#for plainly in truth

[kareofbears]

a fragile line, chapter 1/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

read on ao3 or below the cut

The worst day of his life was when Gally realized he still fucking cares.

He always cared. Probably cared too damn much, back in the Maze. Cared so much it tore them all apart.

They had lost everything in the span of days. Crops burned, walls torn down, weapons picked up only to be dropped, dripping in blood. Gally tried telling everyone to stop breaking the rules, but nobody listened, and people died. Boys, his boys, died. And he tried so hard to save as many of them as possible, took that burden on himself, tarnished his palms with invisible callouses from the effort of forcibly keeping them all together. There's nothing worse than having the hands that helped kids out of the Box be the same ones to etch their names off the wall.

Gally was younger, then. It feels like years have passed even if it's only been months since it all went down. He was struck with terror, confused, determined to find answers, and most of all, he was angry. Angry with grief, angry at the situation, angry at change. Of course, nobody pissed him off more than the Greenie, sauntering around and making big speeches like he built the damn Glade himself. And guess what—Gally was right about that, too.

But what really got to him, what really made his nerves light up with fury and sink deep into his bones was that nobody listened to him about the Greenie. Yeah, Gally can see now that he was a massive dick back then, but all of his worries were valid. Thomas was dangerous. Thomas was working with WICKED. Thomas did lead people to dangerous situations without thinking things through or considering the consequences. And nobody questioned that, because they were making progress on the Maze for the first time ever.

It's not something he'll ever say out loud, but damn the Maze. Damn freedom. What the hell is the point of fighting your way out when you see the bodies lined up behind you? What's the price of escape? Too high. It would always be too high for him.

When they left him there, bleeding out on the floor of some busted up WICKED lab with a meter-long spear sticking out of his chest—Minho did always have one hell of a throw—Gally cursed every single one of them. Croaked out their names with whatever breath was left in his lungs, lips tracing the syllables in a haze of red and hate. Was still mouthing it when Lawrence's guys found him.

Months later, slouched on top of a combat vehicle for a routine trip of the Last City's outskirts, he sees them.

They looked like shit. Clothes that have been through the ringer, hair matted with grime, every inch of their skin covered in soot and who-the-hell-knows what, and eyes blazing with something only anguish from the Scorch and running from WICKED can bring to someone.

He wanted so badly for that same, familiar hurt to rise. That thorn on his side that he convinced himself would never leave, the phantom spear in his chest to make itself known. He waits for the anger to rear its ugly head again, like it always has. The need to feel hate.

It doesn't come. What does come, unfortunately, is knee-buckling relief.

They're alive.

After all this time, even after they left him behind to rot, they're Gladers. They're boys. They're Gally's boys, first and foremost. He protects his own until his last breath. For better or for worse, he still gives a damn about these guys.

If he's going to care, he's going to do it properly this time. And with these shanks? This is going to suck. It's going to be hell. But Gally doesn't do things in halves.

—

“Words?”

“Circulation. Novel. Badger.”

Thomas nods, taking a bite of his apple as he writes into that beaten up notebook of his. “Looks good today, too,” he says approvingly between chews. "And you're not—"

"I’m fine. Don't feel any worse than I did twelve hours ago," Newt cuts in, amused. "I feel bloody sparkling, Tommy. What's the next set?"

Gally watches as Thomas continues writing, brows furrowed in concentration. The three of them are sitting underneath the awning of the chapel's entrance, shielding themselves from the morning sun's abnormally hot rays, making last-minute preparations for when they head into the Last City tonight. Frankly, he was glad for it. Already they've lingered for too long, the paranoia of timing itching at his skin.

"Next words are 'narrow, switch, illusion,'" Thomas replies, closing his book shut. "Don't forget."

"I'll try my best," Newt says drily. "Can we move to actual business now, doctor?"

Thomas leans over and knocks on the wooden door, hard, taking another bite of his apple. "Brenda. Get out here."

Immediately, the door swings open and she peeks her head out, bob bouncing as she squints. "Done flirting?"

"Never," Newt says easily, scooching over so she has room to sit. "Lucky us, the doc cleared me to join the grown-up conversation."

