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theculturedmarxist · 4 years ago

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Decolonization is not a metaphor

Kind of sucks for a lot of reasons, many of which I think are illustrated in their section about Occupy Oakland. (pg 25, 26)

As detailed by public intellectuals/bloggers such as Tequila Sovereign(Lenape scholar Joanne Barker), some Occupy sites, including Boston, Denver, Austin, and Albuquerque tried to engage in discussions about the problematic and colonial overtones of occupation (Barker, October 9, 2011). Barker blogs about a firsthand experience in bringing a proposal for a Memorandum of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples,18 to the General Assembly in Occupy Oakland. The memorandum, signed by Corrina Gould, (Chochenyo Ohlone-the first peoples of Oakland/Ohlone), Barker, and numerous other Indigenous and non-Indigenous activist-scholars, called for the acknowledgement of Oakland as already occupied and on stolen land; of the ongoing defiance by Indigenous peoples in the U.S. and around the globe against imperialism, colonialism, and oppression; the need for genuine and respectful involvement of Indigenous peoples in the Occupy Oakland movement; and the aspiration to “Decolonize Oakland,” rather than re-occupy it. From Barker’s account of the responses from settler individuals to the memorandum,

Ultimately, what they [settler participants in Occupy Oakland] were asking is whether or not we were asking them, as non-indigenous people, the impossible? Would their solidarity with us require them to give up their lands, their resources, their ways of life, so that we –who numbered so few, after all –could have more? Could have it all? (Barker, October 30, 2011)

These responses, resistances by settler participants to the aspiration of decolonization in Occupy Oakland, illustrate the reluctance of some settlers to engage the prospect of decolonization beyond the metaphorical or figurative level. Further, they reveal the limitations to “solidarity,” without the willingness to acknowledge stolen land and how stolen land benefits settlers. “Genuine solidarity with indigenous peoples,” Barker continues, “assumes a basic understanding of how histories of colonization and imperialism have produced and still produce the legal and economic possibility for Oakland” (ibid., emphasis original).

For social justice movements, like Occupy, to truly aspire to decolonization non-metaphorically, they would impoverish, not enrich, the 99%+ settler population of United States. Decolonization eliminates settler property rights and settler sovereignty. It requires the abolition of land as property and upholds the sovereignty of Native land and people.

The only thing more shocking than already impoverished people rejecting the call to impoverish themselves further because of events that occurred hundreds of years before they were born is that a majority of the GA supported the endeavor, just not enough for it to actually carry.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON GA: DECOLONIZE

Although I had participated in many of the marches and demonstrations in the fall, including the stunning shutdown of the Port of Oakland, my involvement really began December 4, 2011. That week, the Sunday GA moved from the evening to 2:00 in the afternoon. We met in Oscar Grant Plaza (OGP), the Oakland civic center previously named Frank Ogawa Plaza. It was renamed when it was the site of the OO encampment, which was violently evicted; it was now tenuously claimed by an ongoing 24 hour vigil and the GAs several times a week.

There were a lot of people at this GA. I had no idea that we would be considering a highly contentious proposal. A group of Native people were proposing renaming Occupy Oakland—to be called “Decolonize Oakland.” A term describing colonization and expropriation was not one they wanted to claim for our movement, and they wanted their history acknowledged.

GAs began with an introduction, including the hand signals of approval (twinkling fingers), disapproval (limp fists nicknamed “Quan hands” after our mayor) and impatience (rolling arms to signal time to wrap up a rambling or off-topic speech). Then we separated into smaller groups for the “forum discussion.” The topic this week was “What does Occupy mean to you?” This turned out to be ambiguous and led many groups to focus on the proposed name change. There were many groups of about twenty people each. In my group the participants were diverse, respectful and lively.

What was supposed to happen next was report backs about forum discussions, with people summarizing what went on in different groups. It soon became clear that dozens of people were lining up “on stack” for a chance to speak for or against the motion. It seemed impossible to maintain the GA agenda structure. As I remember it, the facilitators took a straw pool to check in about changing the sequence, although some were disgruntled by this procedural move.

I was impressed by the diversity of speakers, the range of opinions, the level of passion and the skill of the two young facilitators. At one point one of them slowed things down by reminding us all of the emotions expressed at this GA—anger, pride, anxiety, conviction, excitement—I don’t remember the specifics but I remember thinking, “I’ve gone to political meetings for decades and I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone speak explicitly about the feelings in the room.”

The defenders of the Occupy “brand” spoke about the national impact of the shared name, but I remember thinking, “if we can’t even change our name after four months, how can we change the world?” I even got on stack to say this, but there was a very long line ahead of me and I had to leave before getting a chance (by then the GA had lasted more than three hours).

At that time the operating rules of the GA considered a 90% vote to be a consensus, approving the proposal, and allowed for amendments if 70 to 90% of the group voted in support of a proposal. I found out later that 68% had voted in favor and that the supporters of Decolonize had separated from OO as result. A couple of weeks later, on December 16, the GA shifted to the concept of a “living document” that could be amended on the spot, if the proposers agreed. I wonder whether that GA could have endorsed a compromise hybrid name like Decolonize/Occupy Oakland, and what might have been different if we had–or if we hadn’t been able to even do that.

I was impressed with the GA I attended as a vivid example of “direct democracy.” At the same time, the damage was evident. Some supporters of the indigenous people resented disrespectful treatment of their elders, while some of their allies made accusations of racism against the people who wanted to hold onto the name of Occupy. As I understand it, Decolonize Oakland continued to exist as a separate group and sometimes participated in shared actions with OO, but this GA prevented greater ongoing unity.

(Note: the minutes of this GA can be read at http://occupyoakland.org/2011/12/ga-minutes-12-4-11/ and the proposal can be read at http://occupyoakland.org/2011/12/emergency-proposal-3-on-queue-for-december-4-2011-ga-proposal-to-decolonize-oakland-creating-a-more-radical-movement/)

From the minutes:

F: We’re going to change this topic. Please discuss: What does this movement mean to you?

The historical context of “occupy” doesn’t fit with the goals of this movement.

Newer people who are just discovering that they are oppressed need to respect the work and presence of those who have already been in the struggle.

People are responding to what we are doing, not to our name. They are excited about the larger connection to the national movement.

As a daughter of Texas and as a single mom, I think we should stay in keeping with ancestors and elders to rename the space.

We, the congregation of First Christian Church of Oakland, advocate that this movement be renamed Decolonize Oakland. We would also advocate for CoExist in Oakland, to embrace all people.

The original intent was to occupy the seat of power.

The term occupy is racist. In these movements across the country, few people of color are involved. We have this opportunity to step up.

The history of Wall Street is built on the colonization of the indigenous people, and the slavery of Africans on the land. The seats of power are within us – we do not need to use the same paradigm of “taking seats of power.”

F: Many people are speaking about a proposal in queue, and are not speaking about the topic, “What does this movement mean to you?” Please make your comments about the topic.

This must be divine timing. We did talk about the forum topic. We accept the concept of “occupy” but we think that it’s time for a change that will reflect everyone’s histories and voices.

In our group, some people liked the term “occupy” because it’s a good brand and it connects to OWS. We agree that all people’s voices should be heard, but we don’t know how to make decolonize, liberate, and occupy meld together as one. Some people in our group preferred “liberate” than “decolonize” because “de-“ sounds negative.

This is an opportunity to hold corrupt systems accountable and to protest people who are vulnerable in these systems

F: Let’s see who would like to go straight to the vote? Who would like to go to pros and cons? We could try hearing 2 pros and 2 cons. It seems like many people would like to speak. We will hear as many as we can.

Pros

I am in support of this proposal as a white person. I stand in solidarity with all people in the movement. We need to support this proposal on the principle of people who are left out of this movement.

We need to acknowledge that some of us have white privilege.

As Jewish person, I cannot support Palestinian people in a movement named “Occupy.”

We will only be weakened when using the language of our oppressors. The divisiveness here today is a symptom of colonization. We need to listen to those who are most affected. Let’s do it.

This language shows how colonized our minds are. Let’s change the status quo.

I will vote yes on this if the people behind the proposal put their lives into increasing the movement.

I do not want to fly on the coattails of imperialism.

People can understand that we are a part of the global movement, just like “Arab Spring” or “Los Indignados.”

One way that violence is perpetuated is through language.

This issue is not just about indigenous people. It’s about recognizing the history of the shoulders we stand on.

This proposal has pushed the envelope of this conversation. It has made you uncomfortable – welcome to my world. This emergency has been on hold for over 500 years.

We are more than a brand. Let’s occupy, decolonize, and liberate this.

Cons

Feelings are more important than words. Words change. Occupy is used throughout the movement, so we should keep that word. We have broken the process by allowing an emergency proposal to be heard that is not an emergency.

We have also allowed proposers to speak for 10 minutes. I am an occupant. I live here. I’m not stating an opinion about the name change. We have not had time to develop this conversation.

[...]

Vote Results:

68.5 % approval: THIS PROPOSAL HAS BEEN TABLED

YES: 198

ABSTAINED: 19

NO: 91

(After some cheering, much confusion and agitation ensued. Several people started chanting “Decolonize Oakland” for about five minutes.) IMPROMPTU ANNOUNCEMENT(This was said in the midst of the crowd with the People’s Mic, not within the GA process). No matter how you voted, please realize something. Everyone has a place here. We all need to recognize the power of this conversation. We want people to come out and be part of Occupy Oakland. Figure out what you want. Start listening to the people! Be about it! I love you all!! (Another voice…partially muffled – I couldn’t hear everything amidst arguing and people have side conversation). We might hold our own GA. Stay connected with us. We have more work ahead of us.

======================================================

So a movement divided and a bunch of time wasted over a name change because some people didn’t think that their cause was being acknowledged enough. And even after a vote in which most people actually supported the motion and then actually left to form their own Decolonize Oakland group or whatever, they still get libeled as a bunch of callous “settlers”.

Between DINAM and Settlers, if these are the products of Decolonization theory then I can’t see any good in it. It sounds like it wants to pretend to be egalitarian and anti-property, while at the same time privileging one group above all others and ensuring their own property rights to their land, at the expense of everyone else living on it. And yes, at the expense of everyone else living on it:

Not unique, the United States,as a settler colonial nation-state, also operates as an empire-utilizing external forms and internal forms of colonization simultaneous to the settler colonial project. This means, and this is perplexing to some, that dispossessed people are brought onto seized Indigenous land through other colonial projects. Other colonial projects include enslavement, as discussed, but also military recruitment, low-wage and high-wage labor recruitment (such as agricultural workers and overseas-trained engineers), and displacement/migration (such as the coerced immigration from nations torn by U.S. wars or devastated by U.S. economic policy). In this set of settler colonial relations, colonial subjects who are displaced by external colonialism, as well as racialized and minoritized by internal colonialism, still occupy and settle stolen Indigenous land. Settlers are diverse, not just of white European descent, and include people of color, even from other colonial contexts. This tightly wound set of conditions and racialized, globalized relations exponentially complicates what is meant by decolonization, and by solidarity,against settler colonial forces.

So when they’re saying “to support us you have to impoverish all the settlers, ie, everyone that isn’t us,” they’re being very literal. It’s just more bourgeois identity politics cooked up by privileged people in academic institutions.

Into the trash it goes.

#settlers #sakai #decolonization #decolonisation #decolonization is not a metaphor #occupy oakland #occupy wall street #identity politics

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theemptyquarto · 4 years ago

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Abandoned WIPs

for @goodintentionswipfest

“Oh my God, that was, like, the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

That was the first thing she ever said to him.

Victor Trevor, the bastard, had dragged him out of the lab, then made him drive a car full of giggling idiots for three hours to Swanage, then had abandoned him to get drunk with additional idiots from Birmingham who had driven even further. And now one of the idiots from Birmingham, the American girl with too much hair, was criticizing his stone skimming abilities.

“I’d like to see you do any better,” he said, shortly.

The girl raised her eyebrows and made a face at him, then went to look for a stone of her own.

“The water is too turbulent here,” he said.

The girl kept looking, until she found a smooth white stone, really too large for the purpose, being almost the size of her palm.

“It calls for a calmer day than this,” he said.

Then the girl drew back her arm and lobbed the stone, which skimmed perfectly, touching the water five times before sinking into the water of the bay. Because of course it did.

“If you want to skip rocks in this kind of water you need to pick a bigger one and kind of… loft it over the breakwater. Just like that,” she said, waving vaguely at the sea.

“Skim stones.”

“What?”

“Here we call it skimming stones. Not skipping rocks.”

“And it’s pech blini in Russia and hacer ranitas in Spain. We didn’t pitch your tea into Boston Harbor just to keep doing everything the same way you did.”

The words were bellicose but for once he was able to pick up on the tone, and when he looked through the ringlets that the breeze was blowing into her face, he could see that she was pinching her lips together to keep from smiling.

“I remember,” he said, slowly, “The great skimming stones debate that provoked the revolution. We learnt all about it at school. That’s why we burnt down your White House. That and your willful mispronunciation of aluminium.”

The girl burbled a laugh, and it was not as unpleasant as it mostly was when girls laughed. The “with” not “at” made all the difference.

Because he was eighteen years old and still desperately trying to pass for normal, Sherlock said, “I’m Will.”

She was twenty-one, and Mary Morstan and the rest of her pseudonyms were well into the future. So because it was the simple truth, she said, “I’m Rose. Nice to meet you, Will. I can teach you how to skip rocks properly if you want. Though it’ll wreck your attempt to look all Byronic and interesting.”

Sherlock frowned, though he wasn’t quite sure what Byronic meant, honestly. “I wasn’t trying to look like anything.”

“Oh come on. Alone, staring out over the sunset sea, the wind ruffling your hair. Very ‘Adieu, Adieu, my native shore.’”

“This is my native shore, I just wanted to look at the tide pools. Anyway, why are you here?”

“I,” she said, grandly, “Am way too close to shitfaced and I need to take a break for an hour. And I thought you looked Byronic and interesting. Where are there tide pools?”

He angled his head to their right. “Back that way. Maybe half a mile.”

“Let’s go see them!”

“I’ve seen them. And you aren’t wearing the appropriate shoes for climbing.”

