need to understand each ingredient’s taste to be able to put it in a dish, and then the taste of the finished dish will be the best.”

Tang Yi is intrigued by this analogy, and also curious about how Boss Tang sees him, he asks, “So which ingredient am I?”

“Lotus root.”

“Lotus root? Why a lotus root?”

“Did you forget the first time we met, how much dirt you had all over your body? Isn’t it just like the lotus root that’s just been harvested and pulled out from the soil?”

“Oh, so you detested me this much actually,” Tang Yi says, sulking as he brings the wok over to the person who’s plating dishes at his side.

The person most important to him just called him a dirty little runt, how could anyone be happy?

Tang Guo Dong laughs and takes out his cigarette box again. “Hey, Xiao Tang, you were born into unfortunate circumstances and grew up in a terrible environment, you managed to keep your spirit and character pure. I hope you never forget this, and that you don’t ever change.”

At this, Tang Yi returns Tang Guo Dong’s smile and replies, “I got it, Lao Tang. I will keep being like this.”

As long as Tang Guo Dong likes him like this, then Tang Yi will become the person that he likes, because to him, there’s no one else in the world who’s more important to him, more important than Tang Guo Dong.

“Actually, there’s another reason in persevering in cooking,” Tang Guo Dong adds somberly, taking off his apron and walking over to Tang Yi’s side, opening a wine bottle and pouring a glass for himself.

“What is it?”

“People like us who face death every day and are used to it, we don’t even know when we’ll die and go to meet our makers. If we can’t even deal with the basic necessity and function of eating in our lives, then what more fun in our lives can we have? So we have to be serious towards every meal, and that means also that we have to live our lives seriously.

“I understand. So when I’m done learning cooking from you, I’ll let you taste my cooking.”

“Done learning? You little shit, you only just learnt this little bit and you want to represent the Tang family and con people outside already?”

“I have confidence that I don’t need too much time to learn your ways.”

Tang Guo Dong puts up his thumb and praises, “Okay, you’ve got ambition. But if you want to take the wok and metals away from me, it’s not that easy!”

“I won’t disappoint you… although-“ Tang Yi looks at the failed finished product in the wok today, and laughs, “It looks like we still have to eat this not so delicious dish, let’s hope when we are done we won’t need a trip to emergency.”

Watching Tang Yi’s back as he picks up the plate and walk towards the dining room, Tang Guo Dong, who’s lived more than half a century, stops smiling, and in his heart, he makes a decision.

At a Japanese restaurant

The various members of Team 3 are gathered at a restaurant undercover as guests and wait staff for the ongoing investigation on Wang Kun Cheng’s death. They are currently surveilling a particular guest, who’s discussing business with another person.

Suddenly, a tall figure walks into the store, and once Shao Fei, who’s seated right at the entrance of the restaurant sees him, he stands up and brings the other person to a corner in the restaurant.

“Why are you here?”

Walking into the restaurant and stunned at seeing Shao Fei, Tang Yi abandons his original intentions for coming here and turns to leave.

“Since the police are investigating a case, I will not disturb.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Zhao Li An, who’s dressed as a waiter, is just about to run over to stop Shao Fei, but Zhou Guan Zhi stops him by holding onto his arm. He eyes Zhao Zi, indicating that they should continue as planned, or they will risk ruining the mission this time.

Shao Fei grabs onto Tang Yi’s elbow, staring right into his eyes and asks, “Since you’re already here, you might as well assist us on our investigation. Do you know a person called ‘Chen Wen Hao’?”

Tang Yi’s expression suddenly becomes stiff, and this does not go unnoticed by the cop who’s been hounding him for the past four years.

“Looks like we have the same goal, we’re here for the same person,” Shao Fei continues, his eyebrows raised.

“So you killed Wang Kun Cheng just to lure Chen Wen Hao back here. And for you, Xing Tian Meng’s leader who’s also trying to wash everything clean at the moment, to care so much about a Cambodian drug syndicate leader, there can only be two reasons. Firstly, you’ve made him come back because this was Tang Guo Dong’s mission for you.Or two, Chen Wen Hao has something to do with the double homicide from four years ago.”

Shao Fei’s guesses are so close to the truth, that in that moment, Tang Yi’s repressed rage emerges again — these four years, he has wanted to kill this person who’s only ever ruined all his plans countless of times, but countless of times, Tang Yi has also had to end his murderous thoughts towards this police officer.

Such action is out of character for Tang Yi — if Hong Ye and Ah De are unable to comprehend why he’s doing this, Tang Yi himself has no idea either.

“Have I hit the nail on the head, is that why you want to run?”

“I have nothing to say to Officer Meng,” Tang Yi snaps, gritting his teeth and turning away to leave the store.

He follows the stairs outside the restaurant to where he parked his car. His tone filled with anger, Shao Fei who’s only ever seen Tang Yi’s two sarcastic and cold expressions, is momentarily stunned. He breaks out of his trance, then rushes out of the restaurant to chase Tang Yi, his hand pressing against Tang Yi’s chest and stopping him from moving forward, his eyes incredibly sharp.

“I’m getting closer to the truth, correct?”

If he isn’t getting closer to the truth, why would Xing Tian Meng’s poker-faced leader make the effort of snapping at him?

“Officer Meng has his own mission that he’s not carrying out, and instead he’s here to obstruct my freedom again?”

“If my hypothesis is correct, then following you is the only way I can find out the truth.”

Tang Yi pushes Shao Fei’s hand away and walks over to the driver’s side to open the door, but Shao Fei grabs onto his wrist instead, slamming shut the door that’s just been opened.

“I’m asking you to leave, did you not hear me? These four years my tolerance towards you has reached a tipping point. Meng. Shao. Fei! Don’t test my patience!”

He pushes Shao Fei away, hard, and settles in the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him securely. Unexpectedly, Shao Fei circles the car to the passenger side and unceremoniously sits inside the car, holding onto the brake.

“Tang Yi, if I don’t get my answers today I’m not letting you leave!”

Tang Yi points outside and shouts, “I’m warning you for the last time, get out of my car.”

“Hmph!”

Shao Fei turns to grab for the seatbelt, obviously having no intention to leave.

“You!”

Angrily, Tang Yi swings his right fist out to restrain both of Shao Fei’s hands, reaching to his back and grabbing the young police officer’s gun, that Tang Yi knows he has usually stuffed into the back of his waist, then pressing the muzzle of the gun to Shao Fei’s temple.

Just as Tang Yi is about to throw Shao Fei out of the car, the driver’s seat door is flung open from the outside, and reflex has Tang Yi moving the hand holding onto the gun towards the person outside, but his opponent quickly strikes at his hand, the gun falling to the ground.

Losing his most useful weapon hardly means that he has no other way to defend himself. He rushes out of the car with tight fists and immediately starts to land repeated blows on his attacker, who’s clad in a black suit. Shao Fei on the other hand is also facing a similar attack by a person wearing a black baseball cap and fighting him intensely.

Eventually, both Tang Yi and Shao Fei are forced into a corner by their attackers, pressed back to back. Unconsciously, they leave their vulnerable backs to one another, exchange a glance and then simultaneously attack. Punches and kicks going against the two men with retractable batons and knives, they are soon overpowered by the weapons.

“Boss wants you to meet him,” says the man attacking Tang Yi, pushing him to the floor and pressing a knife at his jugular.

===

As the black van follows along the left and right curves of the mountainous road, the occupants of the vehicle find themselves swaying from left to right as well.

“I can’t believe I’m handcuffed by my own handcuffs.”

Tang Yi side-eyes the man next to him, and scoffs, “It’s not like this is the first time.”

“Hey do you have to speak like this? If you didn’t take away my gun, would we be in this situation?” Shao Fei retorts, holding up his right hand that is currently attached to Tang Yi’s.

“Shut up!” warns the man seated in the third row of the car, one hand holding up a knife.

Tang Yi turns around to look at the man in black seated right behind them, and says, “Kidnapping a police officer is going to get troublesome for you guys.”

The man ignores Tang Yi; instead, it is the man seated in front driving the van that shoots both hostages a look through the rearview mirror, and smiles icily, “You should worry about yourself first!”

Their hands handcuffed together, Tang Yi taps Shao Fei’s pinky finger with his own, and once their gazes meet, Tang Yi gestures at Shao Fei. Shao Fei nods in understanding, then in an irritated tone, laments, “Why is it that when you guys do bad things you always run towards the mountains? It’s not that I want to comment, but this method lacks so much creativity that it really isn’t OK-“

Shao Fei yells immediately, after ensuring that Tang Yi’s right hand is creeping towards the handbrake of the van, “NOW!”

Bam!

Tang Yi kicks at the driver’s right arm, sending the man forward against the steering wheel, and at the same time Shao Fei leans forward to pull the handbrake up. The van strikes against the walls of the mountain and the impact stops the van immediately. Before the driver can react, Shao Fei has already moved into the passenger seat and with a kick, knocks the driver out.

He sees Tang Yi getting punched in the face by the other guy in the back, and Tang Yi, with his hand movement restricted, can barely defend himself against the attack. Seeing that the other guy is rushing towards Tang Yi with a knife in his hands, Shao Fei moves back to his seat and stands between Tang Yi and his attacker, getting a slash across his arm for his trouble. Then, they use the handcuff chains between them to trap their attacker’s wrists, and Tang Yi strikes the knife in his hands to the ground.

In the chaos, Tang Yi sees Shao Fei’s wound on his right arm, bleeding profusely.

And right in that moment, Tang Yi loses all composure and logic that he is so proud of. He swings his fist repeatedly at his attacker, and doesn’t stop even when his face is all bloodied from the impact of his punches.

“We have to go!”

Shao Fei is afraid that Tang Yi will just kill the man, so he opens the door and pulls Tang Yi, who has lost all control, out of the car. They give up on moving along the visible and easily trackable roads and instead choose to head inside the dense forest to escape.

In between the trees, four other men — their attackers’ accomplices who were travelling behind them in another van — split up to look through every nook and cranny of the forest.

“Damn it, they can really hide huh?”

“Did you find them on your side?”

“No.”

“You, and you, go that side and look.”

“Yes.”

They continue their search for an hour to no avail, and they do not realise that the Xing Tian Meng leader they’re trying to find is actually hiding behind a big rock, covered in green moss.

Tang Yi is using his entire body to protect and shield Shao Fei, until the noise grows faint and more distant from their hiding spot, only then does Tang Yi heave a sigh of relief. He turns around and crouches low to the ground, using the rock as a backrest.

Maybe it’s because fleeing for their lives is an intense sport, or maybe it’s because the both of them were suddenly so close to each other earlier, so close that Shao Fei can even catch a hint of Tang Yi’s cologne, Shao Fei feels his face heating up strangely. All he can do is raise their hands up, still cuffed to each other, to distract himself.

“If only we didn’t have this.”

“Who brought it here?”

Having just experienced a life or death situation, Tang Yi’s tone as he speaks to Shao Fei has changed somewhat from before. From being ice cold and distant, Tang Yi is now talking as if he would make fun of a friend.

Unable to retort, Shao Fei rolls his eyes instead, but in the next second see Tang Yi using his right hand to pinch at this left thumb, and just as he’s about to ask, he hears the sound of a bone being dislocated.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

With his left thumb dislocated successfully, Tang Yi’s hand leaves the restraints of the handcuffs, and then easily snaps his dislocated thumb back into its original place. Shao Fei can feel how painful that action just was just by looking, but Tang Yi just did it with barely a sound and a frown.

“This can also work?”