Part of the last-minute preparations, apparently, is this. The Greenie playing Medjack and clearing Newt for a clean bill of health every twelve hours with little memory tests.

It's easy to make fun of, which Newt never hesitates to do. But when Gally first saw them doing it, saw Thomas' stone-faced expression as he insists on checking Newt every time, he's reassured, just a little. He still has his reservations towards the Greenie, probably always will, but if there's one thing they can both agree on, is that Newt's health isn't something to fuck around with.

Brenda flops down between him and Newt, giving Newt a side-hug and raises her fist towards Gally. Unhesitatingly, he bumps it with his own.

"Okay," Thomas swallows, passing the fruit to Newt, who takes his own bite in turn. Despite fatigue prevalent in his posture, Thomas’ voice is sure. "We're heading out tonight. The objectives are saving Minho, busting out twenty-eight Immunes, and taking the serum from the vault. We're taking the tunnels, like we did the first time." The way he's reciting the plan feels clinical, worn out, the same way sharp rock smooths down after years of being under rough waters. "Brenda's getting the bus for the kids with Fry's help—"

"Why isn't Fry here?" Gally interrupts.

"He's scavenging the place for something to mark the road with." Thomas slumps against the pillar like it was the only thing holding him up, before straightening again. At Gally's nod, he continues. "Newt, Gally and I are going in with Teresa to the main building. Gally and I will take point, Newt stays a few steps behind us as backup."

"Just a few?" Newt clarifies, coughing a little before biting into the apple.

"Just a few."

Newt’s teeth sink into the core, a piece falling with a loud crunch. There's still a hint of bruising still smudged just above his cheekbone; the only remnants of the mysterious black eye that appeared before they all had dinner a few days ago.

"Just a quick chat with Tommy," Newt answered when Gally raised a brow at him then. "Little trouble in paradise, just had to let out some steam, is all. You know how we are."

The thing is, Gally doesn't.

Individually, the two of them are pretty much the same. A lot happened in six months, and he'd be a liar if he said he's the same shank that was tearing his voice out in the Glade. Thomas is impossibly more difficult now, but he always was. At his core, though, he's still the brave, overly-observant idiot he pulled out of the Box. Newt's still the embodiment of wit, the patron fucking saint of composure, even if that's starting to chip away because of the Flare, judging by Thomas' twin bruise on his jaw.

But the two of them? As a unit? Gally has no idea who these bastards are.

It's as if the universe took a pinch of Thomas and a pinch of Newt, threw it in a barrel, and topped it with a gallon of deranged before stirring. A mixture of whatever the hell the two of them are now. It's something Gally doesn't want to put much thought into, because something about the two of them feels almost threatening. Warning bells, the presence of danger when something involves the two of them.

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

Even asking Brenda about it, once, didn't help clear things up. "Those two? The only thing I get about them is that you should just get out of the way before you do something stupid."

"What, you make a bad comment or something?"

"Kissed Thomas." A pause. "Yeah. Don't ask. Newt laughed it off but Thomas wouldn’t speak to me for days."

Gally refocuses back on the meeting, as Thomas continues. "—into Sub-Level 3. Get the serum, give it to Newt right then and there. Get the kids out, meet with Brenda, get picked up by Fry." He pauses before nodding, as if he were confirming his own plan with himself. That, paired with his deep eyebags, Gally has to wonder if this guy's slept at all since they interrogated Teresa a few days ago. "Good that?"

Two good thats and one sounds good. Looks like Brenda never picked up the Glader lingo.

"Okay. Be back by sundown. We leave at nine." Thomas looks over them, voicd curt. “Don’t be late.”

"What Tommy means to say," Newt chides. "Is do what you need to do. Get some rest, pack what you need. Take care of yourselves, because who knows when we'll get free time again, yeah? Go on, now." Newt turns to Thomas. "Dick," he says, but it comes out oddly affectionate. "Never did pick up on niceties, did you?"

Thomas shrugs. "Figured they'd appreciate efficiency."