Rose looked down at her cheap flip-flops, shrugged, and said, “God hates a coward. Come on.”

They’d looked at the tide pools, and Rose hadn’t complained as they scrabbled over rough Purbeck stone to get to them. Being a small woman, she’d asked for a hand up on two occasions, but she didn’t complain, and she was genuinely interested in the sea slugs and anemones they found.

Then they’d moved on to another section of swimming beach, and now she was trying to teach him to skip rocks.

“Oh! You almost had that one,” she exclaimed, as his latest effort sank.

“What sort of trajectory am I trying for?” he asked. “It really isn’t obvious.”

“Ummmm…” and she pitched another stone, which made four hops before sinking. “I mean, I guess, like fifteen or twenty degrees. But it depends on the rock.”

“Well, that’s helpful.”

“You just take the rock and then you know how you have to throw it. It’s mostly practice.”

“You’re very good at it.”

“It’s what I’m best at,” she said, and the next stone made six skips before it sank. “You got a projectile and need it put someplace specific, I’m your girl.”

“Really?”

“Really. What are you best at?”

He thought about it for a minute.

“Deductions. That’s what I’m best at.”

“Like… in geometry? If AB equals BC then A equals C?”

“Sort of. But it’s not just that. I can do it for other things. And people.”

“How?”

“Just like in geometry. You use if-then logic and come to the appropriate conclusion. Except most people aren’t aware of all of the givens, and I am.”

“O-kay,” she said, slowly, “So, like, what can you deduce about me?”

He cocked his head, doubtfully, and asked, “You want me to do that?”

Rose shrugged. “Why not? What have I got to hide?”

Sherlock wished he hadn’t mentioned it, now. It would spoil what had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. She was only asking because she’d never seen him do it… nobody really wanted his deductions. Everyone had something to hide.

But she had asked and declining would be nearly as offensive, he supposed. So he let himself really look. Excessive dark-blonde hair, no jewelry, black midriff-baring top with thin straps and no bra (irrelevant, he chided himself), well-developed lean musculature particularly in the shoulders. Mid-priced wide-legged flared jeans clumsily home-hemmed, since she fell between the “petite” and “regular” lengths. He walked behind her, continuing his examination, and smiled. The grey plaid flannel shirt she had knotted around her waist had a great deal of relevant information.

Returning in front of her, he asked, “May I have a look at your hands?” Rose complied, extending them forward, palms up. Her hands, with their emerald-green fingernails and distinctive musculature, had almost everything else he thought he could get, except-

“And a better look at the tattoo, please?”

Rose smiled and raised an eyebrow at that, but complied, slipping a thumb under the waistband of her jeans and tugging them down another inch or two to reveal a small, stylized design of a leafless tree struck by lightning (and incidentally a crest of pale hipbone and just a flash of red plaid underwear).

“Satisfied?” she asked.

“Entirely.” And Sherlock was.

“So what do you deduce?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. You’re an American-“

“Well that was a toughie,” Rose teased.

“From Iowa. You’re a natural linguist but you’re studying chemistry. You played softball seriously, as a pitcher, until a rotator cuff injury which you opted not to have corrected bought your sporting ambitions to an end within the last year. Upper middle class family, strict parents. You currently live with a wire-haired terrier you dislike, you’re sentimental, and you’re a keen amateur cook.”

And that had done it, of course. Her face, which had formerly seemed naturally happy, had closed off and become hostile. She took a step away from him, and said, coldly, “Has Victor been talking about me behind my back?”

“You know Victor Trevor?” Sherlock asked.

“Everybody knows Victor. Answer the question.”

“No, he hasn't. I told you. I looked and I listened. Teeth straightened in adolescence, a selection of newish mid-priced clothes, spending a semester abroad? Well off but probably not rich family, then. You know, at no notice, idiomatic phrases in two separate languages describing an unusual activity? Clearly, there’s a gift for languages. The mild splay of the fingers in your dominant hand and unusual muscular development in your shoulders, along with your obvious aptitude for throwing suggests softball and pitching. The slight pull and hesitation when you draw that arm back would allow any doctor to diagnose a rotator cuff injury, a career-ending one without surgical correction, and yet you lack scars. Thus softball is over.”

Rose cocked her head and looked at him, but at least the anger was gone. So he continued.

“There’s particularly contoured dog hair common to wire-haired terriers on your jeans, meaning it’s fond of you, but none on your shirt, meaning you don’t pick it up, and you aren’t fond of it.”

“Marco’s a drooler and he scratches. Anyway I’m more of a cat person.”

“Cats eat you after you’re dead. They don’t even wait until they’re starving, just mildly peckish.”

“True, but on the other hand, I’m dead in this situation. So who cares?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Very practical. You’ve got enough minor knife and burn injuries to your hands to suggest you spend a lot of time cooking but your forearm development isn’t substantial enough to indicate professional work in the field. I can tell you study chemistry because of the marks on your shirt. They never properly clean the lab benches off and you lean into the edges and get some trace amounts of peroxide or acid on the material… which then produces distinctive straight lines of bleaching the next time the shirt is laundered. I have some of the same ones, see?”

He gestured to his trousers, where the bleaching effect occurred on him, given his greater height.

“Huh,” Rose said, “I never really thought about that. So why Iowa?”

“Ah, I was right!”

“Not really. Nebraska. But just across the river from Iowa.”

Sherlock sighed. “Accents are difficult with anyone young enough to have watched television as a child. But the Iowa accent is marked by monopthongs and “T”-glottalization, and you have it.”

“I have no idea what those things are,” Rose said, musingly, “But since most people around here think New York and L.A. are the only two cities in America that’s actually really good.”

Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his face with pride, and so he kept on, “You’re sentimental because that flannel is battered and you’ve fixed three different tears rather than just discarding it, even though it was never terribly expensive.”

“I saw Nirvana in this shirt.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering if she meant she was Buddhist, and then recalled the band.

“That tattoo,” he wrapped up, “Is a Marius Cook, done about five months ago. I’ve made a bit of a study of the major tattoo artists of the United Kingdom, you’d be surprised at how often it’s useful. You’ve been of legal age to get tattooed for some time but waited until you were well away from home and then did it instantly but kept it someplace easy to hide, thus: strict parents.”

It was dark, now, and someone had pulled out a guitar and was strumming amateurish chords. Sherlock and Rose had looked at one another and, in a moment of pure intoxicated understanding

The semen had more or less dried on her thighs by the time Rose decided that Will wouldn’t be back, even to collect his shirt. She sighed and rubbed her stubble-burned face. Then she pulled on her underwear and jeans, and sat and looked up at the stars, which were slightly more mobile than they ought to have been.

She’d liked him. He wasn’t handsome, but five years and twenty pounds of weight gain would probably have made him so. And he was sweet. Clumsy and inexperienced, yes, but intelligent and fun to talk with… essentially, she’d been very happy with the encounter and now she felt…

Cheap. Which was undoubtedly what her mother would have said about anyone who fucked a man who she’d just met and was expecting to never see again. So Rose had a bit of a self-pitying snivel, and cried about her troubles.

Eventually her natural good humor resurfaced (she had the beneficial confidence of someone who had taken a birth control pill every day for the last three years) and she said, smiling to herself, “Jilted by a gentleman. If I can get ruined and discarded by a redcoat I can have my own Gothic novel.”

She collected the blanket and Will’s shirt, then ambled back to the party, which was still in full swing, although the Oxford contingent seemed to have gone. Her flatmate Magda spotted her and called out, “There you are, you whore. Where’d tall dark and skinny run off to?”

“I think I frightened him away,” Rose replied, lightly, “English boys are all prudes. Are there any more of those screwdrivers?”

Magda gestured wildly at the five gallon drinks cooler behind her. “About half.”

“Good. About half sounds just about right.” And she wadded Will’s shirt up, tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, and poured herself a drink.

They both forgot all about it. The vodka helped Rose do a great deal of this within the first twenty-four hours. Then there was the fact that Byronic-and-interesting Will was neither the first nor the last of a long string of men that would eventually span four continents, some of whom would disappoint her in far more spectacular fashion. By the time she buried Rose and became Mary, she could skim stones without even vaguely recalling that summer afternoon.

Sherlock didn’t forget much, and so deleting Rose took an effort of willpower. He performed a few subsequent experiments with sex and came to the conclusion that it was unlikely to be productive of any good and indeed, subjected him to undesirable sentimentality. Cocaine was a far more efficient euphoric and asked much less of him, in the end. The choice to purge his files on the subject en masse was therefore simple logic and had nothing to do with wishing to shed the recollection of a callow, prematurely-ejaculating version of himself.

When, much later, he plugged the memory stick marked AGRA into his laptop and began reading the files, the name Rose Addison didn’t stir even the faintest reminiscence.

“Oh no. Oh my God, you’re- You died! You jumped off a roof!”

That was the first thing she ever said to him.

#WIP #Marylock #BBC Sherlock fic #pre-series #unilock #Was going to be smutty but I dried up on how to write those bits and so is just #t-rated #Quarto's fics

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potatocrab · 4 years ago

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Salvation is a Last Minute Business (17/18)

Chapter 17: Lose More Slowly

The wide network of Valentine Detective Agency’s allies meet to perfect the plan to infiltrate MIT. On the eve of ‘battle’, Madelyn is apprehensive about one last confession from Deacon. With no time to waste, the fight is taken to Cambridge where the Institute can be exposed once and for all.

“That’s not the way to win.”—Jeff, as played by Robert Mitchum

“Is there a way to win?”—Kathie, as played by Jane Greer

“There’s a way to lose more slowly.” (Out of the Past, 1947)

[read on Ao3] | [chapter masterpost]

June 16th, 1958

It took just over two weeks to solidify the plan to infiltrate the Institute. It hardly mattered that Madelyn and Nick—with Deacon and the Railroad’s help—had previously breached Fort Hagen. This operation was an entirely different beast, that required an entirely different set of skills and resources. There would be no undercover sneaking, or witty aliases this time—just a dangerous game of cat and mouse—a game they all hoped to survive.

After weeks of organizing, Nick decided there was no point in waiting any longer and called a meeting at the agency to be held the evening before their planned attack. The usual group had increased exponentially, with the allies they had gained in the last several months joining them, each with their own part to play. It was remarkable to see everyone in one place, spread out in the lobby (because there was no logistical way to fit so many people in Nick’s tiny office), and it made Madelyn think that maybe—just maybe—they had a shot at finding out the truth behind the Institute’s schemes.

She sat, perched on the edge of Ellie’s receptionist desk so that she could have a clear view of the room, scribbling down the summarized events of what was to occur the following morning. The plan was carefully detailed and outlined in a series of reports and dictated memos, but there was no harm in writing it out one last time. The secretary was working overtime—literally—bouncing from one cluster of people to the next, offering refills of strong coffee or spirits. But nearly everyone was focused on Nick and his giant, wheeled chalkboard of information, and the way it outlined the case’s timeline, all the way back to 1947. The detective was in rare form—sharp, focused, and with a fiery determination Madelyn hadn’t seen in months, or maybe years. Coat discarded and sleeves rolled up, he talked through the details, and didn’t stop for a drink or cigarette.

“…which brings us to the incident at city hall,” Nick gestured to the Publick Occurrences newspaper clipping before stepping away to finally grab a quick sip of his whiskey that sat next to Madelyn. “Did you ever find out why the Boston P.D. were a no-show?”

Sergeant Danny Sullivan, fresh out from the hospital after recovering from his injuries sustained at said incident, sat in a nearby chair. He nodded, looking displeased with the information he was about to share. “It was all Mayor McDonough’s fault, buying off officers. Which means, by proxy, they were paid off by MIT, if we’re still in agreement about who was—is—pulling the strings.”

“Not for very much longer,” Nick replied.

“I’ve had to spend the last two weeks cooped up at New England sending a courier back and forth to the courthouse to perform background checks on my entire squad to make sure none of them have connections to the university,” Sullivan described, shaking his head with a deep scowl.

“Cheer up, Danny Boy,” Hancock quipped, leaned back in the chair at the Sergeant’s side. “At least there’s some good news.”

“Please John,” Nick groused, maybe wishing the younger McDonough brother was still recuperating from his own gunshot wound. “Enlighten us.”

“Made a house call with Bobby to the deputy district attorney last night,” Hancock explained, motioning over to where the former mercenary was fixing his own cup of coffee at the kitchenette. “Did you know that his kid and little Duncan go to preschool together?”

Nick wasn’t amused, and his patience was wearing thin. Though, it always did with the would-be politician. “How cute.”

“Right? And there I was, thinking I’d have to resort to blackmail,” the other man replied.

MacCready laughed as he leaned against the galley, taking a sip from his cup before wincing at whatever he’d poured into the porcelain. “You still blackmailed him.”

“Mild blackmail,” Hancock contended with a shrug, ignoring the way Nick and Madelyn shot him double looks of disappointment and concern. “Agree to disagree. The good news is we sweet talked that stiff into signing a genuine warrant. With somethin’ like that, we’re made in the shade.”

He handed the folded document from his jacket pocket to Sergeant Sullivan, who took his time in reading it over. Nick was still skeptical, leaning against the desk near Madelyn while he slowly nursed his drink.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the detective urged. “Does it look legitimate?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sullivan affirmed, passing the warrant to Nick to read.

Madelyn glanced over his shoulder, glossing over the familiar legal jargon before focusing on the signature at the bottom—it surely looked like the deputy district attorney’s scrawl. She didn’t think either Hancock or MacCready would jeopardize the case with a little bit of forgery. Not that blackmail was any better, but she could sooth it over with the man who was technically her boss later.

“Well, at least now we have a valid reason to get into the building,” Nick spoke, handing the document back to the Sergeant for safekeeping. “Wouldn’t hurt to have backup on standby, just in case.”

The focus shifted to Preston Garvey who was smiling his thanks as Ellie poured him a new cup of coffee. Standing next to him was Lieutenant Danse—ever the reluctant participant—who had refused a seat and a drink. The only reason why he agreed to assist was for ‘the greater good’. The Institute and their experiments had no place in the United States military, and he was determined to see them exposed for what they truly were.

“The Minutemen are already in position throughout Cambridge,” Preston explained. “Just give me the word, and they can be ready in a minute’s notice.”