Shao Fei, with wide eyes, watches as Tang Yi just walks off with a shake of his hands, then follows the man to hopefully somewhere more suitable to hide at, a hand covering his own wound.

===

Ding dong ding dong!

“Ah Fei!!! Ah Fei are you inside?” Zhao Zi stands outside Shao Fei’s apartment door, one hand pressing at the doorbell and the other dialling Shao Fei’s number, but all he gets is Shao Fei’s voice message.

“This is Meng Shao Fei, if there’s anything urgent, please leave a message.”

“Ah Fei if you don’t pick up the phone, Boss is really going to throw me out!”

Zhao Zi’s pitiful complaint echoes down the empty stairway. After half an hour of no reply, all he can do is give up. He walks down the stairs, worried.

“I’m at the alley near Ah Fei’s house. He’s not at home and I can’t get through to him on his phone. Oh, okay. We’ll keep in touch. I’ll contact you guys after I find him. Okay, bye.”

Hanging up on the call with his team’s colleagues, Zhao Zi recalls how Boss always scolds him for not using his brains, and at the spur of the moment, he leaves his phone in his jacket’s pocket and pulls up the zip, then does a handstand and begins walking on the ground on his hands.

He giggles. He’s actually still pretty smart, as long as he make all the blood rush into the top of his head, and when that happens, his brain will begin to work at a higher capacity. Maybe he’ll be able to find a way to find Shao Fei like this even! Just as Zhao Zi smiles gleefully to himself, a pair of cool blue leather shoes step into his line of vision, and as his eyes follow along those long legs all the way up to see who this person is, he sees the man who he brought to the station previously. Tang Yi’s bodyguard, the man called Jack.

“Are you looking for me?”

Zhao Zi puts both his legs down and dusts his hands off, but Jack grabs him by the back of his shirt collar around his neck, and picks him up. “Let’s go!”

“Huh? What are you doing? Where are you bringing me to?”

Like a rabbit whose neck was just bitten by a wolf in the wild, Zhao Zi follows the man called Jack helpless, leaving the alley at Shao Fei’s house.

“What are you catching me for?” asks Zhao Zi later.

He doesn’t know when he was struck unconscious. All he knows is that when he woke up earlier, he found himself incarcerated in a dark room. In the room sits only a single lamp and the big bad wolf who caught him, and brought him here.

“Where did Meng Shao Fei bring my boss?”

Zhao Zi opens his mouth wide, surprised, and asks, “Ah Fei is really with Tang Yi then?”

“Are you pretending to be stupid?”

Jack, with a whole head of red hair, glares at the rookie police officer, his eyes tinged with a glint of danger and sharpness. Jack doesn’t know what tricks Zhao Zi is playing here, but he takes out his phone, and plays the surveillance footage from the camera at the Japanese restaurant’s entrance for Zhao Zi to see.

“They’re really together! I’m looking for Ah Fei urgently, do you know where they went?” He sighs. “Forget it. You definitely don’t know either, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought me here… Damn it, if we don’t find Ah Fei soon, it’ll be my turn to write 3000 words in my apology letter,” Zhao mumbles, standing up from the chair.

“Call him!” Jack commands, taking out his phone and presenting it to his ‘hostage’.

“I tried, but his phone is switched off.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I said, if I can’t get through to him, I really can’t get through to him.”

Jack holds onto his own phone, and coldly says, “Then give me his number, I’ll call.”

“I’m not going to give it to you! I’m a police officer and at the very least I need to ensure that my colleague is protected and safe, so I won’t give you Ah Fei’s number. I absolutely will not!”

Intrigued suddenly by this fearless boy, Jack circles around Zhao Zi, then stares at him head on, unnervingly.

“Even if you glare at me I won’t.”

Jack takes a step forward, approaching the boy who’s hugging his knees and curling into a ball on the couch.

“Even if you beat me to death I won’t.”

Bam!

Wrapped in fingerless leather gloves, that fist suddenly slams against the back of the couch, and the sound of something being hit echoes in the room.

“No matter what you do, I won’t!”

Zhao Zi is so afraid that he’s already covering his own ears, his entire body shaking in fear, and yet he still refuses Jack in a clear, loud voice.

Jack’s lips curve in a smile. He turns around and walks out of the dark room, and locks the door from the outside.

“Hey! Open the door! Open the door!! Don’t leave me here alone! Hey!” shouts the rookie cop at the top of his lungs as he strikes at the door, the rookie cop who’s not afraid of threats but is apparently, afraid of the dark.

On the mountains, in an abandoned structure

In order to hide from either Wang Kun Cheng or Chen Wen Hao’s men, both Tang Yi and Shao Fei chose to take temporary refuge at this abandoned house first. They started a fire earlier with the wood that Tang Yi found to keep warm, and it is the only source of light in the dark place.

“Can you really not help me open this?” Shao Fei asks, shaking the handcuff still attached to his right wrist.

Tang Yi sends Shao Fei a look, then stresses, “It will hurt!”

“Please, I, Meng Shao Fei, have survived even bullet wounds, will I be scared of this pain?”

Carelessly, Shao Fei reaches his hand over, but the moment Tang Yi grabs onto his thumb and starts to twist it, Shao Fei begins to yell out in pain, “It hurts! It seriously hurts!!”

“I thought you aren’t afraid of pain?”

“Stop twisting it!! Okay okay, I’ll just keep on wearing it then!” Shao Fei implores, his face entirely pale as he hits at Tang Yi’s arm to let him go.

Tang Yi smiles knowingly, as if expecting this outcome all along, and returns to his position by the fire. At this, Shao Fei steals glances at Tang Yi with astonishment, and mumbles, “Fuck. How can this not hurt? Does that guy have any pain nerves in the first place?”

Leaning against the wall, Tang Yi watches as Shao Fei picks up the unused wood and head towards the inside of the house, and he asks, “What are you doing?”

“The weather is so cold, I’m going to start a fire inside and at night we’ll sleep in there.”

“I’m going to take the first watch,” refuses Tang Yi.

It’s as if his rejection just erected a tall and cold wall between them both, but Shao Fei is already used to the way Tang Yi is, so he merely shrugs. He picks up the lighter sitting next to the wood, and says, “Up to you. If you’re not afraid of the cold you can sleep here by yourself, I’m going inside, and lend me this-“

“Don’t touch that!”

Suddenly, Tang Yi who was just a few seconds ago sitting next to the fire, snatches the lighter back from Shao Fei’s hands.

“Why are you so fierce? If you don’t give me the lighter how am I going to start a fire?”

Tang Yi does not reply, only picking up glowing branch from the fire and passing it to Shao Fei. He listens as Shao Fei’s mumbles return to where he was earlier, and as he looks at the lighter sitting in his palm, Tang Yi recalls…

Four years ago

“Here.”

After lighting a cigarette, Tang Guo Dong passes the lighter in his hand to the young man standing next to him.

“Why?”

“I thought you liked it?”

“No work, no reward,” Tang Yi places the lighter back in Tang Guo Dong’s hand, and seriously looks at the man. “What do you want me to help you with?”

Tang Guo Dong is stunned for a moment, and then he laughs, “”Xiao Tang, it’s really so hard to lie to you! I think you, too, know the answer to this question. Help to dismantle Xing Tian Meng, and start to move everything into legal businesses.”

“Aren’t you already doing that?”

“I need someone to continue doing it for me.”

Tang Yi frowns, and once again snatches the cigarette away from Tang Guo Dong’s mouth. “Don’t say that as if you’re going to die soon.”

“When you’re in this line of business, you must always be prepared for death.”

Tang Guo Dong exhales, then opens his left hand where the lighter rests in his palm. He asks, “So what is it? Do you dare take it?”

“Hmph. You failed at your request, so you’ve switched to challenging me instead?”

Tang Guo Dong laughs, taking the cigarette back from Tang Yi, and replies, “You’ll accept it, because you hate drugs more than anyone else. But to make sure you take care of everyone, you need to have money, that’s why no gang in the world will stay away from drugs. Since we’ve decided to call a halt to it, we must be prepared.”

“The person you’re meeting tomorrow… is there a problem?”

“No.. it’s just,” Tang Guo Dong shakes his head, then reaches out with his left arm and hooks it around Tang Yi, “Just treat it as a back up plan. Please. If one day I’m not here anymore, you have to continue with the work of washing Xing Tian Meng clean.”

Hesitantly, Tang Yi looks at Tang Guo Dong who’s speaking with so much emotion. Tang Guo Dong, who is both his father and teacher.

“Xiao Tang! Humans are really too weak, we’re always looking for excuses so we can escape, finding excuses so we can make mistakes, and even blaming our failures on fate, but we forget that for every decision and action we make, we have to pay its price. After all, the money we made from drugs is dirty money, and even if we survived long enough to earn the money, we wouldn’t get to spend it. I don’t want our brothers to live a life standing at the edge of death. I’m not afraid to be laughed at, but it took me a few decades to realise that the best life is one where we live normally.”

“What’s good about a normal life? We’ll only get bullied.”

Just like that year’s 12-year old Tang Yi and 10-year old Hong Ye, two children stranded on the streets, homeless — that was normal enough a life, was it not? But ‘normal’ didn’t feed them, and it would only ensure that they get bullied by children older than they, and if they didn’t meet Tang Guo Dong then, they probably wouldn’t have made it to adulthood. They definitely would not be like this now, having experienced the happiness of being doted on by someone.

Tang Guo Dong turns around, leaning against the railings behind him and thinks about the past. “Maybe the you right now won’t be able to understand, but some people, because of me, were robbed of the ‘normal life’ he should have had. I owe him too much, and in this life, I am unable to make amends.”

“Who? A woman?” Tang Yi asks curiously, looking at the man who, with every sentence, is becoming even more serious.

However, Tang Guo Dong has no intentions of answering that question, and instead just smiles. “One day there’ll be a certain someone who will make you understand what it means to lead a normal life, and what a beautiful feeling it is, to be able to lead this life. So, do you accept?”

The lighter is once against thrust under his nose, and this time, as Tang Yi looks at the wisps of white smoke in the air, he promises, “I promise you. If you’re not around anymore, I will still make sure Xing Tian Meng is washed clean, even if I die-“

“Hey hey hey! You’ve only got one life, don’t waste it.”

Tang Guo Dong tries to stop Tang Yi from saying such inauspicious words, but the 24-year old merely looks into the sky and repeats what the man just told him, “When you’re in this line of business, you must always be prepared for death.”

“You!”

Lines pulling at the edges of his mouth as he smiles, Tang Guo Dong looks at Tang Yi, doting.

“Lao Tang.”

“Hmm?”

Tang Guo Dong throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground and steps on it, then proceeds to light up a second stick.

“I want to ask you a question.”

“Nnn!”

“Why did you pick me? Xing Tian Meng has so many other uncles, and brothers, no? Even if you wanted to find someone younger, there’s still-“

“It can only be you.”

“Why?”

“Because only if I hand it over to you will I be at ease.”

Tears quickly fill his eyes and his vision blurs. Tang Yi looks away, because finally, he’s hearing the words he wanted to hear most.

I’ll be at ease, handing everything over to you.

On the mountains, in an abandoned structure

Tang Yi returns back to the present from his thoughts, only to see that Shao Fei is already lying on the wooden boards, prepared to sleep.

“I really envy you, you can sleep anywhere.”

Lying on the boards, Shao Fei covers his own body with his olive green jacket, as he removed the jacket earlier to treat his own wound, and says, “As human beings we need to be adaptable and take whatever comes, a young, rich master like you who can’t sleep without a bed will never understand.”