Gally gets on his feet, fully intending to slink away somewhere and get in the mindset for the infiltration tonight when he hears Thomas call out: "Stick around, Gally." A mild thump sounds out, like someone getting swatted. "...Please."

He doesn't repress a sigh, but doesn't complain—he has a thing or two to say, anyway.

They wait for Brenda and Newt to leave. Gally doesn't let him have the first word. "You look like shit," he says bluntly. "You can't go in there when you look like you can barely stay on your feet."

Thomas shoots him a glare but doesn't bother getting up from where he's sitting. "I'll be fine." Gally keeps staring, and Thomas visibly deflates, curling in on himself a little. "I'll be fine after we talk."

"Okay." Gally crosses his arms and waits. "Anytime, Greenie."

He doesn't answer, and Gally has the urge to tell him to just spit it out, but then Thomas' expression turns solemn. "Be honest with me."

"I don't think I have it in me to bother lying to you, man."

"Would you choose Newt over me?"

The question stuns Gally to silence. "Feeling insecure?" he asks instead of answering.

Thomas ignores the jab. "You would, right?" he insists, eyes intense. "You must. He has three years over me. You built the Glade together, one of the originals. You respected him even when he disagreed with you during Gatherings, I remember. You and I, we were never close. Got on each other's nerves a lot." He tilts his head, considering. "Still do."

Gally hesitates, honesty catching him off guard. "Shit, Greenie," he sighs, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before. They’ve made strides, him and Thomas. They’re not as cut-throat with each other like they were before, as much as Thomas tried to reignite the feud between them. Is it good? Fuck no, but it’s better than before.

Nonetheless, it’s nothing on the affinity that Gally had towards Newt.

Eventually, he nods. "Yeah. If it came down to it and I had no other choice, I would choose Newt over you."

He’s not surprised when Thomas relaxes, tension easing from his frame. "Good," he breathes out, flopping down to the hot concrete and closing his eyes. "So if it came down to it, you'd make sure Newt would get out of there, even if it killed me?"

Gally gives him a hard look. “You planning on dying out there?”

“I’m planning on Newt coming back alive.” When Thomas opens his eyes slowly, gaze sliding to him, his expression is almost unbearably vulnerable. "Please," Thomas says quietly, and he almost doesn't hear it. "Please."

"You asked me to be honest." A hum sounds out in reply. "I think if I got Newt out of there, but you didn't make it, there would be nothing left of Newt to save."

Thomas frowns. "Yeah," he agrees, a little too easily. "But he'd be alive."

—

Gally peers over Newt's shoulder, standing on his tiptoes a little to get a better view. "You choose which one you're wearing yet?"

"Red one, I think." Holding up the WICKED jumpsuits, he watches as Newt's eyes jump between the three choices. "I like a good pop of color."

"Well, I don't." Gripping Newt's shoulder, he grabs the plain gray jumpsuit, and pauses briefly when Newt tenses underneath his touch. "I'll take the boring one."

"Doing us all a favor, mate."

Gally glances at Newt—who gives him a mild, withdrawn smile—before turning his attention back down to the jumpsuit. Tracing it with his fingers, he studies it, unseeing. A sick sense of premonition tingling down his spine.

"Well," Newt says, "I'm gonna—" he jerks his head to the door, clearing his throat, and Gally really, really considers letting him get away with it. But he can't, not when they're leaving in a few hours. Not when the stakes are so high. Newt, of all things, can’t be considered a variable. But it might be too late.

"Newt," he calls, still directing his gaze at the jumpsuit in his hands. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

He stops in his tracks, turned away from Gally.

Dread grows in his stomach. Silence reigns for a long moment.

"No," he admits, finally. "But Tommy seems to trust you, so." Facing Gally, his smile, sickeningly foreign and apprehensive, is being directed right at Gally. "You must be a half-decent guy."

Gally laughs, because he knows Newt would want him to and he doesn't know how else to react. "Now I really know your memory's fucked." Hopping on top of a crate, Gally lets the humor drop from his voice, fist tight around the fabric in his hands. "How bad is it?"

That earns him a scowl, harsh and abrupt. "How the hell am I supposed to know the bloody details? I don't fucking remember."