The Lieutenant sneered. “We’ll root out those Institute bastards, one way or another.”

“That’s the spirit,” Piper remarked from her spot near the front door. “I’ve done my own reconnaissance around Cambridge and the campus with Mister Neurotic here.”

Tinker Tom sat in a nearby seat, spinning his body in increasingly faster circles until the reporter reached out to stop him. He gazed up at her with wide eyes. “Is that me?”

Piper looked as though she could snap his neck but relaxed with a deep sigh. “Based on his readouts, and those blueprints, we were able to find an unmarked sewer entrance near the eastern banks of the Charles River.”

“Why does it always have to be a sewer?” Madelyn mumbled under her breath, causing Nick to smirk.

“Good work, Piper,” he remarked, the closest he’d gotten to happy all evening. “This means we can go ahead with splitting up into smaller teams.”

“Better if you and Blue take the sneaky route while the rest of us cover your tails,” she gestured to the circle of people, her eyes lingering on the figure leaning against the far corner of the room. “That is, if we can trust these blueprints in the first place, and we aren’t about to send you into a trap.”

Madelyn frowned at Piper, wishing that after all this time her friend could be less cynical about the Railroad and their resources. Sure, their actions were still largely shrouded in mystery, but that didn’t equate to nefariousness. It was important to remember who the real enemy was. She let her eyes drift to where Deacon was standing near the doorway to her office—where he’d been standing all night, just silently listening and watching from behind his darkened shades. A slight shiver ran up her spine and intuition told her his attention was focused on her rather than the other occupants of the room.

“You can trust me,” he finally said, the weight of his words lost on everyone except her. Piper shrugged but didn’t make to argue any further. Madelyn smiled to herself as she broke her gaze away from his face, looking down at the writing on her notepad instead.

Nick stood, bringing the attention back to the timeline. “Let’s not get blind-sighted by the Institute.”

“We have a man to find. Kellogg,” he reminded the group, tapping the chalkboard where the scarred man’s picture hung. “More than that, we have a child to bring home to his parents. Shaun Perlman. I’d like to solve this, once and for all.”

Silent understanding fell over the room, but it didn’t last.

“A toast,” Hancock suddenly declared, raising his glass. “To the best damn detective this city’s ever seen,” he nodded towards Madelyn, grinning like he’d gone mad—maybe he had. “And behind every great man, is an even greater woman. To Valentine and Hardy!”

As it grew closer to midnight, the plans for the following day were solidified and the agency gradually emptied out. The participants would need a good night’s rest—if it were even possible—before they infiltrated the Institute in the morning. Nick and Madelyn saw their guests out, though the detective left her to walk with Deacon outside so they might have some privacy. Even then, she noted Drummer Boy waiting by a parked car with Tinker Tom inside, the two doing everything they could to pretend they weren’t watching the two.

“We’re heading back to the church for a rendezvous,” he explained, positioning himself so the others couldn’t necessarily see their exchange. “Somebody has to fill Desdemona and Glory in on all the nitty-gritty.”

“Is it safe for you all to travel in the same car?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. Call it paranoia, but she’d had enough close calls in the last six months to last a lifetime.

Deacon softly chuckled, reaching out to gently wrap his fingers through the curls along the side of her face. “You’ve been spending too much time reading those detective novels, Charmer.”

“Or living in one.”

He looked at her, and there was the unspoken question—will I see you tonight? She frowned a little and sensed his disappointment, even behind his shades. She grasped the hand at his side and brushed her thumbs across his knuckles in affectionate sweeps.

“I’m staying with Nick tonight,” Madelyn said, trying not to sound too sad about it. She mimicked his speech pattern. “Somebody has to make sure he actually sleeps tonight.”

Deacon offered a barely-there smile, which sent her thoughts into a tailspin. He moved his hand so he was softly cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb ghosting down towards her lips. “What if I said that I had a secret to tell you?”

“What kind of secret?” Madelyn asked in response, her heartrate suddenly increasing at the possibilities. Slowly, the world around her started to fade away, and the only thing keeping her grounded was his touch.

“An important secret,” he answered, breath hot against her mouth.

It was very likely that he was playing some kind of game, all part of an elaborate ruse to get her to come home with him. What could possibly be more important than what she’d already learned about him—his appearance, his home, his name. Unless it was all a lie. Madelyn doubted that, even as a momentary pang shot through her heart. Deacon must’ve noticed the subtle change in her expression because he pulled away just enough, and quickly pushed up his glasses so that she could see his eyes. Their stormy grey-blue color were vibrant with emotion, so striking and intense that she felt overwhelmed. Secret immediately translated in her mind to confession.

Deacon drew her closer again, hand cradling the side of her face. “Madelyn, I—”

Her heart nearly stopped at the sound of her name—her real name—and she had to fight to stay standing as her knees wobbled. Then, she kissed him, if only to stop him from saying anything. Call it fear, call her a coward—she just couldn’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence, even if she was dying to scream it from the rooftops herself. He was surprised for a half-second before returning the kiss, angling them even more out of eyeshot from the loitering Railroad agents. Couldn’t see the boss-man (because face it, she knew the truth about that too) sharing a tender moment with his lady.

Madelyn pulled away just a fraction before they could get carried away in such a public setting and gripped his hand tight. “Cliché confessions spoken in the calm before the storm are a bad omen, don’t you think?”

Deacon blinked, temporarily stunned, but recovered well enough to flash a sideways smirk, one she couldn’t tell was forced or not. The last thing she wanted was to cause a rift between them when they needed each other’s support the most.

“You’re right,” he sighed wistfully, bordering on playing his emotions too thick. He readjusted his shades so they were where they belonged—at least for him. “Wouldn’t want to jinx it.”

The car horn behind them blared into the night and he turned, hand still clasped in hers to see Drummer Boy leaning into the driver’s car window with his arm poised to repeat the action. Tinker Tom was snickering, daring him to do it again. Despite her unease, Madelyn smiled. “Shouldn’t keep the boys waiting.”

He shook his head and brought her hand up so he could press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Je t’adore.”

Madelyn knew that wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but it would have to do, for now. She kept her eyes on him the entire time as he walked away, shooing Drummer Boy away from the driver’s side door of their vehicle before getting in. Deacon regarded her for one last lingering moment as he started the car before slowly driving away. Within moments, Nick rejoined her on the sidewalk, following her line of sight down the stretch of road.

“Ready to go?”

She turned to face him as a wash of remorse came over her heart. Had she done the right thing? Madelyn studied her partner’s face and his bemused expression, eyebrow raised as he looked back at her with mild concern.

“Nick, have I ever told you that I love you?” she asked, just to see if she could say the words. Easy enough—now why couldn’t she say them to Deacon? Or have them spoken to her?

“Sure you’re saying that to the right fella?” Nick’s laughter died as soon as he noticed her melancholy state and drew closer to her, wrapping her up in a loose hug. He held her long enough, uncaring that they had somewhere to be. When he pulled away, he tilted her chin up with a few fingers and offered a fleeting smile. “Love you too, doll.”

June 17th, 1958

“Have I ever mentioned how much I love wet socks?”

Deacon’s hushed voice echoed through the underground tunnel, barely audible over the rushing sound of water that flowed around them and beneath their feet. He was walking a few paces behind Madelyn while Nick advanced ahead, trying his best to ignore the spy’s outburst as he focused on following the makeshift map in his hand.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, narrowing her eyes at the shine from the flashlight he carried. “Once or twice, yes.”

“Wish I had the same idea as you, Charmer,” he sneered, flicking the light across her outfit. She had the foresight to wear the shoes that had already been damaged the last time she went walking through a sewer, and one of her older dresses that despite Codsworth’s cleanings, was still stained with questionable material. “Or is that some kind of bad omen?”

She instantly whipped back around so he wouldn’t see her disappointed frown, though judging by his silence, he knew he’d crossed a line by using those words. Madelyn knew she’d come to regret not letting him say what he wanted to—needed to—but did he have to be so cruel? At first, she was grateful for him to be at her side in this so-called final fight, relying on him for that extra bit of emotional strength and comfort he could provide so well. But now, she almost wished he had stayed topside with Piper and the others or gone with Sergeant Sullivan through the main entrance. His presence was only causing her emotional turmoil, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

This time, Nick was the one to turn back to look at her, his scowl indicating that he’d heard their conversation. Madelyn knew he likely had a litany of strongly worded advice for the other man, but she shook her head, silencing him before he could even start. This was neither the time or place—not when they were quite literally in the belly of the beast.

“Should be a latch up ahead,” he said instead, turning back to lead the two down the dark passageway. It took a few more yards before they reached a ladder that led to a metal door, and if the map layouts were accurate as they had been so far, it would take them to a larger, less water-logged room. “Into the unknown.”

Nick didn’t wait for anyone to volunteer before climbing the metal rungs first, pausing at the latch to fiddle with the lock. “Watch your heads!”

Madelyn and Deacon sidestepped the padlock as it crashed into the shallow water at their feet, craning their heads upwards to watch as the detective disappeared through the newly opened hole. She anxiously looked to her Railroad partner, motioning for him to climb first, and he hesitated, passing her the flashlight before finally moving. There was some disappointment as she watched him ascend, secretly hoping there would be some teasing remark about insisting she go first so that he might sneak a peak up her skirt. Instead, the persistent silence between them started to break her heart. Madelyn thought about blurting out how she felt, but it hardly felt romantic. Rather, it felt stupid. Maybe she’d missed her chance. After how many missed opportunities over the last several weeks to tell him, now was when she desperately wanted to say those three little words.

I love you.

Okay, not so little. Talk about timing.

Nick’s face peered over the ledge and only then did she realize she’d been standing frozen, stuck in her thoughts. “What did I say about standing pretty?”

She forced a laugh and climbed up to meet them, allowing Deacon to hoist her up the rest of the way despite the fact his touch was like fire against her skin. His hand squeezed against her arm, thumb brushing along the soft underside of her wrist as he stared at her. It was delicate, as if she’d shatter if he pressed too hard. Madelyn lingered until she was sure he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse and slowly pulled away.

Nick pretended to have not seen the exchange, focused on the set of locked doors that led to various parts of the underground system. At the back of the storage room was a freight elevator—where it led was anybody’s guess. The detective consulted the folded-up blueprints again, twisting them around in his hands and tapping the sheet to signify where they were.

“If we take...this door,” he pointed west. “We’ll head further down into some kind of storage complex, and…”

“And what?” Madelyn asked, stepping further away from Deacon so she could peer at the carefully drawn diagrams on the paper.

Nick shrugged, clearly puzzled. “Not sure. Just looks like one big empty room according to this.”

She looked back to Deacon to see if he had anything to add, but he remained silent, doing nothing to help her nerves. She sighed. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

The hallway beyond the western door smelt sterile, reminiscent of a hospital, the lingering scent of alcohol threatening to burn her nostrils if she breathed in too deep. As they descended a narrow staircase, the stench intensified as their surroundings shifted from the drab to the pristine. For being underground, it felt like walking into a museum. It felt otherworldly, untouched by time.

“Damn,” Deacon finally spoke—breathed—as they stepped out onto the landing, which overlooked a seemingly never-ending room of storage containers, computers and other technology.

There were metal platforms connected to more observation stations, with staircases that led further into the depths of the underground bunker. The possibilities of what they might find were endless. Near the back, shadowed in darkness, was the faint glow of a reactor core—no wonder the Institute had been become so powerful, so quickly, all while boasting the use of clean energy.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Madelyn asked, perturbed by the slight humming that echoed through the large room.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” Deacon asked, and she glanced at him, unsure if he was joking or not. He frowned. “Won’t be able to tell until we take a closer look.”

“Of course,” Nick grumbled. “Let’s split up, see what we can find in those rooms on the way over.”

Madelyn’s only comfort was that they could easily see each other as they walked along the platforms, but was still apprehensive, especially when both men removed their holstered weapons. It was more alarming to see Deacon armed, the pistol an unusual sight. Even in their most dangerous of operations, he’d relied on wits rather than steel. She had her own revolver, and quickly pulled it from underneath her skirts with a small flourish. With a silent nod, they each took a different path.

Madelyn reached a small alcove before the others, the tiny windowed room filled with filing cabinets and scattered paperwork across two desks. There was a stack of files that she idly flipped through, the words on the page confirming that the Institute had been performing or had been attempting to perform brain augmentations for years. As far as she could discern, the files contained information on potential targets—if the college had been successful in capturing them, or if something else had occurred. Many had been ultimately passed over for frivolous reasons, and the reports read like rejected job applicants rather than candidates for brainwashing. Her absentminded browsing stopped dead-cold when she came across an all too familiar name.

Madelyn nearly fainted at the picture pinned to the inside of the file. “Nate?”

“Now, isn’t this precious?”

She knew that voice without needing to turn around. It had been nearly two years, but she was instantly transported to Christmas Eve, 1946 and that dark, snowy, Boston Common alley where her husband was murdered. That same electric chill ran through her body—head to toe—rooting her to the spot. No amount of fear she’d experienced in the last six months could compare to the sensation crawling across her skin, threatening to close off her windpipe without so much as a gasp.

His footsteps slowly echoed against the metal flooring, drawing closer until she could feel his body heat radiating, circling around her form until he was in perfect view.

“Kellogg,” she forced herself to say, gripping the gun at her side.

He grinned in that hauntingly familiar, devilish way, not surprised that she knew his name. “In the flesh.”

There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask—about Nate’s murder, about Shaun Perlman’s kidnapping, about all the other unsolved cases he was supposedly linked to. Was he really an Institute experiment gone wrong, or some kind of pawn? His very presence seemed to answer that last one loud and clear. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was reprimanding herself for not shooting first, and asking questions later. She’d made that mistake before and it nearly cost Nick his life—and had ended Jenny’s. That couldn’t happen now. Just as her hand twitched and she made to raise her revolver, he advanced towards her, pinning her against the glass window. The sound was loud enough to alert her partners where they stood yards away on sperate platforms.

“Charmer!”

“Madelyn!”

“How cute,” Kellogg taunted, the phrase familiar and gut wrenching all the same. “Who should I kill this time?”