“Do you know how to train, to escape?”

Shao Fei looks at Tang Yi at his sudden, seemingly irrelevant question, not understanding why he’s bringing this up at all.

“You have to train when you’re young. First, you twist the thumb inwards. Wait for the bone to grow again and then twist it broken again. Grow, then break. You practice it repeatedly until you’re able to do it. I ask you, which rich master from any family grows up like that?”

Shao Fei looks at this man, who now seems so different from the man he imagined in his head, and asks, “Who forced you to?”

“No one forced me to, I wanted to do it myself. Being part of any gang… we are closer to death, and when you want to survive, you’ll force yourself to do a lot of things.”

“So it’s not that you can’t sleep… but you don’t dare to sleep?”

So when Tang Yi said that he would keep watch earlier, it wasn’t because he was distancing himself, or putting a wall back up in between the both of them, but because the man before his eyes doesn’t feel that he has a person he can truly rely on and trust.

At this sudden display of sensitivity from the usually impulsive and fiery character that is Shao Fei, Tang Yi is speechless. He then laughs wistfully, walking to where there should have been windows installed in this entire building. Leaning against the rusty surface and looking at the clear sky and moon, he says, “I’m only pretending to go legal with Xing Tian Meng, actually I am-“

Shao Fei gets up from where he’s seated and interrupts Tang Yi’s sarcastic monologue. Bowing, he apologises, “It’s my fault! I was wrong. I was too full of myself, to be so sure that it was you… Tang Yi, I’m sorry!”

Tang Yi looks at the man before him, and somewhere deep inside his heart, he is moved by Shao Fei’s words.

“Hey, I’ve already said so much, you should at least give me a response!”

“This is my first time seeing a monkey who knows how to reflect on himself.”

“Hey! Who are you calling a monkey? Let me tell you, even if you’re sincere in trying to wash Xing Tian Meng clean, I will be keeping my eyes on you. The moment you do anything illegal, I’ll still arrest you!”

“Keep your eyes on me?”

“Yes! Keep my eyes on you. Both eyes!” Shao Fei points his fingers at Tang Yi.

In that moment, Tang Yi’s mouth curves into a smile that Shao Fei has never seen before, and says, “Okay. Then I’ll keep on letting you keep your eyes on me.”

“Then I- I’m going to sleep. Good- good night…”

Suddenly, Shao Fei can feel his cheeks heating up again. He flees back to the corner he was lying at earlier, pulls his jacket over himself and pretends to sleep.

#history 3: 圈套 #history3圈套 #history 3: trapped #history3: trap #history3: trapped #history3 novel #translations #history3 merchandise

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pixelgrotto · 6 years ago

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The horrific Resident Evil playthrough, part ten

Resident Evil 6 is the big one that I was anticipating when I started this series playthrough in March. It’s the one that seems to have split the fanbase like no other, the one that some folks love and others abhor, and the one that took Resident Evil so far into the realm of explosions on top of zombies on top of exploding zombies that the franchise had no choice but to dial the entire thing back in Resident Evil 7 in order to give everyone’s minds a break before those exploded too. There is, in fact, a particular sort of enemy in this game that represents it well - called the Whopper, it’s a giant Fat Albert-looking thing that charges at you in a truly grotesque example of fun character design. It’s a bioweapon to be reckoned with, and when you see one coming your way, all you can say is “OH SHIT” as you try to blast its head apart before it barrages you into a wall.

RE6 is a whopper of a game. It’s chock full of so many different gameplay styles, so many plot threads, so many bits and pieces barely holding together at the seams in a mad effort to appease all sectors of the fan base - the people who preferred Resident Evil when it was eerie and quiet, the fans who fell in love with the series when Resident Evil 4 introduced an emphasis on action and the shippers who just love the characters and want to see them press the trigger of a Magnum at the same time and let loose with a bullet that will send the remains of a hulking Serbian mutation go stumbling backwards into the flames of a burning wind tunnel.

The only way to properly assess RE6 in the midst of all this madness is to look at its four campaigns one-by-one, which took me 33 hours in total to complete, a staggering number for this series.

Leon’s campaign - Everyone’s favorite Resident Evil protagonist who is still rocking Leonardo DiCaprio 90s hair (even though he’s aging in real-time and is apparently in his late 30s now) is BACK in this campaign, which seems to be the one that the game wants you to play first. It’s a rollicking adventure which I personally thought was the best of the bunch, though I wouldn’t blame you if you found Chris’ campaign better. I think I was won over by the fan service, since Leon’s opening chapter immediately channels Resident Evil 2 by forcing you to escape Tall Oaks, an American metropolitan area that’s essentially Raccoon City 2.0. Zombies will be lurching at you from the darkness like the old games, you’ve gotta run through subway cars just like in RE2 and RE3, and the whole vibe actually approaches scary at a few moments, which is something that the rest of this game has absolutely no time for. Partnered with Leon is Helena, a new character who’s also a US government agent but frankly kind of boring, and the pair quickly find themselves wrapped up in a conspiracy engineered by a politician named Derek Simmons. To figure out the extent of his conspiracy, you’ve gotta play Ada’s campaign (all the characters’ stories intersect at various points, which is one of this game’s best ideas), but let’s just say that Leon’s party ends in a wild rush to a made-up Chinese city named Lanshiang - which, from the POV of someone who lived in Hong Kong for six years, is clearly HK under another name. Half of Lanshiang gets blown up, Simmons transforms into what looks like a T-Rex and then a giant insect kaiju, and the general tone is deliciously batshit, though if you don’t like batshit then your mileage will vary. Leon gets music that I like to call "Funky Zombie Porno Breakbeats” for his ending theme, and I feel like this phrase can summarize the tone of the entire Resident Evil franchise perfectly.

Chris’ campaign - If Leon’s adventure was the cheesy-but-occasionally-spooky “LET’S TAKE THESE ZOMBIES TO SUPLEX CITY, CHUMS” vibe of Resident Evil 4 on acid, then Chris’ campaign is the “MILITARY ESPIONAGE ACTION AGAINST BIOWEAPONS, BRUH” vibe of Resident Evil 5 on acid. It begins with Chris suffering from a bout of PTSD after losing a contingent of his men in a made-up country that’s supposed to be Serbia, then moves to Lanshiang after ace sniper Piers recruits Chris for one last mission. Instead of zombies, you fight mostly J’avo, a breed of terrorists using viruses to give themselves horrific limbs, and everything resembles a Call of Duty or SOCOM game, with Chris hearing instructions from his squad leader through his headpiece, ducking behind cover to shoot J’avos apart and generally being a weathered, grumpy soldier. The main theme of Chris’ campaign is actually removed from the overarching tale involving Simmons, and the focus is instead on the quieter, MANLY subplot about how all these years of fighting monstrosities has worn Mr. Redfield down. He needs to learn how to be a soldier once more, and Piers - a guy who I was initially suspicious of because he’s a pretty boy with nicely groomed hair, and those sorts are usually lame in Japanese video games - comes through as one of the most likable additions to Resident Evil lore in a long time to offer Chris much-needed support. The entire campaign might actually be better if played as Piers instead of Chris, especially due to a touching ending scene which is probably the one moment where the game’s plot transcends crazy horror action and enters the realm of something actually thought-provoking. Chris’ campaign, in general, is also where RE6 seems the most focused and confident, though the cover shooting mechanics are clunky when compared to titles that actually specialize in cover shooting, like Gears of War. Chris also doesn’t have Funky Zombie Porno Breakbeats for his ending music, so Leon gets a tiny point ahead of him in my book, but not by much.

Jake’s campaign - I’ve read a few reviews that call this campaign the “experimental” one, and...yeaaaaah, it is. Jake, who’s the son of former Resident Evil baddie Albert Wesker, was presumably designed to serve as a bold new protagonist for future games, but he’s kind of an emo douchebag, so I played through the entirety of his missions as his partner Sherry Birkin. Sherry’s the little girl from Resident Evil 2 all grown up, which I think is genius, because she serves as a tangible example of this franchise’s progression over the years. You could probably show her picture to anyone unfamiliar with Resident Evil and be like, “That’s a formerly 10-year-old side character from the second game grown up into a secret agent” and get a response of "Woah, cool,” so yeah, I like Sherry a lot. In fact, her presence made this whole campaign tolerable, because Jake is an edgelord and his missions run the confused gamut from shoot ‘em up sections to weird exploration bits that seem to want to channel the spirit of the old games but don’t succeed. Then there are the stealth and chase sequences against Ustanak, the “hulking Serbian mutation” that I mentioned a few paragraphs ago. This fellow was clearly created to remind Resident Evil veterans of Mr. X and Nemesis from RE2 and RE3, but while those guys would break down walls and pop outta nowhere to put a lump in your throat, Ustanak’s every impending arrival is advertised from a mile away, to the point where he’s not really frightening - just redundant. And the stealth bits against him seem like B-tier ripoffs of sequences in Metal Gear Solid, because RE6′s engine is really not engineered for sneakiness. At one point, Sherry and Jake have to hide in garbage dumpsters as Ustanak sniffs around, and that serves as an accurate representation of what large portions of their campaign are. These two kiddies do get a cheesy love ballad for their ending song, though, because the game really wants you to ship ‘em. Sherry, ya deserve better.

Ada’s campaign - As messy as Jake’s campaign is, however, it’s nothing compared to Ada’s, which was originally an unlockable extra in the original release of RE6 and designed to tie up loose story threads. It does do that, though the resulting plot - where Simmons got so obsessed with Ada Wong that he whipped up an entirely new virus to re-create her and then lost track of it - is pretty meh, though it could perhaps be an intriguing exploration of the depths of male entitlement in the hands of a better writer. Aside from these pieces of so-so story, Ada’s adventure offers aggravation in the form of bad level design and a truly horrid slew of Quicktime Events and wretched stealth sections, which, once again, this game just doesn’t do well. It opens with her investigating a sub filled with guards that she’s encouraged to sneak past, except you can’t really sneak in RE6 and eventually they all notice and decide to gangbang you, and then the sub floods and there’s dizzying shaky cam everywhere that made me feel sick. You’re given a minimal amount of seconds to succeed on the Quicktime Events to escape the rising floodwaters, and I felt like I was playing a game of Dragon’s Lair, where you need to press right or left immediately or risk seeing yourself die over and over again. That sums up the frustration of Ada’s campaign, which also made me realize one important thing - I really don’t find Ada Wong to be much of an interesting character. She’s little more than a walking femme fatale trope, and even people who insist on shipping her with Leon will probably have to admit that those two’s “relationship,” if you can even call it that, is little more than quick winks and five minute interactions that have amounted to nothing over the span of nearly twenty years. The pair of them get ONE good scene on a bridge in this game, but that’s it, and honestly, their cornball kiss near the end of RE2 is still a more genuine character interaction. Oh yeah, and on the topic of ending music, since I seem to be coming back to that a lot in this post, Ada gets generic filler tunes for her credit roll. How appropriate.