"Calm," Gally placates. He has to constantly remind himself that, despite the fact that he hides it so well, Newt is sick. "Come on, man, we need to talk about this. You remember Thomas?"

Like a smothered flame, the fight immediately burns out of Newt. Carefully, he sits on the ground in front of Gally, crossing his legs. Gally wonders why Newt wouldn't just sit beside him when he remembers that he probably wouldn't want to sit next to a complete stranger. It stung, a little. "Yeah, I remember him."

"Does he know about this?"

"Yeah."

Gally narrows his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes," he repeats, exasperated. "You really think I can hide anything from that Tommy bastard? Especially about me and my—" he gestures at his head, circling a finger around his temple lazily. "I tried, mate, and that didn't work out for the two of us."

"Gally."

"What?"

"Stop calling me 'mate.' It's Gally. Just ask next time."

Newt scrunches his brows in concentration. "Gally," he stretches out, like he's hoping muscle memory of the name will kick in, a faint recognition flashing in his eyes. "It's kind of ringing a bell, now."

"Hope it's not alarm bells," Gally huffs. "How does the memory loss work? Are you going to be okay for tonight?"

"Not sure, it's kind of a new development. Sometimes I forget small details like what I ate for breakfast, and sometimes I forget you exist. Tommy's been trying to keep track of the progress with the little tests, but not sure that's doing a whole lot. Thinking that he's just obsessing over my health, like usual. As for tonight," he shrugs. "I have to be okay, don't I?"

"Newt."

"Gally," he groans out, matching Gally's tone. Looks like the memories are back; a quick recovery, for now. "I don't have a bloody choice. Besides, it's not that bad yet. It usually happens for a few minutes at a time and then I'm right as rain. So don't bother convincing me—"

"And I won't." During Gatherings, arguments with Newt had always been a losing battle, especially when the Greenie was involved somehow. Gally can count on one hand the times he's disagreed with Newt—this isn't one of them. "We need you out there," he says truthfully.

"Thanks," Newt says, eyes crinkling in relief, before morphing into a thoughtful expression. "Did Tommy say anything to you?"

Gally was shaking his head before Newt even finished. "Nope," he jumps down from the crate and walks out. "Not taking anymore bodyguard requests from anyone."

“Gally.”

Gally flips him off without turning around, mouth twisted unhappily. It’s a steep learning curve, but he thinks he’s starting to get it. Newt and Thomas are an old book that hasn’t been opened in years—you can’t separate the pages without risking both being torn in half. But what he wishes they knew is that he doesn’t want to have to choose between the two of them. He doesn’t like choosing lives, weighing the risks of success and death. There’s nothing more he wants than to leave that mindset back in the Maze. Especially between these two; they’re finally back in his life and they immediately get to talking about how willing they are to martyr themselves. Like they don’t realize how much this fucks with Gally’s head.

Just as the door is about to close, he hears Newt sigh, tired and frustrated. “Shit.”

—

"Punctual," is how Thomas greets him when he gets there ten minutes before the meeting time. He looks impossibly worse. Shoulders drooping and eye bags bordering on purple, he looks like he’s only standing on his feet through rage alone, as if it is only his heartache that propels him forward.

By now, the sun had long since set, replaced by a huge full moon that they ignored. They're both dressed in WICKED uniforms, masks in hand. He may not see it, but he knows both of them have weapons laced and hidden throughout their entire body like a second skin, like suits that he sees adults wear in the city. It flickers in his mind, sometimes, that in a normal life, they’d all still be too young to wear suits.

Gally snorts. "While you shanks were eating sand in the Scorch, I was in the military the whole time. Punctual made sure my ass didn't get beat."

Thomas' expression doesn't so much as twitch. "Makes sense," he says, effectively ending the conversation. Not that he minded. Greenie was a real stick in the mud nowadays. He almost prefers the hundreds of questions that spewed out of his mouth over the contemplative, fuming silence that's associated with Thomas nowadays.

“You always gonna be this much of an asshole?” Gally prods, because there’s time to waste and he’s never been afraid to ruin Thomas’ day.