He roughly pushed her aside so that she collapsed against one of the desks. As he left, he tossed a device over his shoulder that immediately filled the room with smoke, grey plumes billowing out into the main area. Madelyn clamped her eyes shut as she spluttered and coughed, struggling to pull herself to stand after smacking her head against the edge of the desk. She blindly reached for her gun and resigned herself to crawl to the doorway before using the railings to drag her body upright. To the left, she could see the faint outline of Nick’s trench coat but to the right, she could see two bodies—Kellogg and Deacon—scuffling along the walkway.

Without a second thought she forced herself to go—to run—back the way she came and to where they were. The smoke made it difficult to see clearly, but Deacon’s gun was gone—they were now fighting for Kellogg’s, swapping positions when one would gain the upper hand to pin the other to the guard railing. In the time it took Madelyn to rush over, Deacon found enough leverage to push the other man over the ledge, but Kellogg wouldn’t give up so easily. He held onto the railing with one hand and swung his other arm up to shoot. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, giving Madelyn little time to act.

“Deacon!” she shouted for him to move out of the way, raising her pistol so her sights were aimed directly on Kellogg’s scar. When he didn’t move, her mind went blank save for one thing. “Johnathan!”

He immediately turned to her, the momentary shock fading away as he finally dove for cover. Kellogg could only laugh, and even Madelyn wondered why he hadn’t taken the opportunity to shoot Deacon—or them both—dead. His grip on the railing tightened as he attempted to pull himself up, to no avail.

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he spat. “You won’t kill me.”

Eddie Winter had said the same thing, before running away. From where she stood, there wasn’t anywhere for Kellogg to run. Madelyn didn’t feel like hesitating anymore, not after what he’d taken from her. The smug smile slowly returned to his face as he trained the same gun he’d used all those years ago at her—but she was faster—pulling the trigger just once.

Bullseye.

The sound was deafening and shook her to the core. She watched, shaking as Kellogg’s death-grip slowly loosened until he finally slipped from the ledge and down to the chasm below, the thump of his body against the floor a chilling indication that part of their mission was over. Tears instantly clouded her vision, and she sucked in as much air as she could, blindly reaching out for the nearest railing with her free hand as her knees gave out. Deacon was at her side in an instant, scrambling to collect her in his arms as he took the gun from her trembling hand before wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“Shh,” he hushed, pressing soft but urgent kisses against her temple as he combed his fingers through her hair. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, Deacon whispering incoherent, comforting words into the shell of her, but it was what she desperately needed as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. They both whipped around at the sudden sound of rushing footsteps against the walkway, breathing a sigh of relief when they saw it was only Nick, looking just as disheveled as they did.

“Whoa, whoa,” he raised his hands in defense, carefully observing the scene before him. “It’s just me. Had to take care of two crazed androids. Makes sense now that I see who they showed up with.”

“Yeah,” Madelyn answered, still clutching Deacon’s arm in the fear she might topple over out of shock. Nick didn’t bother asking her if she was—or would be—alright as he silently peered over the ledge with a grim expression. He’d been in her shoes—revenge wasn’t as sweet as people claimed it to be. She pinched the bridge of her nose and found her voice.

“They—they were looking for candidates,” she began, pointing back to the room where she’d found the files before she’d been rudely interrupted. “For brain augmentation, for—” she broke off, unable to stand the thought. “Nick, they had a file on Nate.”

His eyebrows jumped up in surprise before furrowing in anger, but to her surprise, his fury was calmer than hers. He gestured to a databank further back. “Come on, let’s find out what these bastards are hiding.”

The computer was surrounded by towering processors—technology that Madelyn had never seen, even when she’d been to the Switchboard. Nick didn’t seem daunted, at least by the screen and output, immediately leaning over to type commands like it was his job. Deacon only slipped away when she assured him she would be okay, and she watched as he carefully approached the reactor they’d seen before.

“We weren’t wrong,” Nick muttered, sounding not entirely confident. Madelyn studied his profile, attempting to decipher the information flashing before her eyes on the tiny screen. “But we were wrong about a lot of things, too.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Nick pressed his fingers against a few more keys. “It’s not just brain surgery, or brainwashing we’re looking at, here.”

“Those candidates you were looking at?” he tapped his prosthetic fingers against his screen, creating an eerie kind of sound. “If they didn’t work out for procedure one, they were used for procedure two.”

“Being?”

“DNA harvesting,” Nick said bleakly. “To be used in the production of new androids. To make them...as close to human as possible.”

Madelyn was already connecting the dots in her mind, her chest tightening in dread. “Nate?”

Nick didn’t say anything at first, nervous as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Close. You.”

“Hair sample, 1956,” he continued, explaining before she had a chance to react. Still, she nearly collapsed in disbelief. He looked at her face-on, his sympathetic expression not doing much to quell her fears. “How’d—”

“He—that bastard,” she answered, refusing to use Kellogg’s name. “He tore some from my scalp.”

I prefer brunettes—his voice still echoed in her mind, causing a chill to run through her.

“Always thought it was as a trophy. Never thought it would be for some sick experiment.”

Her partner studied the screen, clicking through more pages. “I don’t think they were successful with sequencing anything, if that gives you any piece of mind.”

“Hardly,” she mumbled, wondering if there was still the slim possibility that somewhere in the facility—or even out on the streets of Boston—there was a rogue synth with her DNA. It was petrifying to even consider.

“God damn,” Nick suddenly cursed, his hands shaking. “They have Shaun Pearlman’s DNA!”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised by that. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? He was essentially kidnapped by the Institute.”

The detective shook his head, and dared to smile, even if it quickly disappeared from his face. “It says here he’s alive. Just as it says you are.”

Now she was as alarmed as he was. “What else does it say?”

“It has a location and—” he frantically patted at his coat pockets for a notepad and pen, passing off to Madelyn so she could scribble down the information. “He’s been right under our noses this entire time!”

“So,” Deacon’s voice interrupted their shared excitement. “Remember when you asked if we’d have a problem?”

Madelyn looked over to where the Railroad spy was bent over, inspecting an exposed panel of wiring in front of the reactor. Her enthusiasm started to fade. “Vaguely.”

“Do you also remember somebody mentioning that the Institute might be hiding a bomb?”

“I distinctly remember that somebody being you, Deacon,” she answered, struggling to swallow down her growing anxiety.

He nervously chuckled. “Just had to go and jinx us, didn’t I?”

“Why the hell does the Institute have a bomb?” Nick asked, more angry than anything. He pointed an accusatory finger at Deacon. “I know about you and your Railroad mole. Whose to say they didn’t plant it there just to screw with us?”

Deacon didn’t seem surprised that Madelyn had let that information slip to the detective and didn’t seem upset by the accusations either. That, or he was a little preoccupied with not blowing up. “What, ol’ Doc Rendezvous? Never.”

“More plausible that Scarface down there,” he pointed to where Kellogg had met his demise. “Had this as a backup plan. Last minute gambit to get his way. Nasty, but effective. Take down everybody in…I’d say a half-mile radius with him.”

Madelyn finally asked the obvious. “How long do we have?”

Deacon wasn’t the one to answer.

“I’d say approximately twenty minutes.”

The man had appeared on the platform behind them as if he had materialized from thin air. Madelyn recognized him instantly as the Institute’s Director—the same nameless, silver haired man who had appeared at the university’s demonstration in early May. The man who had calmed Mayor McDonough and the crowd with five easy words—everything will be alright. He didn’t make an appearance unless it was absolutely necessary.

“What are you doing here?” she questioned.

“I’ve come to stop you, of course,” he answered, folding his hands together. “I am aware of your investigation, and that you know who I am—who we are.”

Instead of getting angry, like she knew she was capable of becoming, and how she knew Nick wanted to react, Madelyn tried a little civility. She wanted desperately to understand. “Why are you doing this?”

The Director appeared pleased for the time being and stepped closer. “To advance the Commonwealth into a new age, of course. Here at the Institute, we aren’t simply trying to better life, we are trying to create it.”

“Nobody should be able to play God,” Nick argued.

“No, no,” he shook his head in disagreement. “Think of me instead as…a father.”

Madelyn didn’t know which was worse. Her skin crawled and in such a short timespan she decided that this man didn’t deserve her respect. “One of your experiments killed my husband. Kidnapped an innocent baby boy. Murdered countless others. How can you explain that?”

“It is unfortunate that Mister Kellogg turned out the way he did,” the Director said, showing little signs of remorse. “As with the others like him. Rest assured, we have rectified that issue.”

“Oh no,” Nick waved his hands, disgusted by the very thought. “You aren’t going to be sending any synths to infiltrate Boston, or anywhere else. The jig is up, and we’re here to expose your little party for all it’s worth.”

The other man was not phased. “Is that so?”

“The Institute’s days of experimenting is over,” Madelyn clarified. “And you can kiss your military contracts goodbye too. While you’re down here, buttering us up with false bravado, the campus is crawling with our good men, Boston P.D. that haven’t been swayed by your dirty money.”

“Between the evidence collected here and what we have stored away at the agency? Once it’s all been handed over to the Feds, I wouldn’t be surprised if they cooked you alive on the grounds for treason,” she elaborated.

A heavy pause filled the space between them.

“Not if that bomb destroys us all,” the Director countered in a calm voice. It seemed it would take a lot more to crack his thick veneer. “There’d be no evidence left. Just dust and rumors.”

Deacon was suddenly skeptical. “Now that you mention it Nick, do you mind if I ask you who rigged this thing, oh mighty father?”

The Director shifted uncomfortably before answering. “A freshman student by the name of—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Deacon stopped him with a wave of his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Did they happen to use special blueprints? Maybe got some advice from an old friend at the ‘mechanic’s shop’?”

Madelyn snapped her hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh at his exaggerated use of air quotes. Still, the Director seemed baffled, and ultimately nodded. “I—he, yes. Yes, he did.”

“Ha!” Deacon clapped his hands together and kicked his foot against the exposed wiring, which caused everyone else to flinch backward in distress. “This thing is a dud! It might destroy the bunker, sure, but all of Cambridge? You’re out of your damn mind.”

Nick was amused, and this time the grin stuck to his face. “Maybe it’s you who needs the brain augmentation.”

The Director floundered, unexpecting to be outwitted in his own home, in his own Institute. He looked about ready to rant and rave until he was red in the face, pausing only when there was a commotion at the front of the large corridor. The calvary had arrived—just in time.

“Valentine! Hardy!” Sergeant Sullivan rushed across the metal walkway, a few of his officers and Preston Garvey following closely behind. He slowed upon approach, nervously eyeing the stand-off before him with his weapon half-raised. “The situation upstairs is contained. The department heads started singing like canaries the moment we floated treason as a possible charge.”

“What?” The Director huffed, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”

“What did she tell ya’?” Nick sneered at the man, tilting his head at Madelyn.

A piecing sound rang through the large room that continued on every beat of a second, the confusion falling away from everyone’s faces as they all looked to the bomb and its timer. Deacon took three measured steps away from the platform before scurrying away, practically wrapping his arms around Madelyn in and effort to get her to move with him as quickly as they could to safety.

“Is that—”

“Yes,” Nick answered, interrupting Preston’s question. “A bomb. And we’ve got less than five minutes to get back to the surface. So let’s cut the chatter and get moving!”

The Sergeant made to grab the Director so that he could handcuff the man first, even if it would make escorting him topside a difficult task.

“You’ll never take me alive!” he shouted, rushing away from the group and towards the bomb as it continued beeping.

Sullivan shook his head, withdrawing immediately with his arms raised in defeat. “Suit yourself.”

Madelyn almost suggested that Deacon toss her over his shoulder the way he sprinted along the walkway with her at his side, causing her to almost trip on the stairs. She took one last glance at the underground bunker and the lone Director before they made their ascent up the narrow staircase. With less than five minutes to navigate the tunnels back to the surface, there wasn’t time to talk, or hesitate, so she focused on nothing but the next step forward, barely remembering to breathe until her lungs screamed for air.

It wasn’t until somebody—Lieutenant Danse—was helping her from the manhole that she realized she’d blocked out their escape, stumbling off in a daze and pressing a hand to her head—did she have a concussion? Was she going into shock?

“We’re evacuating the building,” a deep voice, maybe it belonged to the soldier, or one of Sullivan’s men, she couldn’t tell. “Get her out of here!”

Familiar arms encircled her. “Madelyn? Charmer?”

She blinked, focusing on Deacon’s worried expression, even though she couldn’t see most of his face. “You said…my name.”

He smiled. “Well that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

She smiled too.

“Come on,” grabbed her hand, leading her into a light jog towards a small gathering of people on the banks of the Charles River. Piper and some of Preston’s Minutemen were standing with evacuees from the campus, looking on as more people rushed out to look on.

While their backs were still turned to the building, there was a rumbling, not unlike an earthquake, followed by what Madelyn knew to be a series of explosions, people tumbling to the ground as the world around them shook. Despite the bomb setting off underground, the destruction was still felt and seen above ground. When the dust settled, a deep crevice appeared in the center of the campus courtyard, a few stone columns were toppled over, and a fire had broken out in the inside rotunda. So much for a dud.

Deacon wrapped his arm around Madelyn’s shoulder, tucking her close as smoke billowed to the sky, the haunting sign that the Institute’s hold on Boston was no more.

It was all over.

#fallout 4 #noir au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #deacon #madelyn hardy #nick valentine #+the entire GD cast okay #spoiler characters too #the grand finale is here folks with just the epilogue to follow #;____;#fallout fanfic

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waveridden · 4 years ago

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top 5 podcasts?

fantastic question thank you. i hope you did not mean just scripted ones but if you want scripted fiction podcasts i can do that just let me know

song exploder. interviews with musicians about the process of writing songs. if you like music and are interested in how music is made, PLEASE listen to song exploder. i guarantee someone you like has been on it

who shot ya. movie review podcast where none of the hosts are straight white dudes, AND they’re all involved in the movie industry in different ways (producer, critic, writer). fascinating to listen to them talk shop and also just a delight.

friends at the table. i do not have a lot of energy for actual play podcasts right now but if i had to do one it’s friends at the table. everything is so meticulous and vivid and well-thought-through that it ends up being immersive. everyone is so funny. the music hits. what more could you need

greater boston. my favorite audio drama. it is so smart. it is so funny. it makes me cry. there are transcripts. it is well-produced. it is a little magical and very very heartfelt.

the far meridian. pure unadulterated vibes

#waveridden.ask #anonymous #thank you!#Anonymous

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theradioghost · 5 years ago

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could you elaborate on the long term plot of greater boston? i don't mind spoilers! i tried it but couldn't get past the first episode :( but i trust your taste and i've liked every other show you've rec'd so i wanna keep listening

EDIT: okay for some reason the formatting of this post is EXTREMELY befuckened and I can’t get it to behave, so it’s possible that this isn’t going to display with a spoiler cut and if so I am VERY sorry. the “keep reading” break is in the ask instead of the body of the post I have no idea what’s happening right now but if you don’t want spoilers please be aware this post spoils like everything about the show

Sure thing! I will .... do my best, but because of the nature of GB’s plot it’s a bit difficult to describe it without ending up either way too detailed or way too vague. But I will absolutely do my best because if there is any show out there that deserves it, this is that show. Cut for Obvious Spoiler Reasons!