As you can see in the impressions above, in its own special way, Resident Evil 6 has something for everyone, ranging from a quality tale about battle-hardened men shooting biomutations to terrible levels that feel like they came out of a 2005 PS2 game that was quickly relegated to the bargain bin at Gamestop. Reviews were all over the place when this sucker came out, and still are today, with just as many people insisting that this game is the shit as there are people emphasizing that it is shit. My verdict? It’s BOTH, with some truly excellent parts and some truly abhorrent ones. It could have done with some trimming, for sure, and at the end of the day, Leon’s and Chris’ campaigns feel like the only real important ones here. A streamlined and likely better-received version of Resident Evil 6 would’ve only focused on those two guys - since one pivotal scene where the pair meet for a few minutes, briefly scuffle and POINT THEIR GUNS AT EACH OTHER YEAAA FAN SERVICE - seems to have been written first. That would’ve given Resident Evil 6 a better balance, with Leon’s missions possibly focusing on old school survival horror and pulp while Chris’ missions would lean hard on the military action stuff.

But we didn’t get that. Instead, what we got is a shambling whopper of a game - at times as unwieldy and ridiculous as the enemy bearing the same name, at other times just as satisfying as a real-life beef whopper. Resident Evil 6 is both good and bad, the video game equivalent of an excessive and expensive comic book crossover, and shit, I think I’ve just written the most about it than any of its predecessors.

That, at the very least, has to count for something.

All screenshots taken by me. For more, check out this Twitter thread showing my step-by-step progress through the game.

#pixel grotto #video games #now playing #resident evil #biohazard #resident evil 6 #leon kennedy #chris redfield #piers nivans #jake muller #sherry birkin #capcom

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feynites · 6 years ago

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First little taste of the Voltron AU! Ileth and Tonlen are @scurvgirl‘s.

The Mabari Mission to the outer reaches of the solar system has gone missing.

Ileth gets the call, first. Courtesy. Courtesy call, from the authorities. Before he can see it on the news.

Your parents are lost.

The news reports aren’t as delicate with the matter. Some unknown error, they say. The ship didn’t return to the check point, and communications with it were down too long. Well past the emergency mark. Speculation runs rampant on what could have gone wrong, but at this point, sources all agree - the Mabari Shuttle didn’t have enough reserves to last this long.

If they haven’t come back by now, the experts say, then whatever happened - they’re gone.

Ileth doesn’t know what to do.

But he knows he can’t just leave it at that.

He knows Tonlen won’t, either.

In the end it’s his brother who pours over every bit of information on the mission, the ship, the course and crew. The Mabari Mission was the highlight achievement of the international Galaxy Garrison, a new program bringing together the most talented and promising candidates from all across Thedas. To ‘reach for the stars’. Ileth’s parents had both been plucked for the program during its earliest stages, back when they were both in elementary school.

The kicker of it was, neither of them had really loved the job. Not the way that some people did. But the program wasn’t quite as squeaky-clean as some people liked to imagine. There was a sense of… urgency to it. A kind of undercurrent, and an enduring degree of manipulation. Ileth’s parents had scored well in their tests, especially in their training for taking action under stress. When his father had tried to drop the program in his teen years, it hadn’t lasted more than a few months before the Garrison had come knocking with the bill for his ‘educational expenses’.

As it happened, anyone could opt-out of the program. But if they did it after opting in, and without serving a set minimum term in the Garrison’s actual projects, then they were billed for the whole thing.

And it was expensive.

Enormously expensive.

The Mabari Mission wasn’t just exciting for the Garrison’s publicity. It had been Ileth’s parents’ last mission. Once it was done, they would have served their mandatory record in order to clear their student debt from the academy days. The media spun it more discreetly, of course, citing the mission’s inclusion of a promising new pilot - Kel Lavellan - and two experienced recruits from the founding days of the Garrison. But at home, the excitement was almost entirely for the prospect of it being done.

Tonlen was suspicious. He was angry, and he was sharp; and he had never liked coincidences. Ileth didn’t know if it was just terrible luck, or really some kind of conspiracy. Would the Garrison actually kill one of their most promising new recruits just to… what? To stop their parents from getting different jobs? That just didn’t seem like it was worth it. But he couldn’t deny that things weren’t adding up, either. The lack of answers felt like a gaping wound, cut in the shape of his parents’ absence.

Lost.

He couldn’t bring himself to think… he couldn’t handle the idea that it was, was more final that.

And neither could Tonlen. As the older brother, Ileth thought he should intervene more. Tonlen was sick. The life insurance from the mission paid out once the authorities agreed that their parents were legally gone, so at least they could still afford the expenses. But emotionally, his brother ought to be resting. Looking after himself. Taking everything slow and easy, not spending his nights pouring furiously over schematics, reading pages and pages off of screens, and listening to whatever transmissions he could reach on the high-tech interstellar receiver that Ileth had let him buy.

He has no idea what to expect when his brother wakes him in the dead of night. Solemn and still as he gently shakes his shoulder.

“I found it,” he says.

Ileth blinks, and looks blearily at the clock.

“Found what?” he asks. “Ileth, it’s after midnight. You need to sleep.”

“I will,” his brother replies, dismissively. “But later. The hacker I paid came through.”

“You paid a hacker?” Ileth asks, waking up a bit more. His brother was usually full of life and colour and drama. But ever since their parents’… going missing, he’d become more subdued. Terse. He’d cried, too, buckets - just like Ileth. But sometimes there’s a certain wildness that comes over him. The determined kind, that looks thoroughly and eerily out of place on a thirteen-year-old.

And then he went and did bizarre things like hiring hackers.

“To hack into some of the Garrison files,” Tonlen explains. “I’m not really good at that stuff, so I outsourced.”

“Outsourced?”

His brother pokes and prods him out of bed, and starts tugging him insistently down the hall. Past the closed door of the master bedroom, and into his own room.

Since Ileth just turned eighteen, social services had let them get by without requiring a guardian. But only just. With Tonlen’s medical conditions, though, there are a lot of stipulations on that. But it means that they can stay at home. It means… it means a lot of things, really. And Ileth doesn’t mind; culinary school can wait, in the grand scheme of things.

He’d promised Memae and Papa that he’d look after his little brother.

“It took a while, but he finally found something,” Tonlen tells him, directing him towards the computer.

Ileth sighs.

“You know there’s a good chance that he just made something up so you’d pay him?” he asks, a little less patient than he would be with more sleep under his belt.

“Maybe,” Tonlen concedes. “But I didn’t really tell him what I wanted, exactly. Just where to look. And he doesn’t know who I am, either. We did everything online and I made sure it was anonymous.”

With another sigh, Ileth looks towards the screen. Looks like an audio file, of some kind.

“So what is it?” he wonders.

“Communications,” Tonlen explains, more excitedly. “Based on the files they were in, they’re signals that the deep space probes have been picking up. For years, even. I’ve been digging into it all, I started back at the beginning, and it explains… it explains so much, Ileth!”

“Transmissions from probes?” he wonders.

Tonlen hits ‘play’ on the audio file.

It’s not terribly clear. But Ileth frowns as he hears strange voices, speaking rhythmically but not in any language he recognizes. There are some odd tones to it, too. Something… really off.

“The communications aren’t from the probes. They aren’t from us,” Tonlen insists. Moving, he goes to stand by his window, and points out towards the sky. “They’re from out there.”

Ileth blinks.

“Don’t you get it?” his brother asks. “The Garrison was founded decades ago, when the governments of Thedas agreed to fun the world’s more extensive interstellar program ever. Everyone agreed. Everyone. Countries have been letting the Garrison hit them up for money and students for longer than we’ve been alive, but why? The year it was founded, space flight wasn’t in high interest. Funding had actually been declining in most programs for the whole decade prior. There wasn’t anything to inspire it, it just… happened. And conspiracy theorists have been insisting ever since that there’s more going on than we know-”

“And they fake stuff like this, Tonlen,” Ileth feels compelled to point out. Gently.

His brother just lifts a finger, forestalling and shaking his head.

“I know,” he says. “I wasn’t born yesterday! I’ve seen tons of fakes, I’ve heard boatloads of crackpot theories. If it wasn’t for the data from the mission, I would consider it just more of that. But the thing is, Ileth, there’s no way that mission should have failed. I’ve been over all the data. All the schematics. Even the Garrison has released a statement saying that the failure must have been due to pilot error-”

“Wait, what? When?” Ileth asks, a little more sharply.

“About half an hour after you went to bed,” Tonlen tells him, gesturing to his phone. “It came on my newsfeed.”

He sighs.

“I told you not to leave your phone by your pillow,” he chides, even though he’s starting to feel a bit… strange about all of this.

A good big brother, he thinks, would try and get Tonlen to calm down and climb back into bed.

But Tonlen is looking at him so intently. Not unnervingly obsessed, not fixated, just determined.

“So why can’t it be pilot error?” he asks.

“I guess that’s likelier than mechanical failure,” Tonlen says. “Which is probably why they settled on it as an explanation. But let’s be realistic, here. The Mabari’s flight routes were pretty set. The only thing the pilot was really needed for was take off and landing on the target moon, to collect samples. Both landing and take-off were reported successfully. So how does a pilot create a moment of error when the shuttle should have been practically flying itself at that point? That’s like falling off the runway when you’re not even on it!”

“...People mess up, Tonlen,” Ileth ventures, hesitantly.

“Yeah. Or, the Garrison has been hiding the existence of aliens from the world at large ever since it was founded, and the reason why they lost contact with the Mabari Mission was because Memae and Papa met them.”

His brother gives him a look, and then sags into the chair at his desk. His shoulders fold inwards. Ileth reaches over, and when he doesn’t get shrugged away, he pulls his brother forward until Tonlen’s head is resting against his chest. Settling his arms around him.

“You think I’m crazy,” Tonlen mumbles.

Ileth stills, and then pulls back enough to look him in the eye.

“Never,” he says, firmly. “I think you’re looking for answers. I think it makes perfect sense. I just… I’m just not sure that the universe is going to make sense.”

He thinks about his parents. His divorced grandmothers. His father’s own family, dead in an accident when he was still in kindergarten. He thinks of Tonlen’s trouble with his lungs, the way his body has never been able to live up to his spirit.

Ileth knows the universe isn’t really fair, even though it’s nicer to pretend it can be.

…But he knows Tonlen is aware of that, too. Maybe even more than he is. His little brother gives him a look, and slowly, Ileth finds himself thinking of things more in terms of what the information is. Rather than what he should do for the sake of his brother’s body; but what he should do for the sake of his mind.

“Where did your hacker friend get these recordings?” Ileth asks.

Tonlen’s eyes brighten, just a little. Vindicated, as he turns towards the computer, and starts explaining more.

#long post #voltron au

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wackygoofball · 7 years ago

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Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - The Matrix AU

Jaime Lannister is a man fed up with the monotony of life. Day in, day out, he follows through the same routines as a programmer in one of the biggest companies in Westeros. The only distraction from this aching sameness of the world is his second life as a hacker, causing a bit of havoc in the online world under the pseudonym Kingslayer.

All the while, he enjoys his little contests against fellow hacker running under the pseudonym Oathkeeper, a person who seems oddly honorable for someone regularly cracking codes and stealing data from national security.

However, something deep inside him keeps telling him Jaime something is off about his life, he just can’t put his finger on it, until a message pops up on his screen without Jaime having a chance to retrace who sent it or how someone managed to get past his firewalls.

THIS REALITY IS A LIE.

But how would reality be a lie? Jaime can’t make sense of that, reckoning that someone is just making fun at his expenses, but all of that changes when he is suddenly taken into custody by grey-wearing agents who want to know about his activity and his connection to the hacker known as Oathkeeper. They keep pushing him by saying that Oathkeeper is a terrorist and that he would go to jail for a long time by not cooperating. That this would be conspiracy against the country. Jaime does not budge, however, not finding it right to snitch on his frenemy, even when the agents get physical.