“Well,” he replies, tone perfectly level. “By the end of tonight, I’ll either be the most pleasant, cheerful, carefree shank you’ve ever met—“ he lolls his head towards Gally, eyes dead. “Or I’ll be begging you to kill me.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond. Footsteps, paired with the heavy thumps that only someone wearing a WICKED uniform can bring, paired with a throaty cough. "You alright, Tommy?"

The change was instant; it’s as if dawn broke at 8:56 pm. Thomas, the miserable, angry, short-fused Greenie, splits a grin brighter than the sun. A happiness sharp and abrupt and covetous that it felt like a weapon in its own right, an ax to grind so cutting that it makes the guns and knives strapped to their bodies feel like childrens’ toys. Ridiculously, Gally has the urge to take a step back out of its range.

“Could be better,” Thomas replies, reaching for Newt’s hand. One thing he’s grateful for is that these two always keep the PDA to a minimum. Small mercies. “Brenda?”

“Hauling our lovely Teresa over.”

As if on cue, the chapel doors barge open, Teresa and Brenda stepping out. If it weren’t for the sunken, lifeless expression plastered on Teresa’s face, they might have looked like two friends in a different life.

“Oh, and here you are,” Newt slips Thomas a folded piece of paper, clearing his throat. “Keep it somewhere safe.”

“What’s that?” Gally asks.

“Insurance. I’m supposed to give it to him, in case he—“ Thomas gestures vaguely, still unable to vocalize Newt’s sickness. There’s an emotion Gally can’t place scattered on his features. “Can I read it?”

“Sure,” Newt shrugs. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

He unfolds the paper, and it was quiet as they watched him read it. When he finishes, he looks up slowly. For some reason, Thomas looks overwhelmed.

New rolls his eyes. “I told you, it’s nothing you don’t already know.”

“Yeah, but still. It’s in writing.” With a care he isn’t used to associating with Thomas, he tucks the paper deep into his breast pocket. "Can I keep this?"

"No, that’s for me." Newt pauses, considering. "I'll write you your own letter, maybe."

Gally’s barely listening to them, much more interested in how Teresa looks like she just got her soul sucked out of her. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks Brenda.

“Beats me. Ever since the interrogation, she’s been out of it.” Cutting a glance at Thomas, “You have something to do with that?”

“You already know everything I did during the interrogation,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Haven’t even talked to her since then.”

Somehow, Teresa looks even more dejected after hearing that. An unforeseen benefit; she’s easier to handle this way. Gally catches Newt’s glaring at her, a mildly amused look etched into his eyes, and wonders how much is unforseen and how much is just Newt.

Turning his attention back to Brenda, he double checks his belt. Pistol, knife, dagger, radio, hacksaws, extra rounds. “Ready?”

Teresa’s head shoots up and blinks, suddenly alarmed. “Brenda’s coming?”

“Look who’s back from the dead,” Newt taunts, and Thomas frowns at him slightly. “You’re a bouncer now, are you? Of course Brenda’s bloody coming.”

“But isn’t she—?” Her gaze drops down to Brenda’s shin, where the Flare used to be etched. “She’s not getting treatment, right? Otherwise Newt would—“

Thomas sighs loudly, not bothering to look in her direction. “We need to go. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Where is she getting her serum?”

Gally looks at her like she’s lost it. “Do you think if we had any serum, we wouldn’t shoot that shit straight into Newt?”

Newt blows out a breath, eye twitching, and a tingle of premonition tingles along Gally’s nape. “Can we get a move on now? This girl’s just wasting our time. Don’t we have something better to do?”

Thomas gives him another long, long look. “Okay,” he concedes. “Let’s head out.”

Teresa opens her mouth, but Gally grips her wrist. “Haven’t you learned to just keep quiet?” he hisses, the question more genuine than he intended. It’s a wonder she’s still alive. “It’s a simple thing. Shut up. Get us in. And maybe Tom will hate you less.”

The venom in her stare could rival a Griever’s, but at least she doesn’t complain when they start walking.

—

The tunnel sucks. It always does.