So, there’s a LOT of plot that goes on, but what a plot summary could never convey is that the real heart and soul of this show is the characters. There are a metric fuckton of them, and every one of them is multidimensional and dynamic and wonderful, even if it’s not always obvious at first.

Leon Stamatis of course starts the show by abruptly dying of Existential Crisis/Panic Attack on a roller coaster, which sets everything else in motion. Of that big ensemble cast, at first the most important players are

Nica, Leon’s little sister who wants to be famous but doesn’t really have any concrete plans as to how

Dimitri, Leon’s little brother who is currently traveling in a submarine attempting to find Atlantis and keeps sending Leon letters, unaware that he’s dead

Louisa, Leon’s recent ex, a wedding photographer who later quits and becomes a crime scene photographer slash detective

Leon’s best friend/roommate Michael, who is unemployed and has just had a relapse after being sober for 12 years because he has no idea what to do without Leon

Gemma, a lesbian who absolutely hates her job as an editor at Third Sight, a company which publishes magazines relating to astrology/psychic stuff/divination/etc

Charlotte, Gemma’s pregnant wife, who has recently lost her job as an animation background artist and is feeling directionless

Professor Paul Montgomery Chelmsworth, aka the Mayor of the Red Line, a slightly eccentric college professor and casual friend of Leon’s who is inspired by his death to call for a referendum declaring that the Red Line of the Boston subway system will become an independent city.

It’s that last one that is the real ~main plot~ of the show: at first, more and more of the characters getting caught up in the campaign to create the city of Red Line, and then the chaos that results when they succeed and actually have to run it. But you also have characters like Louisa and Nica and Michael, dealing with a whole rainbow of grief and distress as they cope with Leon’s death. His eccentric personality is the other driving force of the show’s events -- Leon was caring and compassionate, but also obsessed with timetables, organization, and scheduling every action in his life down to the minute.

The other major force in the show is Third Sight, a magazine publisher with a focus on fortunetelling and the like; Michael ends up working there, along with Gemma and several other major characters. Third Sight also has an enigmatic boss no one has ever seen, who turns out to be a manipulative little bastard named Oliver West.

While Red Line successfully becomes a city, “Mayor” Chelmsworth turns out to have some major commitment issues and vanishes as soon as the vote passes, leaving Charlotte and Gemma to clean up the mess. Charlotte ends up interim mayor, but also begins to campaign for the upcoming mayoral election, in which she has two opponents: Isabelle Powell, a Black realtor and an incredible character whom I absolutely cannot do justice here, and Emily Bespin, Literally The Worst Person Who Has Ever Existed, Holy Fuck I Hate Her So Much.

The election is being manipulated behind the scenes by Oliver West, who also takes advantage of Nica’s isolation and a near mental breakdown to convince her to help him by orchestrating several escalating ~pranks~ in Red Line. Honestly he’s manipulating literally everyone, and also heavily backing Emily Bespin, in an attempt to profit off of influence in the new city. Eventually this ends up with Michael kidnapped and imprisoned, several other characters attacked and one badly hurt during a wedding in Red Line, and Isabelle Powell’s nephew framed for the attack. That results in Powell’s supporters beginning a set of protests which throw Red Line into even further chaos, even as Charlotte and Nica begin to have some real moral epiphanies about how they’ve been acting.

As events continue to escalate and the election draws closer and closer, the now-assembled cast have to figure out just who exactly is manipulating events and how -- not to mention how to prove Powell’s nephew’s innocence, what the hell has happened to Michael, and what the hell they’re going to do if Bespin wins the election and makes good on her promise to evict everyone involved in the protests.

Meanwhile, Dimitri is traumatized by finding a mass grave at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, gets rescued and then imprisoned in Alaska by infamous vanished plane hijacker DB Cooper, finally makes it home to Boston disillusioned and lonely only to inevitably find out his brother has been dead for two years, and then gets totally rejected by his sister, because he basically can’t catch a break.

Also meanwhile, the same conflicts playing out in Red Line play out on a more metaphysical level, in the structure of the show itself. While the first season only hints at the possibility that Leon might not be quite as gone as everyone thinks, as the show progresses Leon’s ghost makes his presence known by starting to argue with the omniscient narration. Increasingly taking over the show’s narration until a brilliant scene where said narrator quits and audibly gets up from the microphone and leaves, Leon, the man who spent his whole life trying to impose order on the chaos of the universe around him, finds himself battling the very structure of the story they’re in, in an attempt to help his friends as both he and they are caught up in the chaos of Red Line and Oliver West’s plans. Unfortunately, the structure of the story has other ideas, and plans of its own.

None of this, of course, even begins to touch on the cheese robots; or Michael’s ongoing struggle with self-actualization and alcoholism; or Mallory the foulmouthed teenager who somehow manages to first witness and then be involved in nearly every major plot event of the show; or the in-depth examination of structural racism as it relates to things like housing and city planning and Boston’s history and well-intentioned white liberals and the imprisonment of Black youth; or Star Trek obsessed chaotic neutral gay reporter Chuck Octagon and that one time he flirted with his own mirror universe self; or the complex but beautiful process of Charlotte and Gemma working on their relationship in the midst of all this chaos because while they have troubles throughout they truly love one another and are trying to be better people; or the fact that one of the other major characters is an insufferable Loud Vegan member of a polyamorous commune who -- on the advice of his ~spirit advisor~ the ghost of 19th century feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft keeps changing his name throughout the show to things including Earthman, Panda Bear, Extinction Event, and Dipshit; or the unfortunately real Olive Garden food truck; or the laughter and the tears and the flamethrowers and the fact that one of the show’s most important and heartbreaking conversations takes place on an amusement park log flume ride audibly filled with liquid nacho cheese.

It’s a good show, is what I’m saying, basically.

#the podcast that never returned #more like THE SUMMARY THAT NEVER ENDED #I have no idea whether this is useful my apologies #Anonymous #asks #my posts

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asexualchloe · 6 years ago

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Podcasts Rated By How Weird Their Town Is

Gone: The town isn’t that weird until everyone disappears, then it does get weirder, which is fun. 4/10

Kaleidotrope: The culture of tropes is weird, but it seems to be contained more to the university than the town. 3/10

ars PARADOXICA: the towns here are as normal as towns in a cold-war conspiracy time-travel audio drama can be. at least “point of exile” is a cool name. 3/10

Greater Boston: Boston, Boston’s kinda weird, I guess. The pneumatic tubes are a nice touch. Boston itself would be 5/10, Redline, though, now that’s more like it! A train city? Fuck yeah. 8/10

Dreamboy: Cleveland itself isn’t that weird, right? Right? It’s just Dane’s experiences, right? 6/10

King Falls AM: It’s weird. It’s a town. There’s a radio station. What more could you ask for? 9/10

The Penumbra Podcast: Honestly, Hyperion isn’t that weird. It’s just got a bad case of capitalism. 7/10

Welcome to Night Vale: It’s Night Vale. My original exposure to weird towns. 10/10

Liberty: Spooky as hell, interesting social dynamics. I don’t know if the town itself is that weird, but the world sure is. 8/10

Our Fair City: All policies must listen to HartLife. Also? Mole people? Ant people? Evil scientists? This is one weird town that I am in for. 10/10

The Cryptonaturalist: Not enough towns by far. 3/10

Victoriocity: Steampunk Victorian Eldritch City! You’ll lose touch with reality if you look at it too long! That’s the kind of weird town I started listening to podcasts for. 9/10

Unwell: Midwestern gothic in a town? Yes, please. Gosh, I just love towns. 7/10

The Far Meridian: Lots of weird towns, but we don’t stay in them for that long, which is sad. 5/10

The Magical History of Knox County: Weird town: this time with fantasy tropes. I approve. 8/10

Tales from Spasming Hill: Goofy weird town. I like it. 7/10

Wooden Overcoats: Why does this town have so many funerals. 5/10

Dark Ages: The only weird thing about this town is how they fail to appreciate how cool their museum is. 1/10

Love and Luck: Look, this one’s just in Australia. That’s not weird. 0/10

Limetown: The town disappeared. Where is my town. 7/10

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siribear · 4 years ago

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dear claire,

she stares at the handwriting she’s become familiar with, with a particular scrutiny. his letter is much too soon. normally, they’d come after a few weeks. maybe a month, if his regiment was on the move. but she just sent off own letter the other day. no way he’s gotten it so soon. and yet.

i know this letter is early. no kidding. but i couldn’t wait for yours to arrive. you’ll have to forgive me for putting this in writing.

claire brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear and forces herself to sit still in her chair. her roommate is already squirming in her own seat, waiting for her reaction.

if i know you, you’re waiting for me to get to the point. but first, tell rachel i said hello. she does, and her roommate’s smile only grows wider. so, whatever this is, she’s in on it. i’m coming home soon. within the month. but that’s not why i’m writing. claire only realizes she’s biting her nails when she begins to taste nail polish. claire, i want to start a family. with you. i know this is sudden. but i wanted to give you some time to consider. i’ll - and here the handwriting shifts. still his, but rougher. - understand if you say no.

i can’t wait to see you. i love you.

nathaniel ward.

she reads it. and reads it again. and once more, before she shoots up from her seat, letter still in her hand, eyes boring into the paper.

‘so?’ rachel asks, sing-song.

‘rachel, find my stationary, please,’ claire responds, eyes not leaving the letter. rachel bolts from her chair and runs into their room. she returns carrying a piece of paper and pen.

claire sits, turns back to their kitchen table. a family.

dear nate, she writes.

start thinking up names.

i love you.

claire (soon-to-be) ward.

‘that vault up there has quite the interesting history,’ deacon says, after they’ve had their breakfast in her kitchen.

whisper blinks at him from across the kitchen table. ‘and what’s that?’

he leans forward, elbows on the table like her mother hated. ‘never been opened. everyone knows about the other vaults in the commonwealth, but 111?’ he clicks his tongue. ‘nothing.’

she frowns. ‘you want to go vault diving?’

‘i would, but it’s locked up. no one’s ever been able to get in, either.’

she shrugs. ‘as long as monsters don’t come out of it, it doesn’t matter to me. wonder what’s down there, though.’ she avoids his gaze, looking down at her pipboy, pretending to double-triple check their next destination.

deacon chuckles. ‘yeah, i wonder.’

preston approaches them before they leave, giving deacon a casual nod. ‘if i could talk to the general for a moment, uh, dingo?’ whisper nods, and deacon strolls over to dogmeat to play fetch, pretending he’s not going to be listening to their conversation anyway.

‘is everything okay, preston?’ she asks with a hand on her hip. she knows she’s been gone longer than she’s been here, leaving preston in charge of sanctuary and the budding minutemen. but he’s built them up well. even a few of the newer faces are dressed uniformly, carrying their own laser muskets.

he tears his gaze away from dogmeat bowling into deacon. ‘more than fine, general. in fact, with the other settlements you’ve established, we’re having trouble communicating with them all. it’s a good problem to have,’ he assures her. ‘the only way we can get further word out right now is from carla; she’s the only caravan that’s come this far up north. otherwise, i’ve sent out one of our newer scouts, but it’s not ideal.’

‘so we need a way to communicate more easily. like - another radio station? broadcast updates on each settlement so we know if anyone needs help or extra supplies.’ she looks up at him and his bright eyes. ‘you have a plan.’

‘i do.’ he practically vibrates with an excitement she never saw in him, weeks ago. at least, not before she agreed to help him. he’s a far cry from when they first met. ‘the minutemen used to have another headquarters, far out east. before the war, it was called fort independence. but we knew it as the castle.’

she has a vague image in her head of fort independence. too much information crammed into her head in college now useless and discarded. that, and she and nate hardly traveled far from boston’s city limits. ‘used to. what happened to it?’

he grimaces. ‘they say a monster from the sea breached the walls. all anyone knows is, most of the minutemen leadership died.’ he drops his gaze, voice going thoughtful. ‘i think that’s where all of our problems began.’

‘a... sea monster?’

‘uh, yes. but i think if we retake the castle and reestablish radio freedom, we stand a better chance of keeping our allies, and the greater commonwealth, safe.’

she blinks. ‘a sea monster,’ she repeats. ‘okay. that sounds reasonable - ’

he steps closer. ‘should i have a group meet us outside the castle?’

‘ - but i think we’ll have to table it, for now.’ she watches his enthusiasm fade. ‘preston, it’s a great idea, don’t get me wrong. but if there is some... giant sea monster, it doesn’t do the minutemen any good if both of us die taking back the place. train up a few more people. i’m going to clear out sunshine tidings co-op, make a few more... stops.’ she chances a gaze at deacon, sitting on the side of the road rubbing dogmeat’s belly. ‘and we’ll come back to this, okay?’

he salutes her. ‘yes, ma’am.’

whisper frowns. ‘hey.’ she gently lowers his hand from the salute. ‘i’m sorry i haven’t been around. but you and the others are doing a wonderful job here. we’ll take the castle, i just have a few loose ends to tie up before i throw myself at a sea monster.’

preston squeezes her hand. ‘yes, ma’am,’ he says again, softer.

she withdraws, slowly. ‘i should go get de-dingo. he gets restless.’ she turns to see deacon tying what looks like a third bandanna around dogmeat’s neck, to complement the small pair of welder’s goggles upon his head. preston keeps his eyes on her. ‘i’ll try to be back soon.’

he steps away. ‘stay safe, general.’