What happens thereafter seems to be out of a bad action movie as suddenly a tall, blonde, mannish woman bursts through the door of the investigation room, holding the agents at gunpoint.

“We are getting out of here,” she tells Jaime, who is more than perplex. “Get moving, Kingslayer.”

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Oathkeeper,” she answers. “You either come with me now or they will be your end.”

Jaime decides to come with the strange woman with brilliant blue eyes, still trying to catch on to what just happened, what he just saw, and the fact that Oathkeeper is this woman, a woman in general, because he thought he was talking to a guy.

Maybe he shouldn’t have made as many dick jokes, then.

Oathkeeper gets him into a car and they chase down the streets.

“Where are you taking me?” Jaime wants to know.

“A hideout.”

“And where do I go from there?”

She shrugs. “That is up to you.”

“How so?”

“You will see,” is the only reply Jaime receives, though it’s not in the least satisfactory for him.

They eventually arrive at a run-down factory, exit the car and get inside.

“So? What will I see now?” Jaime demands to know at last, because he starts to think that this is getting ridiculous. For all the hate he felt for his old life, the boring life without any change, he starts to think that it may still be more favorable than this mess right now. He didn’t want to get involved with terrorism, federal government and ominous women taking him away with rifle in hand. He wanted to have a bit of fun by messing with the system. That was all.

“That depends on the choice you are about to make,” the woman tells him. “There are two paths going from here. You kept telling me that you had the feeling that something is off about this world, and there is.”

“And what is it?”

“You will only learn that if you take that path. If you don’t want that, you can simply return to your old life,” she says.

“But the agents…,” he means to say, but Oathkeeper only ever shakes her head.

“Are being taken care of.”

“How?”

“We have our ways,” she lets him know.

“We?”

The woman shakes her head. “I can’t answer that without you having to walk that path.”

She takes out two pills, a blue and a red one. “Swallow the red one and you will learn the truth about reality itself. Swallow the blue one and you will return to your former life, having forgotten all about this here, about the agents, about me. Those are the two options. There is no middle ground.”

“But how do I make that choice without any prep-up? Without any time to consider?” he questions.

How do you make such a decision at all?

“There is no way to prepare for the truth. You just swallow it or you don’t.”

THIS REALITY IS A LIE, Jaime reminds himself and takes the red pill – only to wake up in a nightmarish landscape, naked, alone, monstrous machines looming above him and around him. Jaime doesn’t know what is going on, feeling nothing but fear and terror. The last thing he sees is a bright light, and then the lights go out again.

He awakes with Oathkeeper sitting by his bedside.

“What… is this?” he asks, still feeling weak, as though he spent years in a coma.

“Reality,” she tells him.

“Why can’t I move properly?” he asks.

“Because you haven’t ever done that.”

“I walked. I worked out, I rode my bicycle to work, I…,” Jaime insists, but she just shakes her head. “That is what they had you believe. In fact, you were always in that cocoon that you woke up in before we took you away. You never walked, never spoke, never ate, never drank, never rode a bicycle, never operated a computer. That was all a lie.”

THIS REALITY IS A LIE.

“You sent that message to me, didn’t you?”

She nods her head. “I send it out for those who start to have doubt. And you had doubt, so I gave you the chance of a choice. Because that is what they have taken from us.”

“Why do you do that?” Jaime asks.

“Because everyone should be entitled to the choice of the truth.”

“Then I think it’s time you tell me because I made my choice.”

And the truth is about as chilling as the entire landscape now supposed to be Jaime’s new reality: The machines took over years ago, humans having driven inventions too far to the point that the machines started to have a life of their own, sought power, and won it. And the humans? They became what they once sought to create, a resource. Just that for the machines, humans are no more than batteries, feeding off of their bioelectricity.

“And why that… other reality?” he asks, frowning.

“The Matrix. A program they wrote to keep the human mind going, because we are apparently not of much use when we are all brain-dead. They need us to live that much. And so… they used what they had, all of that data that they gathered about the human race over the years to replicate something real enough to fool us all into believing that what we see is real, that the ice cream we have tastes like chocolate, that the world in all of its monotony is… the one reality there is. They created the Matrix because it was easiest for them. No resistance. Where would it come from when you grow up believing that this world is real? You just fade away and you will never know how it happens.”

“But you are here,” Jaime argues, still trying to wrap his hand around all this.

She snorts at that. “And they don’t like that at all.”

“Then what is your plan?”

“We overwrite the program, start over new.”

“Reboot,” Jaime says. That was something they kept going back to over and over throughout their online conversations, but Jaime always failed to make sense of what Oathkeeper meant by that. Though now, it starts to make sense, regardless of the fact that everything makes no sense at all for Jaime right now.

“Yes,” she confirms.

“I never asked for your real name.”

“Brienne… welcome to reality, Jaime.”

While Jaime has a hard time coming to grips with all of that new input, especially once he goes into training, it doesn’t take him long to notice that the supposed leader of the revolution, this stubborn, mannish woman whom he once knew as a fellow hacker in the programmed reality tries to keep her distance from him, just like she seems to spend most of her time alone, and that even though she is the leader of the revolution.

Brienne’s one focus is to achieve their shared goal of bringing down the machines, of achieving the Reboot, no matter the costs, no matter the suffering. She is ready to give her life for all those hundreds and thousands of people still not awake, still sleeping, not knowing that they are on a death march without moving their feet.

Jaime, for his part, soon finds himself right in the middle of this revolution. While not everyone likes him, he has a way with people that helps him captivate them and have them ever the more motivated to work for the revolution.

As the revolutionists re-enter the Matrix again and again to find a way to overturn the system the machines created, all the while dodging the danger of the agents, clever, adaptive tools of the machines set into the program to kill them, coming after tem whenever they enter. In the course of which Jaime and Brienne start to uncover more and more of a kind of truth they didn’t know they were blind to.

Because, as it turns out, Brienne was the first to awaken, which seems to be an error the machines made and could no longer undo, setting forth a chain of events in their otherwise perfect system that may well bring it to the point of collapse.

However, the revelations don’t just stop there as the two find themselves more and more closely targeted and the machines trying anything within their powers to see them separated, which makes it ever the harder for the two as their growing attraction starts to get in the way of staying focused on nothing but the mission.

Particularly Brienne finds herself struggling with her feelings. After all, she believes that she was forever meant to stay alone, a voice having whispered that to her long, long time ago.

However, the two have to put most of that aside in the face of the machines rising, which means that it’s now or never that they launch their revolution, trying to achieve the fallout, the death of the program, the Reboot. Nevertheless, the questions keep nagging at them both as they dive deeper and deeper into the world of the codes that made up their lives back in the Matrix.

Is it perhaps that they have been re-programmed before?

Is this indeed their first awakening?

Or was there another life, another reality other than the one they are in right now?

And were they together in this life?

And what will become of their revolution?

Will it be destroyed or will it overwrite an entire system?

Reality itself?

Additional Image Sources: The Matrix (1999), The Matrix Reloaded (2003), The Matrix Revolutions (2003).

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #got moodboard #got aesthetic #moodboard #aesthetic #fanfic #wacky tries gimp #wacky tries fanfic #ficlet #in smol #so many tags

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ohmytheon · 7 years ago

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Hi, I just finished all your writing about Aidan and I love them all so much 😭 Will you be writing more of him in the future? Thanks! ☺

So @stupidsexymustang and I got to talking and I realized how much I missed writing about Aidan when this happened. I’ve got some free time tonight and I’ve been wanting to write, but haven’t had any inspiration, so this just popping up was really nice. Plus, writing about a teenage Aidan from Roy’s POV was fun.

After all his time in the military, Roy could spot when something was wrong by a mile off – and there was something definitely wrong with his son.

He couldn’t be sure exactly what it was, but it wasn’t like Aidan to be outwardly downtrodden in front of others, even when he was upset. Perhaps unfortunately, he was the product of his parents, meaning that he had a terrible habit of hiding how he truly felt. He was also fifteen, which meant that he was even more prone to hiding his thoughts and emotions from his parents.

Aidan was very earnest when it came to being a teenager, shockingly so to most people, but he didn’t like to upset people. If it came to bothering people or being honest with what he was feeling, he’d lie every time. Aidan had learned how to lie and put a smile on his face from birth, a product of what Roy and Riza had been forced to do when he was born. Roy couldn’t just ignore how that talent came about or the consequences it beared.

He had an honest son that was good at lying. That meant bad news for any parent.

Presently, Aidan was leaning against the table, one elbow propped on the table and the side of his face slumped against his fist while he stirred his spoon around his oatmeal with disinterest. Roy was keeping one eye on the newspaper in his hands and the other on his son. Aidan was one of those rare children that was a morning person, just like his mother, and while he wasn’t chatty, he was usually more active. He would eat while reading a book, be it for school or for his alchemy lessons, or ask about work.

Such a curious kid, just like he had been at Aidan’s age.

Today, however, there was none of that. Roy read the newspaper, Riza drank her coffee, and Aidan picked at his food. This wasn’t a sudden change, however. Roy had noted a slight change in Aidan’s behavior over the past few days, starting after the Tuesday he came home from baseball practice, but when Roy had asked if something had happened, Aidan had laughed and brushed it off as making some dumb mistakes. He got so down on himself when he did things like that, just like Roy did. When he came home acting the same way the next day, Roy knew that it wasn’t just a few mistakes.

His suspicions were further confirmed after overhearing part of a phone call the night before. Roy did not actively go out of his way to eavesdrop on his son. Aidan was a good kid – he hadn’t gotten into any trouble since punching that boy over besmirching Riza – but Roy had gone to let him know that dinner was ready when he caught the tailend of a conversation Aidan was having with his best friend.

“–not even that good-looking! ” Aidan had exclaimed inside his room.

Roy had paused mid-knock because there was nothing else he could do. Out of all the things he’d expected to hear his son say, something about someone’s looks was not one of them. Aidan was incredibly polite. He would tell any woman if they were pretty out of pure sincerity or say nothing at all. But to outright insult someone on their looks? Roy had never heard anything from him. Granted, Aidan was a teenager, so there was a good chance that he hid part of himself from his parents.

“Not you too, Bran!” Aidan groaned. “He’s a total idiot. He keeps telling everyone that he’s older because of where he transferred from, but he was actually held back a year. Yes, it’s the truth! I got a look at his records.”

Well, shit. That was definitely his son.

It was Friday. Typically Aidan would talk about weekend plans, almost always with his closest friends. Roy counted himself lucky that his son was able to grow up with children his age. It was happenstance that Aidan was born in the middle of Havoc’s two kids. The three of them were inseparable. Aidan was also close to Edward’s children, especially his second child, Sara, although they were farther away. Despite being a relatively quiet kid, he had kids that he constantly did things with – except this weekend.

“Finally, Creta is willing to sit down for talks now that we’ve signed a treaty with Drachma,” Roy sighed as he turned to the comics in the newspaper. “I’ll be at work all weekend.”

“You never delegate when negotiations start,” Riza put in.

“I don’t trust people with peace talks,” Roy said. He glanced over at Aidan, who was still stirring his oatmeal forlornly. It wasn’t like him. Aidan was always so curious about what was going on in the government, especially their relations with other countries. He and Bran were more involved in it than most kids their age, if only because of who their parents were. “What about your weekend plans, Aidan? Your mother and I will probably be at HQ.”

Aidan startled in his seat, as if suddenly aware that there were people at the table besides him. “Um, no plans, just staying in this weekend.”

Roy folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. “Oh? What about Bran and Ally?”

“Ah, Bran is grounded for getting a bad grade on a test and trying to hide it,” Aidan replied. An honest answer – but not an entire one. Roy tilted his head, prompting his son further. Aidan straightened up, cleared his throat, and went back to picking at his food. “And Ally is busy.”

“Busy?” Riza asked curiously.

“Yeah, she, um–” Aidan’s lips twisted into a frown. It had been a while since Roy had seen him so open with his emotions. Normally he was pretty good at hiding them considering his age. “She’s got plans with other friends.”

Riza nodded her head. “Well, it’s only natural that she has friends in her class.”

“She doesn’t even like most of them!” Aidan practically exploded. “It’s just because of–” He clamped his mouth shut and Roy knew that Aidan was suddenly aware of how much he was giving away. Roy could see his son’s face closing off as he locked away whatever he was feeling. And whatever he was feeling was definitely a feeling that Roy knew well: it was jealousy. A calm, disinterested expression that Roy also recognized came over Aidan’s face and Aidan shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. Midterms are coming up. I need to study.”

Picking up his mug of coffee, Roy peered at his son over the rim. “No dates or anything?”

Aidan immediately choked on his bite of oatmeal and turned red. “N-no, I don’t have time. Between school, alchemy lessons, and baseball, it’s all I can do to hang out with any friends.”

“Surely there’s someone you’re interested in,” Roy continued, as if completely unaware of Aidan’s reaction. “When I was your age–” Riza shot him a flat look and he smiled. “Just because you don’t have time doesn’t mean you aren’t interested in anyone. I would know.”

“I don’t have time,” Aidan insisted, which wasn’t an answer, but was final nonetheless.

Roy should’ve given it up, but he had always liked to push boundaries. Maybe he should’ve been a little more delicate since the boundary belonged to his son, but Aidan would be close-mouthed for years unless he was pushed and Roy didn’t know how to do anything but push seeing as how he and Riza were just the same.

He waited until he was at work and found Havoc in an equally grumbly mood. Roy popped in on his subordinate like a fox on its prey. “Get into a fight with Catalina?”

Havoc scoffed. “No, we’re a little beyond that.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Well, since I painted the cabinets black without asking her a few months ago. I thought they looked good…” They did, in fact, not look good, but Roy was not about to admit to agreeing on something with Havoc’s wife. He’d made it a rule to never outright side with Rebecca unless they both knew to keep quiet on the matter. “It’s just that, well, Ally…”

“Is everything alright?” Roy asked. “Do you need leave?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Havoc quickly dismissed. “She’s just… She’s going on her first date this weekend.”

“Oh?” Roy raised an eyebrow. “Aidan did say she had plans with other friends.”

Havoc slumped back in his seat and folded his arms. “It’s a group date, so none of them are alone. I guess it’s supposed to make us feel better about it, but…” He sighed and shook his head. “My baby girl is growing up, you know? It’s hard. What if the kid is an ass like we were at that age – like we were for years? She’s a tough girl, but I don’t want her to get her heart broken.”

Roy shrugged. “It happens. Lesson learned.”

“Easy for you to say,” Havoc replied with a snort. “Not everyone has a son who has the manners of a gentleman. I’m going to have to drill them into Bran or Rebecca will ground him for eternity. Who knows what kind of guy Ally will like with those two as her examples of boys her age.”

That was when it fully hit Roy. He’d had his suspicions for quite a while – years, if he was being honest – but everything made sense. What kind of boy did Ally like? A good-looking one? Older? Smart? Oh, his boy had his first crush and was totally smitten – and it was on his best friend. Damn, like father, like son.

“I’m sure the time will come for Aidan soon enough,” Roy pointed out.

“That kid?” Havoc whistled. “He’s got his head in the clouds with academics. He only joined the baseball team because Bran asked and Ally goaded him.”

Of course she did. Aidan could say no to Bran, but he could never say no to Ally. It had been like that for as long as Roy could remember since Ally learned how to talk. Short of human transmutation and (most) crimes, Roy was almost certain that Aidan would do anything Ally asked of him. And he’d justify it the entire time, telling himself how much she meant to him, how she was like a sister, how she was his best friend’s sister…

Roy sincerely hoped it did not take Aidan nearly as long to recognize these feelings for Ally for what they were as it had for Roy concerning Riza.

“Well, if she does get her heart broken, we probably don’t need to worry,” Roy said, “not with Bran and Aidan having her back.”

Especially not with Aidan. He had a very protective streak, pointedly concerning the women in his life. And considering that one of his closest friends was Sara Elric, he probably knew how to use his alchemy to do more damage than he let on. Any boy that hurt Ally would have to watch himself. Ah, young love. Roy tried not to laugh. How painful.

#roy mustang #fma #fmab #jean havoc #royai #aidan mustang #royai kid #riza hawkeye #fullmetal alchemist #fma:b #fullmetal alchemist: brotherhood #fma: brotherhood #fma fanfiction #fmab fanfiction #the things of songs

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thestrangestofplaces · 6 years ago

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On BTS, KPop, and the Self-Love Revolution

Note: this post was written in 2018, and some information in it has changed. For example, BTS now does get American radio play for their songs (though only the ones they recorded in English), their fanbase is much, much larger, and many of their music videos now average 1 billion views. I keep the information unaltered here because it is about a specific moment in their trajectory as a group and pop music phenomenon. Please enjoy!

Here is a moment I think I will remember for the rest of my life: as we were driving to NYC to see the most famous boyband in the world, K-pop group BTS, one of my best friends got a text alert that Brett Kavanaugh had been confirmed to a lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court.

The timing was, if anything, surreal. I have had these tickets for almost two months, but never would have imagined this show would coincide with this particularly hellish development in the news. But truthfully, many things about this trip were unexpected. When, a little over four months ago, I chanced upon a BTS video on YouTube after seeing a short Netflix documentary on K-pop, I had no idea it would lead to making a trip like this to a sold-out show at Citi Field, the 40,000 person capacity Mets stadium. The concert is historic: no Asian band has ever played a stadium show in the US. The BTS show sold out in under ten minutes.

I remember the fateful moment I watched that music video. I was at the tail end of a writing retreat that had not gone particularly well, sequestered in a strange Air Bnb in western PA where it’s really West Virginia -- full-on Trump country. The video was for their song “Blood, Sweat and Tears,” and came out several years ago. It’s gorgeous and cinematic, as are many K-pop videos, but also more than vaguely sinister. The song is an innocuous dance bop about unhealthy relationships, maybe a little minor-sounding, but the aesthetic is Interview with a Vampire meets Alice in Wonderland meets Phantom of the Opera. There’s some light bondage. There’s an interlude in which they quote Herman Hesse and show one member kissing a winged statue while another reveals the scars on his back from where he’s lost his wings. To quote my friend Lisa, who bravely agreed to go with me to this show, “I don’t understand it, but I love it.”

Watching that video in that part of Pennsylvania felt fairly deviant. Despite being the product of an intensely patriarchal and fairly conservative South Korean society, K-pop is undeniably influenced by two types of cultural rebellion: hip-hop and queerness. These are also the most important cultural influences in my life, and so I think, though it took me awhile to get here, that in some ways K-pop and I were destined to meet.

Though I did not know it until I got to the concert itself, BTS’s fanbase is not only worldwide (estimated at somewhere around 15 million strong) it is also incredibly diverse. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a more diverse concert, in fact. So many races and hair colors and aesthetics and ages. It makes sense to me, because BTS’s music is not only engaging on that extremely accessible pop level, their message is one of complete inclusivity. Their last three albums have been part of a series entitled “Love Yourself,” and their unequivocal message can be summed up in this way: before we know how to love others, we must give that same love and acceptance to ourselves. This is an interesting message for a pop group to put forth, especially considering that their fans are predominantly young women and queer people. In the age of Trump and Kavanaugh, this is not the message we are sending to young people, or frankly -- to anyone who is not a cisgender wealthy white straight male.

Being in a crowd of 40,000 people dancing and yelling and singing along to lyrics about loving who you are no matter what people say about you felt like a rebellion in the same way watching that music video did, except multiply that feeling by one million. BTS may be adorable and fun to dance to, but they are not apolitical. At various points, BTS’s songs call out parents and other adults for putting young people in a pressure cooker that doesn’t yield the opportunities they’ve been told to strive for. They call out their haters for saying they aren’t real musicians because they make dance music. They call out people who shit on you because you struggle with mental illness. They call out their government for being misleading and corrupt. They wear costumes that call to mind queer pop icons like Prince and David Bowie and Elton John. There is so much leather and sheer fabrics and flowers and sparkle. They are androgynous but also represent a soft sort of masculinity, and are visibly affectionate with each other with absolutely no self-conscious no-homo vibes. Their dancing is both remarkably precise and incredibly joyous. And they thank their fans. Over. And Over. And Over again.

Interestingly enough, the story of BTS in America is one of subversion of the American music industry itself. Though they don’t get radio play and rarely appear on American TV, many of their music videos have over 300 million views, with America being the third largest source of watchers. All of their North American shows sold out in minutes with no on-the-ground promotion. They debuted at #1 on the Billboard charts despite the fact that their music is almost entirely in Korean. They are in themselves a fuck-you to an industry that has always insisted that Americans won’t consume entertainment from around the world.

From a purely cynical point of view, BTS playing Citi Field is an enormous victory for the Kpop industry, which has always had its eye on the xenophobic US market as its ultimate goal. But it is also an enormous personal victory for the seven young men who have spent the last eight years of their lives getting here. This was clear in the final moments of the show, when each member gave carefully prepared remarks -- some in English, some in Korean with an interpreter -- saying how grateful they were to be there. “You are the brightest stars in my universe,” one said, while another dissolved into tears and could not keep going. Their leader RM, the only member fluent in English, gave a small speech which ended with: “What is loving myself? What is loving yourself? I don’t know. Who can define their own method and the way of loving myself? It’s our mission to define our way to love ourselves. So, it’s never intended, but it feels like I’m using you guys to love myself. I want to say one thing: please, please use me. Please use BTS to love yourself. Because you guys taught me how to love myself.”

This is some heavy stuff for a pop concert, but hearing it felt like -- for that one moment -- a weight had been lifted. While I despair about the news cycle, I am not afraid for our future. Most of the work I do is with or for young people, and I see a generation that is so much more accepting and embracing of difference, so much less afraid to be who they are. As much as it may seem like a leap, BTS is part of that. In a speech they gave at the UN’s General Assembly a few weeks ago, they encouraged all people to speak their stories, to feel validated, and to believe they can do good in the world. Such rhetoric would not be out of place at an Obama rally. The difference is that they have the ears of the young people who will shape this world. And for those hundreds of thousands that have seen them at sold-out shows in the last few months, they are unlikely to forget the experience.

I know I won’t.