‘what do you know about the castle?’ whisper asks deacon along the way to the co-op.

‘a lot of your people - minutemen,’ he clarifies, ‘died there. it’s a mirelurk nesting ground now.’

she hums. ‘those would be the sea monsters preston mentioned, then.’ she rubs at her eyes. ‘great.’

they cross a bridge over to the co-op, weaving around abandoned cars. he helps her over a barricade as the first set of buildings looms over the hill. a short gravel path leads them up a hill into the co-op proper. wind blows heavily through the co-op, kicking up dirt from the expansive planting grounds that surround a large barn.

the puttering sound of an approaching mister handy prompts them to draw their weapons. the robot stops in front of them, seems to look them over, then, in a rough voice, says, ‘groovy,’ long, drawn-out, and airy, and floats away.

whisper lowers her gun. ‘deacon, what just happened?’

‘you take me to the best places, partner,’ he says, grinning.

in the barn, she accesses the logs on a dusty computer. ‘oh wow,’ she whispers. then laughs. ‘this was a hippie commune, pre-war. they... stole and reprogrammed a mister handy. they, uh, named him professor goodfeels. i guess that’s where the graffiti comes from.’ she waves a hand toward the wall and the painted free the robots on a piece of plywood. she turns to deacon. ‘origins of the railroad?’

she imagines he rolls his eyes at her. ‘funny. this place is... mostly quiet. wonder why no one’s picked this place back up since.’

‘you’re the intel guy.’ she pulls herself away from the terminal. ‘shall we see why?’

they see why. beginning at the first house, they explore counter-clockwise around the co-op, clearing out the feral ghouls sleeping in the buildings. in a far building, up another hill, they find the first body that isn’t a skeleton. someone else apparently had the same idea as the minutemen, but didn’t survive the ferals. the mess hall completes their circle in addition to housing another group of ferals, easily sniped through the broken windows. radio beacon up, whisper returns to the terminal.

‘what to do with the professor?’ there’s a few options listed on the terminal: return for repairs, guard protocols, and... just be.

‘i say leave him. if anything, he’s good for a laugh.’ on cue, professor goodfeels floats by with a slurred whoa man.

whisper sighs. ‘people are going to think we’re crazy.’

‘maybe that’s my plan. discredit the minutemen with beatnik mister handys.’

deacon suggests they head back to hq to see if there’s anything else that needs doing. now that the railroad has another heavy, it’s only fair they take on another job so glory can have a day off. besides, she can check in at goodneighbor along the way, see if hancock has found anything on kellogg. they head west across the commonwealth, traveling north of boston and weaving south of lexington. deacon draws her into the shadows near the corvega factory, and they pass by without incident.

that is, until the sound of gunfire brings them to the outskirts of the town. curious, whisper grabs deacon by the wrist and pulls him against the side of a building. ‘sure you want to do this?’ he asks over her shoulder. ‘looks like gunners got someone pinned down there.’

she peeks around the corner. ‘close to bunker hill, aren’t they? maybe it’s a caravan in danger.’

‘not the gunner MO, partner. behind that car.’ he points, and she sees it, a head poking out behind a rusted bumper.

whisper squints. ‘hang on. that’s - that’s maccready.’

‘the merc that hangs around goodneighbor? what’d he do to the gunners?’

‘doesn’t matter.’ she crouches, edges around the building to get closer to the gunners. a bullet whizzes past her, flying off down the road. too close. ‘deacon.’

she feels, doesn’t see, deacon’s rifle lower next to her. ‘one on the right is mine.’

whisper aims deliverer at the left gunner. near the hip, just below the plating of his combat armor. the gunners don’t notice them, too busy aiming at maccready. she counts down from three. in sync, they fire. deacon’s gunner goes down in a shower of red, head missing. hers shouts, drops his gun, and grabs at the hole in his hip. the third gunner only has a chance to look at his comrade before deacon finishes him off. her gunner falls to his knees. she finishes him off with one more quick shot.

‘you good?’ she nods, rising. he puts a hand on her shoulder, stilling her. ‘don’t be so quick to rise above cover, there. never know if there are more. or a sniper.’

she remains in her crouch, at that, his hand still on her shoulder. one moment passes. another. then, ‘boss? did i hit you?’ maccready yells, his voice growing closer. deacon releases her then, using the same hand to help her up.

‘i’m okay, maccready.’ she gestures at the dead gunners behind him. ‘this have anything to do with those two at the third rail?’

‘winlock and barnes? yeah, guess someone saw me picking around the commonwealth.’ he sighs. ‘gunners don’t like it when their people leave and start taking jobs away from them.’

‘huh,’ she says. ‘so they’re going to hound you until... what? they bring you back in?’

maccready laughs, bitter. ‘i doubt that. they’ll kill me and be done with it. i hoped to buy them out before that. get them off my back.’

‘good luck with that,’ deacon pipes up.

‘what can i do?’ she asks him.

his eyes widen in surprise. ‘what?’

‘i’m offering to help you, maccready. you already have most of my caps, though. what else can we do?’

‘i know where they’re stationed,’ he says quickly, as if she’s going to take it back. he looks between her and deacon. ‘mass pike interchange. there’s a lift up to the interchange, that’s where they’re stationed.’

‘what kind of resistance are we looking at, maccready?’ deacon eyes him.

maccready winces. ‘a dozen or more gunners, plus defensive turrets. barnes usually wears a suit of power armor.’ he pauses. ‘and an assaultron.’

‘jesus,’ deacon curses under his breath. ‘you really want to do this?’

whisper shrugs. ‘he’s in danger unless we do. i’m sorry, i know you said - ’

‘glory hates days off anyway,’ he finishes. ‘any plans?’

‘we’re three snipers,’ she says. ‘and maccready knows the layout. we hit them before they can hit us.’

#siri drabbles #oc: alice ward #series: we will all go together when we go #hey maccready is back

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cecilspeaks · 5 years ago

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149 - The General

If you can dream it, you can wake up in a cold sweat screaming about it. Welcome to Night Vale.

Night Vale, today is the birthday of Leonard Burton. Many of you are too young to remember Leonard. He was my mentor, my friend, and my predecessor at this radio station. I watched him die nearly 40 years ago, right outside this very radio station on Mesa Boulevard, when a cargo truck ran him over. The sight was – grisly and upsetting. But it is that sound, that horrible “snap!” I will never forget. Dozens of witnesses gathered around to help, but it was too late. I crouched over Leonard’s body, lying to him that he would be OK, attempting to coax him from some hint of life. But there was no final word to hear, not even a final breath. I noted there were tears on his cheeks, as a host of angels behind me moaned softly while touching fingers above a flaming trashcan.

Leonard was a dutiful journalist, a true servant of his town. He loved Boston cream pies and paintings of snakes. If he had lived, he would have been 117 years young today.

Listeners, thank you for all your kind emails. A few weeks ago I was a tad – too revealing about my personal life and I mentioned, in passing, that I’m a perennial bachelor. It’s true. I’ve never had a long term serious relationship, but honestly, it’s fine. [chuckling nervously] I get out, I-I s-, I see people. You do not need to try to set me up on blind dates with friends, relatives, ancestral ghosts. Thank you, I’m doing OK. In fact, I had a date recently. His name is Carlos. He says he’s a scientist, well – we have all been scientists at one point or another in our lives. He has perfect hair, a perfect lab coat and – and teeth like a military cemetery.

The date started well. We went to dinner at Big Rico’s Pizza. He had originally suggested Gino’s Italian Dining Experience and Bar and Grill, the fanciest restaurant in town, but since it was our first date, I suggested something more casual. And that was when things started to go wrong. Before we had even placed our orders, Carlos already seemed – disappointed. Which, in turn, disappointed me. Then there was dinner. I was trying to tell Carlos about my job here at the station, about my family and interests, and he was like “I know I know, Cecil, we’re in love. You and I are in love. You just don’t remember it.” And I told him, “You’re cute, but this is our first date, so let’s take this slow.” And then he looked sad, and I quickly finished my pizza, and we left.

An update on the Blood Space War. A few weeks ago, the Polonian forces who oppose us seemed all but defeated, their remaining ships cornered in a tiny moon on the far reaches of the Crab Nebula. Yet our attempts to finally destroy the enemy failed, and the Polonians escaped and regrouped. We’re getting word that the General has agreed to step down from her post, and new leadership will replace her. Some of you may remember the story of Eunomia, the teenager who left our Earth 200 years ago to join in the Blood Space War. She was a dreamer, a scientist, who was recruited for her sharp mind and later groomed as a master strategist for the Wolf Gang, our allies in this unending war. The Wolf Gang were able to use worm holes to travel great distances in mere moments. And Eunomia eventually discovered they could use these same portals to travel in time. After a brutal loss in the battle of Gamma Trachonus, Eunomia, then a captain, ordered her decimated platoon back in time to the beginning of the battle. With a greater understanding of their initial failures, she was able to better fight the battle again. Still she lost, only to return back through time to re-engage the enemy over and over again, she refought the battle until she won. Dozens of battles like this won led to her promotion to General of the Earth-Wolf Gang alliance. But after our most recent failure in the Crab Nebula, there is concern that she has lost her effectiveness.

An emissary from the Blood Space War has returned to Night Vale. They are wading through town in their oversized space suit. No doubt here to deliver us more terrible news from the front. Perhaps there will be no peace in our lifetimes. More on this story as it develops.

Our town is returning to normal, or so I have been told. Community college student and Blood Space War protest organizer, Basimah Bishara, said her mother exists once again. Basimah claims that a few weeks ago, her mother suddenly did not exist, thus making Basimah not exist but as of this week, they do exist. Basimah blames the time traveling actions of our General for changing the landscape of everyone’s existence. I can’t wrap my head around this, listeners, I-I.. I don’t remember Basimah ever not existing or, or-or that she was gone and returned. So it’s hard for me to believe this story. I-I took inventory of my own life and everything is as it always has been for me. I work at a radio station, I own a (-) [0:08:20] bike, I have a one-bedroom apartment with a soaking tub, walk-in closet, carpet shredder, knife compiler and a full-length mirror in the hallway. It’s an antique my mother handed down to me. She knows I love mirrors. I don’t have any siblings, but my mother’s alive and I talk to her regularly. We get along great, I-I-I called her to make sure everything is as she always remembered it, and she said, “What, I don’t know. Yeah sure, what a dumb question.” She’s always been witty like that. All is stasis. Nothing has been taken from my life.

The Intergalactic Military Headquarters reported all time high profits this month. They have built a stealth bomber entirely out of rare 1913 Liberty Head nickels, each valued at around - five million dollars. Senior strategic advisor Jameson Archibald admitted their financial success was not attributable to the new smart phone app he developed. “[cackling] No-ho-ho-ho-ho,” Archibald said, sitting astride a white tiger. “That app was super glitchy, but my Dad’s crazy rich and knows a bunch of people in the Pentagon, so we’re go-o-o-od!” Archibald then took a massive hit of a vape pen. “This is my new thing,” Archibald said. “Steam pens! No nicotine, no THC, only pure water vapor. Did you know water is good for you? Like, it gives you life, man. If we’re gonna vape anything, we should be vaping vapor. O-o, what if that’s what vape means? Vapor! If it doesn’t, it should!” This has been your financial report.

Sad news, Night Vale. John Peters – you know, the farmer – reported that his brother James is returning to service in the Blood Space War. James has been promoted to General to replace the retiring Eunomia. “Dang, James is such a good brother,” John said from the middle of his field of invisible corn. “I really like having him home, I’m gonna miss him. But I guess the universe needs him more than I do.” John then uprooted an invisible corn stalk and hugged it tightly, while humming the classic church hymn “Party in the USA”.

OK, this is getting annoying. So the guy I was telling you about earlier, Carlos, he’s been texting me this whole show, saying he wants to see me again, let’s see, something something, my timeline is still wrong? I should have a sister named Abby, here’s a photo of her with some kid. My mother died? Hmph. I’m supposedly afraid of mirrors, and he and I are actually married. This is ridiculous! OK, now he’s texting me a picture of a dog. “Our little puppy Aubergine,” it says. In the picture Carlos is holding the dog. I… Hm, that’s weird. I just had a strange feeling. What’s that term, uh, jamais vu I think, where you remember something that never happened.

Outside my window, I see the Emissary, their-their oblong mirrored face pressed against the glass, each hand raised to their head to block out glare from the sun. I’m waving to the Emissary now. Hello Emissary! I said just now. What is the French term for remembering something you’ve never experienced? I said even louder wondering if the Emissary can hear me through the window and that thick helmet. Also, is Aubergine a good name for a dog? I think it is! I called once more, just to start a decent conversation, because I was getting creeped out by the sight of a silent astronaut peering at me through my window. [chuckles] I can, I can see myself in the reflective face. I… [mumbles] I don’t like this. I do not like this at all. [panicked] Please go. Please leave, it cannot. Uh, I’m covering this window with a sheet, I do not like this mirror. I don’t like it one bit, no!

Let’s go to the weather.

[Weather: “Sad But Not Depressed” from the podcast It Makes a Sound https://nightvale.bandcamp.com]

I will tell you about the Emissary in a moment. But first, I must tell you that Carlos called me. Here’s his voicemail.

Carlos: Cecil, I_I’m calling for personal reasons. I-I’m, [sighs] I’m calling to tell you that I love you. That I have loved you almost since the first day I met you nearly 7 years ago. I didn’t know anyone in Night Vale [chuckles] and you were the first person to take any interest in my studies. Its not easy feeling alone, but within a year I wasn’t, cause I was with you. And now we are married. Well, at least in my lifetime we were married. We have been married, and we have a beautiful puppy named Aubergine, a house, a relationship. You have a sister, and you know, you have a brother-in-law too and, and a niece who is a talented athlete and (enormously), just a kind young woman. And we have – oh, you’re gonna play this on air, aren’t you? Oh, of course you are. Well never mind. Anyway uh, somehow you don’t know any of this. I’ve been working nights and days trying to repair this break in continuity, and I haven’t slept much, because I-I can’t sleep until we’re back in the same timeline. But I can’t find anything that will fix this, I-I don’t know what else to do other than to just say: Trust me. I will start over, we’ll go to Rico’s on another first date, I will pretend to hear about your life for the first time, I will tell you about mine for the thousandth time. It won’t be the same for me, but it will still be you. And, and that’s all that matters. You, you’re the one. Oh god, this must sound crazy, you barely know you and, and I’m coming off as desperate, but it’s because I am. Please call me. [beep]

Cecil: And I did, call him back. A-a-and I said: “I love you too. Babe, I love your beard. I love our dog. I love… I-I love our life together.” Minutes before that, I did not feel that way. I did not know about my life with Carlos, because it had never happened in my history.