#bts #bts v #bts jungkook #bts jimin #bts namjoon #bts jin #bts jhope #bts suga #kpop #love yourself tour #ly: tour #bts at citifield #nyc #in my own words #politics #fuck the patriarchy

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piquira · 8 years ago

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Today we know more than ever of the early years of child development especially that of the brain. The brain of a child who's nourished and nurtured, read to, and played with, protected from factors like stress and conflict has the best chance of developing its full potential because it's proven that children who receive proper care, nutrition, and stimulation, in the first five years do much better in school and in life. Sadly, this is not the case in my country or in so many other countries in the developing world where being born into poverty means never breaking out of it. We should be devastated that in 2017, there are still 250 million kids under 5 who are still at risk who will likely be stunted physically and intellectually. Now take that in for a second, we're talking about nearly a population of an entire country the size of the US, it is a tragedy for those children, an epic, epic failure for all of us! If we don't attend to this kids in time we're talking about inter generational cycles of poverty and inequality and the wider the gap of inequality grows the harder it becomes to reach across it and the more numerous the faces of those born into poverty, the more difficult to see and empathize with each individual and recognize that if not for the pure geography of where they were born, they could be one of our children. It should make us all furious! This should make us all want to take action because we all have a stake in the outcome. The world is facing some serious challenges, by 2050 massive population growth is expected and we will need to feed 9 billion people or we will risk being at the threshold of conflict and starvation. Will this generation of kids be ready to take on the task of eliminating malnutrition and providing food security? Will they be prepared to come up with solutions and innovations to climate change, unemployment, and the most complex issues that our society faces? Who will help us manage our resources more efficiently and sustainably moving forward, from here to the next 20 years? It's your kids, it's Milan and Sasha, my kids, and it's those 250 million kids at risk who need us to tip the scale back in their favor. Today's babies will drive tomorrows business. Today's babies, with their future productivity will fuel tomorrows economies. Their capacity to contribute will shape tomorrows societies, and will solve tomorrows problems. All of you here today, have a critical, critical role to play... so what can you do? Lets face it, in this room, we have some of the most powerful people in the world and definitely, i'm convinced that you know what it means to be ahead of the curve and you can be tremendously influential! We need to apply the brains and strategy of business and the assets of human resources, and the the talents of your companies to do social good and to solve social problems. All of us need to pick up where governments leave off, that's the only way! And that said, is not about letting governments off the hook, on the contrary, it is about reengaging them. But we have to take the first steps because as business people, we have the ideas, the agility, the organization skills, the man power... the female power of course. When we started building schools in Colombia, we choose the most remote areas where there was literally nothing, there was no paved roads, no portable water, no electricity, and where historically the government had checked out, we checked in. We decided to build, not only schools, but state of the art schools and we decided to include ECD as our key component and we created a comprehensive model that included, as well, school fitting programs, parent and teaching training. We engaged a government as our strategic partner and we made it nearly impossible for them to say no to doing their part. So the transformation of these communities can be seen immediately. From the jobs generated, to the hope inspired, but the improvements to the infrastructure were jaw dropping. Electricity and portable water were made accessible, roads were paved, malnutrition plummeted and the best part of all, is that the students responded so well, that now those kids that could have been recruited by guerrillas or drug traffickers, are on their way to university or are in a university as we speak, or are thriving their communities. So now I don't have to call the governments as often, thank god, now they call us wanting to build more schools, wanting to invest more. I'm not suggesting that it's easy but there is an exit strategy to poverty and it's getting those 250 million kids ,who are at risk who need access to quality ECD programs so they get in school and stay in school. We have to push governments to invest more on ECD, we have to invest in campaigns for public awareness, we have to make access to pre-K education free, and we have to create a fund for education just like AIDS and Malaria and Tuberculosis have their own fund. I know I can sound vehement, as Bono once called me, and that's because I am. And I know that I could drive people nuts with my insistence, but it's only because i'm so passionate and the reason why i'm so passionate is because I've seen it with my own eyes. I've seen what education can do. What the investment in education can do... miracles. And believe me, there's nothing more fun and satisfying than seeing a child who had almost no possibilities to succeed, flourish and thrive and perform well in life. For me it beats winning a grammy any day. We can't press pause and ask those kids to wait to grow up until we have it all figured out, there isn't a moment to lose! We need to invest in humans, it's the smart thing to do, the strategic thing to do, and the just thing to do. Thank you.

Shakira’s speech at the World Economic Forum after receiving a Crystal Award for her Advancement in Early Childhood education

#her speeches are always so beautiful =')#& everything she says is on point!#shakira #quotes #early childhood developlement

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nowherenext · 8 years ago

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Cambodia

Out of all the places I’ve visited in Southeast Asia, Cambodia is a personal favorite of mine.

What used to be the ancient Khmer empire is now known as the Kingdom of Cambodia. It is most known for its ancient ruins, the Angkor Wat, which is located in Siem Reap. It is a beautiful cultural site, what with its abandoned remains and majestic ruins nestled in its forests and intertwined with some of its massive trees.

^ That’s the main Angkor Wat site, where many tourists are usually led to. There’s a grand entrance that you have to walk through for a few minutes before you finally see this. The outline of the ruins is reflected on the body of water before it. It really looks like something from a movie.

This is just one of the many places you can go to in Siem Reap by bike. There are smaller (and bigger) temples around. Each one is beautiful and distinct. The trees, its long roots, the vines, the water lilies, and the general greenery of the area also complements how eerily beautiful the ruins look.

Cambodia is full of temples--and not all of them are as crowded as the main Angkor Wat site. If you really want to explore Cambodia, you will need at least a week to visit its many, many temples. It’s best to do it either by bike or motorcycle, because it’s an amazing place to bike in. The roads are flat and wide, and you’ll get great views of the picturesque fields on the way.

Tip: Bring a bandana to cover your face because it’s really dusty and a lot of it will go to your face! (Take it from me, who did not wear any bandana and was squinting during the whole ride with my mouth firmly closed)

I would definitely recommend going there during December, because the weather is relatively cool and windy. Although it will still be humid, it will not be as bad if there is a breeze. Your legs will also get a real work out after climbing all those steep staircases and hopping from one temple window to another. You’ll be soaked with sweat by the end of the day.

I have to admit, it’s a pretty great photoshoot area, as well. I guess the solemn atmosphere created by the temples is ruined because it’s now mostly used as a background for tourists. Everybody’s waving selfie sticks and GoPro sticks around, wearing Thai pants or exotic-looking dresses to match the setting.

I myself purposefully wore my Thai pants and this skirt/pants thing for the very purpose of looking good in temple pictures. All the while, I was thinking, “Wow, I’m essentially exoticizing their culture by using their “native” attire as props and by using their cultural heritage, the temples, as mere background for my consumerist, #traveler purposes!”--but then again, maybe I just have way too much fun being my own buzzkill when I travel.

So, while there are some cool, Cambodia-esque photos here, I also feel like I should show what it really looks like:

And here are the posed ones that usually make it to Instagram (wooo, photos on social media can indeed be deceiving):

Well, anyway. It’s a real gem, Cambodia. Each temple is distinct in style and architecture. One of the most popular temples, the Ta Phrom, draws a lot of attention because of how the temple and the tree became one:

Even the photos, beautiful as they look, don’t quite capture that sight. In some temples, there are ongoing constructions to rebuild certain parts of the temple. Each temple usually has a caretaker or two, sometimes with dogs. They protect the temples from getting destroyed or vandalized.

Here are more gorgeous sights around Siem Reap:

Eventually, temple hopping does get a bit repetitive and boring. So...you can go on a hike or explore the city.

Siem Reap’s inner city is also just as exciting. The place is filled with backpackers from all over the world. The area is very tourist-friendly. If you walk around, you’ll see lots of food stalls, markets, and little stores selling so, so many souveneirs. Cambodia shirts, keychains, Thai pants, malongs, mugs, bags...and so on. It can’t get any more commercialized than this. It’s cultural commodity packaged at its finest.

ALSO! In the markets, it will help if you’re good at haggling. I am not, but my mother is. When we were shopping in the markets, she was truly in her arena. The items in the market were already so cheap, usually being sold at $5, $4, $3...even $2 or $1. My mom, however, still wouldn’t settle; she’d insist on $1 if it was $3, $3 if it was $5, and so on. Usually, these sellers would put up a bit of a fight first, but with just the right amount of tact and persistence, they eventually settle for your price anyway. Unsurprisingly, Mom always won this battle.

Oh, and that’s an important fact about Cambodia: their currency is riels, but in Siem Reap, they usually just accept U.S. dollars, especially if they know you’re tourists. I’m not entirely sure why they didn’t want to just use their own currency instead, but then again, I’m guessing maybe it’s just more practical and convenient for everyone if we just used the ever-powerful U.S. dollar? Hmmm.

There was so much life in the city of Siem Reap. I loved it. I would definitely go back one day and backpack by myself or with a couple of friends. There are lots of fun bars, restaurants, cafes, quirky shops, markets, and temples to explore. The nightlife--from what I could see--was awesome, the drinks are cheap, the food is good. I can’t help but remember the Philippines as I walked around the city; even if it was different culture, it had a similar vibe to home.

On another note, I want to talk about the locals. I know almost every tourist/backpacker must have said this already, but I’ll say it anyway: Cambodians are some of the most kind-hearted, down-to-earth, and pleasant people I’ve met. They are always smiling, and happily bringing tourists from one temple to another. They try and make conversation with you. While they’re waiting for you finish exploring the temples, they sit with fellow drivers, grab a drink from a local store, and simply chat and laugh with them. I understand now why foreigners--especially those from Western countries--always go on and on about how kind Filipinos/Cambodians/Thais/Asians are in general.

Every time we would go to the temples, I would also see a lot of child beggars approaching tourists and asking for money. There would be a lot of signs in the area, too, saying that we should not give money to the children because it only encourages them to stay in the streets and continue begging when they should, in fact, be in school (to rephrase what many of the signs said). While I agree that they should be in school and that we mustn’t encourage them to keep begging, I still don’t think the situation should be depicted in such a...simplistic way. Obviously, begging means they are in great need of something, be it money, food, or even just a drink.

How can we simply ignore these children and justify it with simplistic reasoning like, “Well, they shouldn’t be here anyway! They should be in school!”--because the reality of it is, they’re not in school. They’re begging for food, money, anything, because in moments of great need, begging and hoping for a kind tourist to give them something is better than simply “going to school” with absolutely no food in your stomach and no energy or will to read textbooks all day. I’d rather give them something, preferably food, than simply ignore them and hope they go to school instead. It’s ideal, and of course I’d want them to go to school instead, but it just doesn’t work like that for them. Poverty is their reality.

That being said, seeing these children--and adults--begging reminds me that, despite Cambodia’s rich culture and history, we can’t simply romanticize the seemingly “simple and happy” lifestyles of the locals, too. Some of these people are also in great need, and are suffering from poverty or have less access to resources than Cambodia’s city people. After all, I’m sure Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh, has a better standard of living than places like Siem Reap--kind of like how Manila is better off than most provinces. Provinces usually provide the “escape” city people need once in a while, which is why provinces usually make their money through tourism nowadays. (But hey, that topic is for another blog entry.)

I don’t know much about contemporary Cambodian history or politics to really have a say in any of these things, but I do know they’re a developing country like the Philippines. Appreciate Cambodia for its beauty and simplicity, sure, but don’t overlook the every day struggles of the rural lifestyle that the people in Siem Reap live.

Of course, with that comes the question: What more can I do? Honestly, I don’t know how to answer that. Even in my own home country, I do not know what to do. In Cambodia, I felt even more helpless; I was just a tourist. I was only passing through. In Manila, I feel like that, too, sometimes--like there’s this wall and I’m only seeing bad things happening from a distance.

-----

On a lighter note, I do hope the photos really did show you how lovely Cambodia is. If you do go, try to look beyond the temple as a mere background for a photoshoot; read up on its history or have a local explain to you what exactly you’re looking at. It’s a beautiful ancient culture worth knowing and understanding.