It was in those minutes, though, that the Emissary spoke to me. The Emissary entered my studio and removed her helmet. And underneath was the face of an old woman, it was the face of Eunomia, the young girl who disappeared from Night Vale on her 17th birthday 200 years ago. Eunomia told me she had resigned her post as General. She was the most successful leader in the Blood Space War, but tampering with timelines had caused life in the universe to nearly cease to exist. Eunomia knew she would have to undo what she had undone so many times over, even though it would put peace out of her reach. She’s doing that. She is taking responsibility by visiting every single person affected by her actions. She’s telling them what she has taken from them. And what she will now give back. It will take her a long, long time to do this. it will take her the rest of her life.

In my case, she told me I have a sister, Abby, a brother-in-law, Steve, a niece, Janice. I-I did not know those times. She told me about my husband Carlos. I knew that name, but did not feel love for it. She took my hand and told me to look at the moon. There was a thick wedge missing from it. I never noticed that the moon was broken. Eunomia said: “I will leave now and I will undo what has been done, and your life will return to how it was.” I asked: “But I have a life now.” And she said: “But what of the lives of others? You are all connected. If I do not fix yours, how many others will never have back what the war has taken?” “And what about you?” I said. “Will you return to your teenage life on the farm?” “No,” she said, “I cannot go back to that age, but I will go back to that time and place. I only wish to see my family one more time.” “And what about the war?” I said. Hmph. “There will always be a war, because there will always be a lust for a war,” she said. “I am sorry, Cecil. I have to go.” She pointed to the moon once again. And it was whole, unbroken. I tried to squeeze her hand, but it was gone. It was only me in the studio.

On a late summer afternoon in 1816, an astronaut appeared in the center of Night Vale. 96 years later, a dog park would be established on that exact spot. The astronaut walked silently through the dusty streets. Bow-legged and slow, the Emissary walked through the outskirts of town. It took hours, and nearly the entire city followed her. Past a lot that would eventually to Old Woman Josie. Past the homestead of Eugene Leroy. Until she reached the Peters farm. And there, she stopped. There was a greenish aura about the astronaut, as she turned to face the gathered mob. The astronaut put her gloved hands to her neck and unlashed the helmet. There was a loud hissss and a pop, when she lifted the mask. The crowd approached tentatively. As the helmet came fully off, the townsfolk cried out. The face of the visitor was nearly skeletal, a rotted corpse, long white hair peeling down the back of the skull, an incomplete set of elongated teeth visible with no lips to hide them, startled eyes, ever staring with no lids to express anything else. And what was left of the skin had shriveled and yellowed.

The crowd had begun to step backward, but one woman stepped forward. a tired and pale woman. The woman whose farm it was approached the decomposing astronaut and said: “Eunomia?” The General opened her mouth slowly and spoke in a hoarse cough. “Mother,” she said. Eunomia’s young mother touched her elderly daughter’s face. Eunomia broke into dust. And the empty space suit collapsed to the ground, leaving behind the faint shape of the woman’s dissipating daughter.

In a cornfield on the outskirts of town, the General’s ashes scattered across a golden lake of ripened corn. In the very place where her military successor, James Peters – you know, the General – would be born 150 years later.

The memories of what Eunomia said to me, the memories of my life without my family, are fading quickly. Night Vale returns to normal, whatever that means. [chuckles] I told Carlos I was so sorry for causing him such pain. I can not ever know how difficult that must have been. He only tilted his head and said: “Already forgotten.” I wasn’t sure if he was being literal. Hmm.

Stay tuned next for the unceremonious continuation of all that is real.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: I’m gonna take my horse to the old town road, and then we’re gonna go grab drinks and dinner, maybe watch a movie. Girls’ night.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv transcripts #episode 149 #the general

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buckysforeverprincess · 6 years ago

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What Do You Want From Me? Ch 20

Lance Tucker x Reader

Words: 2120

Warnings: Language

A/N: The aftermath of the wedding. Will Lance and reader be okay, or will he screw it up like always? Enjoy!

Standing at the door, you were impatiently waiting for him to answer. After what seemed like forever, the man finally opened it with a very irritated look on his face, glaring daggers into your soul.

“What do you want?” Lance asked you curtly, almost like he couldn't be bothered.

“Is that anyway to greet the mother of your children?” You gave it back to him just as good as he had given.

“Depends...will she ever listen to any fucking thing I tell her?” He asks, walking away from the door and making his way into the kitchen.

You follow him in, giving him an eye roll he can't see but it made you feel better nonetheless.

“What are you mad about anyway? Please tell me you’re not upset that I didn't marry Jase? In case you forgot, the wedding was busted up by the Feds. Marrying him really wasn't high on their priority list!” You really could believe that needed to be said since he was in attendance when the shit went down.

“You still could have figured out a way to marry him, Y/N!” Lance’s tone is getting a bit hostile, “You should be with him!”

There's a look of confusion on your face as you watch the man you've spent the greater part of three years in love with. Lance was standing with his back up against a counter, arms crossed to his chest, in an act of dominance. You're pretty sure he's not trying to assert that at the moment, but you also think he's trying to hide his real feelings--like he's built up a wall. Maybe it's all an act. He has become pretty good actor after all these years.

“What's really going on Tucker?” You're standing at the island in his kitchen, close to the very spot where it all began. “Why have you given up?” This really isn't like Lance to let something go so easily. What's really going on with him?

“You think you got me figured out, huh?” He stepped away from the counter and walks to the front room, turning his back to you. “You just don't get it...I'm no good for you!” Lance plops himself down on his couch like a pouty child and placed his head in his hands. The only thing you could do was shake your head at his level of idiocy.

“Why are you suddenly no good for me?” You start to walk towards the living room to join Lance. “From the moment you knew I was pregnant you've tried so hard to win me over! Hell, if we're being honest, I think the day I started having symptoms I was in this house puking my guts out and you were the sweetest guy ever. I thought for sure there had been a body swap and the real Lance Tucker was going to jump out of the closet, scaring me and taking my soul!” He removed his hands from his face and started laughing at your foolishness.

“I gave you up.” Lance says once he's done laughing, voice barely higher than a whisper. “Instead of fighting for you, I gave into Claire's demands. What kind of man toys with his kids and the woman he loves that way?”

“How ‘bout a man that was scared of losing them for good! I know what she was capable of--willing to do even. She was obviously bat shit crazy thinking any of this would work, but she did it, and it's done. So why can't we just move on?” You we're hoping to appeal to his better senses.

“How's Jase?” Lance is looking into your eyes, daring you to lie about your feelings for the man you were supposed to marry. But no lie would come.

“As far as I know he's good. Well, that would be a lie really because how good could one person be knowing their uncle is at the heart of a political scandal? Jase told me he didn't know how deep the corruption went, but knew it had to be bad enough for Claire to blackmail him.” You know you were intentionally avoiding what Lance really wanted to know, but you'd start small and build the rest up.

“Have you rescheduled the wedding?” His stare never falls, eyes looking deep into your soul.

“No.” You shake your head, “There isn't going to be a wedding.” You're in a stare off with Lance. Neither one of you breaking contact.

“You belong with him.” Lances nostrils flare slightly, you tell he's getting agitated.

“I belong with you.” Your voice is calm, and that seems to be enough to break the camel's back. Lance stands and walks back to the kitchen, trying to put as much distance as he can between the two of you.

“I can't give you what you need!” He yells back at you, frustration in his tone.

“How do you know that?” You follow him into the kitchen, but make sure to keep enough empty space between you.

“Don't you see what I've done?! Look at every single decision I've made since I fucked you in this kitchen...even before then! I don't deserve you and you know it! I think you told me you hoped I ended up alone…that's what I deserve!” He angrily rubs his fingers through his hair, and his face is scrunched to hell.

Lance does have a point. He hasn't been the very best model for future boyfriend, husband, father; but people can change. Lance can have this if he truly wants it. What he decides, though is up to him.

“You know, I'm not arguing with you, it's not good for me or the babies. But maybe you should stop selling yourself short and think about what a future as a family would look like.” Maybe it's time you left. This wasn't going anywhere, and you'd been under enough stress lately.

Lance just stands in the kitchen, saying nothing as you walk over to the door. “I was wrong, ya know.”

You looked over at him, delaying the moment you walk out the door and carry on with your life without him. “You're deserving of many things Lance Tucker. Just maybe don't wait so long to figure that out.”

You did your best to smile at him, but your pretty sure it looked forced. He remained silent, and you knew this was it. You were walking away from the man you loved once again.

“Wait…” Lance finally speaks before you walked out his door, “I-uh…what about the babies?”

Well, at least he was concerned for them.

“What about them? We'll be fine. I may even move back home to Boston. Can't make any changes yet until the FBI lets me know how much they need from me.” You had forgotten to tell him about your place in all this and he hadn't asked. Guess that part hadn't even crossed your mind.

“What do you mean how much they need from you? Why do they need you?” Lance has now moved over closer to you, intrigued by your previous statement. It feels nice to have him closer to you, but at the same time you fear the move is only temporary.

“I was wearing a wire that day.” Lance crosses his arms to his chest upon hearing of your involvement. “I went to the FBI years ago when I got fired for knowing too much.”

Lance looks as though the lightbulb has gone off in his head. Three years ago, you started working for him and he wondered why a beautiful, young, professional woman such as yourself would take a job working for him. Now it suddenly made sense.

“They couldn't do anything with the information I gave them, but they knew I was friends with Claire. Guess they kept that in the back of their minds when they were building their case. Right before the wedding, they came to me and said they had a pretty strong case for everything-even knew about the Governor being involved, and that I was about to marry his nephew. They also said they had some video evidence that had been brought to their attention. Technically, they couldn't use it, but they asked me to wear a wire in the hopes she would damn her and everyone else, if provoked. Guess I poked the bear enough for her to confess everything in a more official manner. Everything was an act. I had a part to play, and I had to make sure it was all believable as possible. I had to make sure the Feds got what they needed.”

Everything was out. You'd told him your involvement with the mess that has been your lives. The scandal had been just one of the reasons you weren't marrying Jase. There was no way you wanted your kids anywhere near the governor's name or connected to his family. It was a damn shame too, Jase really wasn't all that bad of a guy.

“God, we're idiots.” Lance chuckles and moves in slowly, wrapping you up in a hug. His arms felt amazing around you, and truth be told, you didn't want him to let go.

“I was the one that provided them with the video.”

You move back from his reach and look in his eyes.

“She confessed some of her sins in my home. I had cameras installed when you hired that chick-let's not say her name, and Claire had confessed her sins to me.” You laughed and he continued on, “So I took it to the police, and the Detective said he knew the lead Agent on the case, uh-Jones?”

“Johnson. Agent Johnson,” you interrupted.

“Yeah, that's him. After looking at it, he told me they'd take it from there. I had no idea they'd go to you. If I'd known, I would have never played into her hands and we could have worked together as a team. Team Tucker.”

You rolled your eyes at the name, “Team Tucker is in my stomach, kicking at their idiotic father's use of their name. But yeah...we’re a couple of idiots. We've been letting the wrong things run our lives.”

Lance and you haven't really thought any of this through. All your decisions have been based upon impulsiveness or other people's involvement. It's time you both took control of your shit and begin anew.

“I think I have a way to change things.” Lance says to you with a devilish grin. You have no idea what his plan is, but it must be good by the look on his face.

Lance turns you around and pushes you out his door. He turns you around again, and you look at him in shock.

“Stay here,” he says to you with a smile upon his face, before he shuts the door on you and walks away.

You are so confused by his change and also by the fact that you are now outside Lance’s home, when just seconds ago the two of you were in his kitchen discussing how idiotic you had been. Jesus, what the hell is this man thinking now and where the fuck had he run off too?

After what seems like eternity, Lance opens the door, greeting you with a smile. He's now in a white t-shirt and jeans, instead of the track suit he had on when he opened the door for you the first time. This is one of your favorite Lance Tucker looks. He’s one super sexy man.

“Hi! You must, be Y/N. I've been expecting you!” Lance is giving you a charming grin as he holds out his hand.

You look him over and nod in approval. Looks like it's time to start over and do this right.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You take the hand offered to you. “It's nice to meet you, but I think I'm out of my depth here.” You look down at yourself letting your eyes fall to your very enlarged stomach.

Lance immediately picks up on what you’re doing, and scoffs at your assessment, “That's the last thing you need to worry about. Would you like to come in and look around?” Lance gives you a wink and you find yourself falling for the man all over again at the attempt at a fresh start.

“Yes… I’d like that.”

Lance opens the door wide and ushers you in, never once letting go of your hand since you placed it in his.

“Let's just call this a new beginning,” Lance says, as he places his arms around you and carefully lifts you to the kitchen island so your face to face with him; leaning in for a passionate kiss for the first time in forever.

#lance tucker #lance the fucker tucker #lance tucker x reader #lance tucker fanfiction #the bronze au #the bronze #pa!reader

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noradarhkpalmer · 6 years ago

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Rider, Massachusetts

Title: Rider, Massachusetts

Rating: PG

Pairing: Nora Darhk/Ray Palmer aka Darhkatom

Warnings: Minor swearing

Summary/Notes: AU Based on an ask prompt: only two people in this hotel/inn and sitting in my room alone wasn’t fun so I’m invading yours.

Nora Darhk checks into the Storybrooke Inn after getting lost in the storm, pausing her road trip to be anywhere but Star City after the death of her parents. Ray Palmer's GPS stops working on his way home from a business trip in New York and that brings him to the small picturesque inn. They're the only two guests checked in and decide to be lonely together.