Here are some links that talk about Cambodia’s history, culture, country profile, current events, tourism:

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-pacific-13006539 https://www.lonelyplanet.com/cambodia https://www.hrw.org/asia/cambodia http://www.cnbc.com/2016/08/27/kem-lays-murder-puts-cambodia-politics-economy-at-risk-as-unrest-looms.html http://www.economist.com/topics/cambodia https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/jul/10/cambodian-government-critic-shot-dead-phnom-penh-kem-ley-hun-sen http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-pacific-13006828 http://country.eiu.com/cambodia http://www.economist.com/news/asia/21707982-strongman-falls-back-old-habits-velvet-glove-frays?zid=306&ah=1b164dbd43b0cb27ba0d4c3b12a5e227 http://www.economist.com/news/asia/21715010-and-why-it-worries-cambodias-neighbours-why-cambodia-has-cosied-up-china?zid=306&ah=1b164dbd43b0cb27ba0d4c3b12a5e227

#cambodia #siem reap #khmer empire #temples #ancient culture #ancient history #ancient ruins #travelblogger #travel writing #travel photography #travel #asia #southeast asia #explore asia #blogger #blog #travel blog #nowherenext

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ihearducksaregoingquackers · 7 years ago

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Sorry for long post, but anything you can say will help. Deeply personal.

Tumblr is a super weird experience for me, with just who and what I am. To kind of put a million labels on me at once (the labels that I know of), I am a seemingly-but-not-always white-passing light-skinned Egyptian Muslim capable of growing an afro who is heteroromantic, bi-curious, demisexual-ish (I can be sexually attracted to anyone, but I’d almost never take clothes off unless it was with someone I was in love with), cisgendered male, was essentially raised on Western (mostly American, some British) media influence with English as a first language and hardly able to speak Arabic despite it being my native language, legally an American citizen, with diagnoses of depression, anxiety and ADHD, with an education background of partially physics, animation and partially game design at a university level (the partialies are due to dropping out because of depression). Also, I was ‘a gifted child’, aka I was naturally adept at science and math, and dropped the humanities like a hot rock as soon as I could.

And that’s what I can think of off the top of my head.

(The rest is put under ‘keep reading’ because the post is super long. If you have the time or energy to read this and just say anything to help, I’d super appreciate it. If not, I appreciate you reading this far. If you didn’t read this far, I still appreciate you following me anyway, because it helps make it feel like tumblr is worth doing, even though audience isn’t the reason why I use tumblr in the first place.)

This, of course, not only leads to huge amounts of internal anxiety with regards to “who or what the fuck am I”, being Egyptian and Muslim but having been raised and immersed in Western and Christian or Athiest media. But following the diverse blogs of Tumblr makes it even more confusing. Specifically black tumblr, not because there’s anything wrong with black tumblr, but black tumblr has made me ask myself questions that I never would have thought to ask myself. But all sorts of tumblr (especially social justice tumblr or educational discourse tumblr talking about geography or history) have had this effect on me too.

Like, what does it mean to be African? Am I African? I actually had to go up to my mom and ask that question, because it bugged me so much and I just didn’t have the answer, and there’s an apparent distinction between Africa and North Africa, where Egypt is in North Africa. But also, I can grow an afro. When I was still in the states and working as a cashier at a dry cleaning place, I actually asked a couple of black co-workers if they thought I could grow an afro. When they responded with “yeah, I could see a Jew-fro”, I had to show them this video of me getting the largest afro I’d grown shaved. They were surprised, to say the least (and it was totally worth the look on their faces). But like, black tumblr has a habit of calling curly hair ‘black hair’ and I somehow feel like I can’t own my hair? But I’m technically African, but does that allow me the same courtesy?

And, like, obviously I don’t want to be That Asshole™, cultural appropriation is such a huge thing and I don’t want to promote it in any way, shape or form. But I have curly hair, I can naturally grow an afro, been able to do it my whole life, how do I embrace that without accidentally promoting cultural appropriation? If the answer seems obvious, there’s the ‘sometimes-but-not-always white-passing’ thing which I go into detail later on. I also know that black tumblr isn’t intentionally looking at my obscure, one off tumblr that has 57 followers and saying “let’s make this ONE individual paranoid about what he can or can’t do or say about his hair”. I’m not egotistical or narcissistic enough to think my opinion matters that much to an entire tumblr culture for them to try and send me a message, but I feel that there’s enough of a message for me to at least be concerned about what my actions might unintentionally say.

It also doesn’t help that my family hasn’t really learned about taking care of afros since I was kind of a pariah in wanting an afro and my family insists I look better without one and that what little I’ve learned about taking care of afros I’ve learned from black tumblr. Also, depression makes it hard to get out of bed or even take a shower, so taking care of my afro is kind of out of the question at the moment.

There’s also another awkward one of “How Arab am I?” That question is multi-layered, partially due to my westernization through the media I consumed, my faulty ability with the Arabic language, the fact that I’ve had too many Egyptians in Egypt ask me where I’m from (I’ve answered with ‘Egyptian but raised in America’ which gets people to not ask more questions).

And then there’s also the part of what does it mean to be Egyptian as well. Like, specifically Egyptian. Should I be proud of my ancestors? Is that even *my* legacy? Or has my legacy been so muddied by the multiple empires that have conquered Egypt that I can’t lay any claim to it? My family trees can also be traced back to Tunisia (Carthage specifically), Morocco and Lebanon (I’m quarter Lebanese so that’s sorta the easiest to trace), but that’s only looking at two straight lines and an obvious link and almost none of the other branches of my family tree are really explored. Like, my family almost entirely hails from Alexandria, I have great grandparents that fought in World War 2 for Egypt and that’s quite a few generations of living in Egypt, so potentially one of my ancestors was Ancient Egyptian, right?

But THEN there’s also the legacy of Egyptians, the muddied part I mentioned because, at one point, Coptic Christians were the dominant population before Islam became a thing, and then Egypt became part of the Islamic Empire, which resulted in 80% of the current Egyptian population being Muslim now. But also, Ancient Egypt was a thing. And Ancient Egypt traded with Ancient Greece and that’s it’s own bag which I don’t even have all the information on that. Let’s also not forget the Jewish Egyptians that exist in the world. Or the fact that Jews had to run away from Egypt (God, that one Hannukah I attended with my ex-girlfriend was awkward).

There’s also the whole fetishization of Ancient Egypt by essentially everyone, but also holy shit Ancient Egypt was so advanced for its time too, which no wonder why people are obsessed with it, but then it kinda gets weird and it’s super complicated to get into right now. There’s also debate about the skin colour of Ancient Egyptians too, and like, if it’s discovered that they were dark-skinned, do I have no right and no claim to my ancestry?

And THEN there’s what it means to be Muslim, and how some of what I’ve been told clashes heavily with liberal western political ideals (imagine my ass being conservative, HA!). That also clashes with my status as bi-curious, which used to be bisexual (still heteroromantic) but now, isn’t? I don't know, I’m still very much in this “I have no idea what my sexuality is” stage. Being bullied from an early age and learning to take ‘gay’ as an insult has superbly affected my ability to even consider being called gay. I get REELED at the idea of being called gay or kissing another man, but there’s that bi-curious thing due to some events that will not be described (no abuse, I promise). There’s just so much shit that clashes from these different things. And I don’t even know how to fit the pieces together even remotely.

The ‘seemingly obvious answer’ of ‘you can be all of that’ doesn’t apply when you hear shit like the Egyptian government tracking down gay people through gay dating apps and are actively living in Egypt. I’m not even LOOKING for that kind of thing with another man, and it’s not even a potential future thing in my mind either, since, you know, demisexual-ish. But there’s still that occasional attraction? It’s weird. Just, being me with regards to these things is weird and I can’t fit the pieces together, not on my own. And, also, I always have to ask the question: with being so marginally LGBT, do I even have the right to consider myself as part of the LGBT+ community? With all the stuff that the LGBT+ community go through, how could I, as a heteroromantic bi-curious demisexual, even CONSIDER being a part of the LGBT+ community? It’s such this deep question, and I only have the label of bi-curious because I don’t even know anything that more accurately describes what’s happening in my head, you know?

Don’t even get me started on Arab mentality of mental health issues, which further complicates things with my liberal western ideals. Just don’t.

There’s also that fun time my sister accused me of being ‘too westernized’.

God, and then, just, I look at Egypt and I can’t find much to be proud of my people? There’s stuff that is improving, no doubt, but it’s so slow and gradual that it might take a few lifetimes in order for things to even measure up to something I’d consider good standards. But again, are these the ideals of an Egyptian who wants the best for his country, or a foreigner who can only see through the lens of his own privilege? The number of times people have said that “[I am] not Egyptian” because I don’t like a certain Egyptian dish or don’t say a certain thing or whatever other standards I have is absolutely infuriating.

I wish I was one of those people who didn’t need labels to identify themselves. I wish I could just say “I am who I am, that’s okay with me”. But I can’t, I’m just not that kind of person. I’ve had the label of ADHD from when I was first diagnosed as a child, and also Egyptian too. Also, being ‘so smart’ as a kid, ‘so obedient’, ‘quiet’ etc. as a child. But I was bullied too, I had two or three friends for my youngest years that I remember (I remember nothing from before age 8 aside from literally three memories), and what I can now put a name to, dangerously severe depression. I survived, which is really all that matters, but I only have vague memories of being a child and a teen.

Anyway, let’s ignore that tangent and get back on track with the labels. Sometimes-but-not-always white-passing. Having lived in the states and being able to experience the looks that some people give me, whether I’m white-passing or not depends entirely on the person who sees me. My name isn’t ‘obviously Arab’, so people kind of have to guess where I come from. I’ve been mistaken for white for sure, but I’ve also had an older black woman tell me “shalom” as she was getting off the bus “because of the nose” with a hand motion, thinking I was Jewish. Then there was the elderly white psychiatrist, lemme just set the stage.

I walk into an INTAKE with this elderly white psychiatrist, not even a session, this is purely an assessment part. He asks questions, gets my name, gets my original nationality, age, guesses correctly that I’m Muslim. He asks if I drink, I told him no, because I haven’t. His IMMEDIATE response: “Oh, that’s good, because if you did, they’d have to take you out back and shoot you in the back of the head.”

I got so scared, I forced myself to see him for three sessions because I had to make sure that he wouldn’t think the reason why I didn’t go to my first appointment was because of his racist ass. Then every time I went to that clinic, I was scared out of my mind that he’d accuse me of not seeing him because of that (my Philipino therapist, who I’d been seeing for weeks before that, was in that clinic so I couldn’t just up and leave, also she was really good and I needed that stability). You could also bet your ass I didn’t report it to management because, again, I was so scared I was gonna be shot by some white dude with a gun if any of that came to light. After that, the anxiety was too much for me to bear and I went to see another psychiatrist. This was in Maryland, 45 minutes away from DC, and since I don't know anything about gun laws in those states, I have no guess about what might happen.

I didn’t exactly hide the fact that I was Egyptian from the people I became friends with, but still, I feel like I should have assessed what to say first. The question always came up “where are you from” and I’d be forced to answer “Egypt” since any other answer is kind of dishonest.

There’s just a lot on my mind. What does it mean to be me? What does it mean to have all these different backgrounds? Who and what am I? Having lots of time on my hands because my depression has essentially made me bedridden does not help in the slightest because I have no way of finding out those answers. And being bedridden doesn’t mean ‘I have time to think’, because I’m too busy actually dealing with my depression (and, some days, surviving my depression) to be philosophical in any way, shape, or form.

This is kinda selfish of me to do, but I'm queueing this because I desperately want people to see this and just, help, in some way. I might even reblog it and schedule it at another time because holy cow I need some advice.

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