This started out as an ask prompt thanks to @jakelovesamy and now it turned into all of this. I am so please and so stoked about this. I've always wanted to write an ooey gooey holiday fic like this but never had the right idea.

SO THANK YOU SO MUCH EL REALLY YOU HAVE MADE MY DAY. Enjoy everyone! El I hope you love it! PS there will be a bit of an epilogue type chapter after this just so Maude can gloat.

She hadn’t planned to be here. Neither had he. When the snow got bad somehow, kismet, serendipity, fate, maybe even God, led them to both pull into the Storybrooke Inn. Coincidence or not, the Inn looked something straight out of a storybook. It was still covered in Christmas lights and decorations as was the small quaint town of Rider, Massachusetts. Ray was in New York for a business meeting when his GPS suddenly stopped working and he got lost. Nora was trying to be anywhere but Star City. She was a long way from home, across the country to be precise, she’d been taking the cross country trip ever since her parents were killed in a car crash just before Christmas.

Nora had arrived first. She walked into the just as equally decorate foyer of the inn and then walked up to the front desk, ringing the bell. She glanced around to the adjoining living room, seeing presumably locals since there was only one other car than hers in the parking lot, probably the owner’s, playing cards, chess, reading, just sitting somewhere to get warm and be a little less lonely on New Years Eve.

An older woman came from another adjoining room that she couldn’t tell what it was and smiled warmly at her.

“Can I help you?” Nora looked the woman over and the warmth didn’t seem to fade, she was embodiment of the holidays and everything Nora never had growing up.

Nora nodded. “Yes, I got a bit lost and the storm is making it pretty impossible to get anywhere so I’ll be needing a room for the night.”

“Well we’re happy fate brought you to Rider either way. I’m Maude Mills, I own the inn.” She extended her hand to Nora and Nora shook it.

“I’m Nora… Sorry, my hands are still a bit chilly from the storm outside.” Nora quickly retracted her hand and watched as the woman reached behind her for keys off the very full key rack behind her.

“That’s alright, dear, just sign in here.” Maude pointed to a pad in front of her on the desk and Nora filled out her basic information. “You’ll be our only guest, if you get too lonely up there, a lot of the locals like to stick around late into the evening to ring in the new year. You’re welcome to join us.”

Nora smiled sadly, not quite in the New Years Eve mood and nodded. “Thank you, but the warm bed in the room will probably just put me right to sleep.”

Maude nodded. “Okay, well, we’ll be here if we change your mind. Let me walk you up to your room.”

xxxx

Ray pulled up to an inn that he hoped was open. He saw just a few cars and was even surprised to see the Washington plates on the car next to his. Of all the gin joints. He walked inside with his bags, seeing an older woman at the front desk as he strolled up, glad that the inn was in fact open.

“Hi there!” He greeted.

“Well hello there! What a treat, I get two guests in the span of an hour. I’m Maude, who you might you be?”

“I’m Ray… I got a bit lost in the storm and need a room for the night, please tell me you’re not all booked up for the holidays?” He asked and going off the full key rack, save for one set of keys missing, it probably wasn’t.

Maude waved him off and laughed at his joke. “Nope, you’ll be my one of two guests. Just sign in here and I’ll get you all set up.”

Ray obliged and noticed the only other name on the guestbook. Nora Darhk. He’d heard that name before but he couldn’t place where. He finished and took the keys from Maude and let her lead him to his room.

xxxx

Nora looked up from her book when she heard shuffling and voices move past her door. Maude? Another guest? She heard a deeper, charming, male voice chatting with Maude. She heard a door open near her and shut a few moments later. Nora shivered slightly and stared at the unlit fireplace across from her bed. She really didn’t want to start a fire and possibly set something else on fire in the process so she resolved to sitting on her bed in her thickest sweater and coziest socks.

Another few hours passed and Nora, despite moving under the covers now, was almost completely freezing. She looking at the time 10:13pm. Less than two hours to midnight. To a new year. To the first full year ahead of her without her parents. She swallowed thickly, trying to not let herself be sad about it. She let herself grieve and mourn up to the funeral and the wake after but quickly locked that part of herself away after that.

Nora was brought out of her thoughts when she heard a loud noise from the room next to hers. The clunking of logs and a satisfied sigh. Whoever was next door had started their fireplace. She sighed. Who was she? Sitting in here all pathetic by herself on New Years Eve. She couldn’t even be bothered to start her own fireplace. Nora, now in her pajamas, grabbed her robe and slipped on her houseshoes and padded out of the room. Wait what was she doing?

Not being alone. That’s what she was doing.

Knocking on a complete stranger’s door two hours to midnight? They could be a serial killer? Or they could just make her feel a little less lonely.

Nora gently rapped on the door next to hers and she sucked in a breath as a very tall, handsome, and shirtless man answered the door. She was so stunned her hand was still raised as if she were still knocking.

“Hey, can I help you?” The man greeted with a smile.

Words stuck in Nora’s throat as she tried so hard not to stare at the man’s muscular chest and arms. “Umm… I just heard you starting your fire and I really don’t want to set my room on fire so I was wondering if I umm wow this sounds so stupid now that I am saying it out loud but… I was wondering if I could hang out in here?”

The man looked down after Nora was noticeably staring and realized he was still shirtless. He fetched his shirt from the bed and slid on the plain black tee. He leaned against the doorframe and listened to her request. Something inside him told him to let her in.

“Sure. Come on in, get warm, you look cold.”

Nora smiled in thanks and walked inside, wrapping her arms around herself, not sure what to do but thankful for the good 10 degree difference between his room and hers.

“I’m Ray by the way, Ray Palmer.” Ray held out his hand to Nora.

Nora shook it. “I’m Nora, Nora Darhk.” She smiled and then puzzle pieces clicked in her brain. “Like as in Ray Palmer of Palmer Technologies?”

“That’s me.” He grinned.

Nora guffawed. “What in the world are you doing at this tiny little Inn in Massachusetts?”

“I was on a business trip in New York and got a bit lost.” He shrugged. “Guess you can’t always count on GPS’s huh?” Ray offered her a seat on his bed and she gingerly sat down, pulling her legs up to her chest. “It seems we’re the only two guests so… what brought you to Rider?”

“Same as you… I mean… I got lost because of the storm. I’ve been on a cross country road trip since Christmas Eve.”

“Are you the one with the Washington state plates? Are you driving across the country to see different family members?”

Nora nodded. “Yeah… that’s me, why? And no… I don’t have any family, kinda why I took the roadtrip. To get away from that small fact.”

Ray had a sudden flash. An obituary in the paper for a Ruve Adams and a Damien Darhk, killed in a car crash, survived by their daughter… Nora. “You live in Star City, don’t you?”

Nora furrowed her brow, now suspecting this man was either a stalker, serial killer, or too good to be true. “Yeah… why do you know this much about me?”

Ray realized how all of his questions sounded and waved her off. “No it’s not like that… I saw your parents’ obituary in the paper a couple weeks ago… I’m sorry for your loss. That must be so hard losing them so close to the holidays.”

“Yeah well… that’s just how fate likes to treat me.” She shrugged. “I lost my job back in September and then this… I basically emptied my savings and found myself on the interstate on Christmas Eve, which is a bitch to dive in by the way, I’ve just been trying to be anywhere but Star City or any place that reminds me of my parents. I was on my way to Boston when I got lost and ended up here.”

Ray reached out and took her hand. “I’m sorry. I really am. Four years ago… I lost my fiancee, we got mugged at gunpoint and… he shot us both I somehow survived. I don’t know why or how… it doesn’t seem fair. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why she died and I got to live. I spent a lot of time with that pain, I wish I had the agency you did to just take off and deal with it in whatever way you pleased. If you want to talk about it more, I’m here, I know we just met but maybe opening up to a complete stranger you’ll never see again might be easier.”

Nora wiped away a stray tear that she was pissed she let fall and shook her head. “You never know, you might bump into me on the streets of Star City. But, I know what you mean. I’m sorry you lost her, but maybe you’re still here because of a greater purpose. I read the papers, your tech company is not only successful but gives back and really makes an effort to change things at a grassroots level, that’s revolutionary. None of that would be possible if you weren’t still here.”

Ray hadn’t thought of it that way. It didn’t make the pain of losing Anna any less worse four years down the line but it did make him breathe a little easier thinking about it. She was right. He had found purpose in those four years even though some of it was because he had thrown himself a little too much into his work but, he was still proud of all that he had accomplished.

“So, what’s this job that was stupid enough to let you go?” He asked, trying to move onto a lighter tone to the evening.

Nora tried to hide her smile. “I didn’t technically lose it, it’s just over for the season. Don’t judge… but I work at a Renaissance Fair. I’m considering not going back next season because my boss is a jerk so I kind of decided to lose my job.”

Ray tried to hold in his laugh. “Of all the things I thought you would say, that was definitely not it.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “You can laugh, go ahead. It wasn’t my first choice in jobs either. I have a teaching degree but no one wants to hire a drama teacher in the age of STEM.” She sarcastically airquoted ‘STEM’ and realized she was talking to a man with probably multiple degrees all in STEM fields. “Sorry.” She blushed and looked away.

Ray shrugged. “No, it’s okay. I love the arts. I have a lot of paintings in my apartment I commission from local artists and I love musicals. The arts are still important no matter what other science fuddy-duddies say.”

Nora smiled and realized they were still holding hands, she tried to retract, realizing he probably hadn’t meant to hold her hand this long but he simply put his other hand on the other side of hers and smiled, so she kept it there.

“So you like musicals?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Do I? Singin in the Rain is my favorite movie of all time.”

Nora grinned. “I’m more of a Grease girl myself, but I can appreciate Debbie Reynolds in her prime.”

“What else do you like to do other than watch musicals and what exactly is it that you do at the Ren fair?”

“I’m a witch. I tell fortunes and pretend to cast loves spells or curse enemies. All very Morgana Le Fey type stuff.” She found herself now playing with his fingers as he let off one of his hands off and she tangled their fingers together. It felt almost instinctual to do this. And she wasn’t sure why.

“You continue to surprise me, Nora Darhk.” He shook his head and gazed at her longingly, he really truly hoped he’d bump into her one day in Star City.

Nora moved their hands so they were in a position to thumb wrestle and gave him a smirk. They absently started thumb wrestling as they continued to talk.

“And to answer your other question, I like to draw, paint, I dabble a little bit in photography, I sort of do a little bit of everything since I don’t exactly have the most stable job in the world.”

“Paint anything I might have seen in a gallery or coffee shop?”

She shook her head. “I’m not that good, I’d love to start a photography series called Faces in the City where I just capture Star City for what it is, the good and the bad. Maybe it’ll help bring change, I’d love to donate and proceeds I make off of selling prints to homeless shelters around town.”

His heart swelled. This woman had had the worst few months of her life and there was still room in her heart for people less fortunate than her. She was a marvel.

“I could help you with that,” he offered.

Nora realized he meant financially and she waved him off. “No… you don’t have to do that.”

“No, come on I think it’s a great idea, maybe if not with that but with the drama teacher gig. I give a lot to STEM camps but I also give a lot to art programs. Summer programs that teach kids how to write, draw, paint, do theatre, music, dance. They’re always looking for qualified instructors.”

“I had one real year of teaching before they cut the funding at my school so I’m not exactly what you would call ‘qualified’,” she said.

“I think you’re plenty amazing and any school would be lucky to have you shaping and encouraging the future minds of this country. Teachers don’t get enough credit. If you ever need a recommendation while you’re job hunting, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Nora choked out a laugh. “You’ve known me for an hour, why would you want to do that?”

“Because I see that there is something incredibly special about you, Nora, and I’m really glad whatever it was that brought us here together tonight did. I don’t know how we ended up being the only two residents of this inn but I’m thankful it meant we got to meet.”

Nora face flushed. What exactly did he mean by all of that? Was it romantic interest? Plantonic interest? Was she even ready for romantic interest? She’d known this man an hour. She glanced at the clock 11:15pm. Forty-five minutes until 2019. She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Me too.”

They spent the next forty minutes talking about life, laughing at how rowdy the locals downstairs were getting, Ray showed her some of his personal invention ideas that he just had to get on paper somewhere, he wasn’t sure if they’d ever come to be, but they all revolved around making the world a safer and better place and Nora’s heart swelled at his heart for humanity. It was now five minutes to midnight and they had moved to sit in front of the fire. Ray had snuck downstairs and nabbed a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two glasses. He poured them each a glass and settled down next to her in front of the fire.

Nora had shed her robe, it was too hot to have it on and sit in front of the fire but now it was almost like she was just still a smidge too cold to be comfortable.

Ray noticed her shivering and fetched a blanket, he sat back down across from her and draped the blanket over the both of them, their legs brushed together. Nora looked absolutely beautiful next to the fire. An absolute angel if he were honest. Maybe one day she would be his angel.

The minutes ticked by and they sat in a comfortable silence, two minutes to midnight now.

“Hey, Ray?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever kissed anyone at midnight?” She asked, looking a little apprehensive to even broach the subject of the New Years Eve tradition.

Ray nodded. “Anna and I did every New Years we were together. What about you?”

Nora shook her head. “If my dad was awake he’d kiss my cheek and say ‘Happy New Year, Nora-doll’ but other than that, no.”

“Why do you ask?” He couldn’t help himself now, he reached for her free hand and tangled their fingers together.

“Will you kiss me at midnight?” Any boldness she had left her body the minute she asked and immediately tore her hand away to cover her mouth. “I’m sorry… that was really forward wow are you sure this is non-alcoholic?”

Ray chuckled. “Yes.”

Nora looked up at him. “Yes to what?”

Ray heard cheering from below and a clock tower chiming in the distance. Midnight. He smiled and pulled her in for a soft, sweet kiss and then pulled back. “What do you think?”

Nora smiled in return and pulled him back in for another kiss. “I’m really happy we decided to be lonely together.”

“Happy New Year, Nora.” If she hadn’t just met him tonight, she’d consider the look in his eyes to be of complete adoration and love.

“Happy New Year, Ray.” She knew now that 2019 would be her absolute best year yet.

#darhkatom #ray palmer #nora darhk #ask #prompt #au #ooey gooey #fluff

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