It has a perpetual stickiness that seems to permeate into the aged bricks in the wall, a natural humidity that makes the heavy stink of a sewer rise and settle onto their clothes like a snowfall that Gally has only ever read about and has lost all hope of seeing in the sun-scorched world. With every step, an unnamable liquid would make their shoes squelch with a viscosity he doesn’t even want to think about; yet another thing to ignore if he wants to keep it together. It’s dimly lit, slippery, a nasty piece of work. The sound is strangely amplified there in a way he knows gives all of them hives—loud sounds get you attention. Attention gets you killed. Just how it works nowadays.

Thomas and Newt climb down first, then Teresa. Brenda gives him a dubious look, one foot on the ladder’s ring.

“What?”

Her tone is forcibly nonchalant. “Have a thing against going underground.” In the corner of his eye, he sees her twist her ankle this way and that. “You sure there’s nothing dangerous down there?”

Gally cracks a grin. “If you’re worried about Cranks, I think there’s technically one down there.” It’s the kind of joke that would get his teeth knocked out if he told it to Thomas, but it pulls a startled huff out of Brenda.

“Guess so.” Scraping something like a smile, she descends, and he follows her, closing the trap door with a thud.

Hopping down the rest of the way, his boots hit the ground with a splash. “Straight ahead,” he tells them, blindly reaching for the lever and pulling it up with some effort. Lights flicker on, bulb by bulb, as the tunnel stretches on for what seems like miles. “Let’s make quick work of this place.”

Thomas and Newt set the pace, a brisk walk that reminds Gally that Thomas was a Runner and Newt would still be one, in another life. Gally studies Newt’s leg from behind, nodding to himself when there’s only the barest stutter in his gait. He must have worked hard to train it up to where it is now.

“Anyone ever told you that you’re not as good at being a jackass as you think you are?” Brenda whispers beside him, soft enough that the sound doesn’t bounce against the tunnel walls.

Gally bristles. “No, actually, they tell me I’m worse than they remember.”

A scoff, then, loudly: “There’s only room for one brooding jerk in this group, and I don’t know if you can rip it from the lovestruck fools.”

“I heard that,” Thomas calls back, annoyed.

Brenda chuckles, before dropping her voice. “Listen, Gally. This tough guy act? It’s not doing anyone any favors. You don’t realize how quickly—” she falters. “How quickly it can go away.”

Irritation rises in him. “It’s not an act,” he rebukes, fighting to speak softly. “It’s more than that. You don’t think I know about loss? Give me a break.” He gestures to himself before Thomas and Newt, “What do you even know about this? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, it’s not really any of your damn business.”

“I’m the one who watched them for six whole months while you were gone,” she reminds him. “It’s not the Maze, but the Scorch is its own hell. It changes people, it changes priorities. And it’s also when Newt and Thomas became Newt and Thomas.”

He scrubs his face roughly. “And?” he prompts, because saying Who fucking cares? is probably rude.

“You can probably tell that they’re—” her lip twitches. “A little off.”

“Batshit insane?” he offers.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “And with how they trip over themselves to stare at each other, all I’m saying is that it’s nice that someone out there is watching where they’re going. Make sure their footing is alright.”

He gives her an incredulous look. “And that’s me?”

Brenda shrugs. “You and me. We can take shifts.”

Gally continues staring at her before throwing caution to the wind. “You still in love with him or something?”

It’s Brenda’s turn to be irritated. “Can’t you just accept the fact that some people aren’t ashamed to look out for their friends? Why do you have to make it weird?”

“Can’t you believe the fact that I’ve already tried looking out for my friends before and ended up with a stick in my chest?” His tone is more piercing than he wanted it to be.

She falls silent, and they walk for a few minutes with only the sound of their shoes slushing in sewer water and the muffled staccato of Newt and Thomas whispering with one another.

“I heard about that,” she says eventually. “It sounded deserved, if I’m being honest.”

Gally grunts, because she’s right and he doesn’t want to grace her with acknowledgement.

Brenda’s mouth quirks. “Who’s the sore loser now?”

Despite his best efforts, he cracks a smile. “Whatever.” And then, begrudgingly, “Yeah. It was deserved. But it was also—“

“Complicated?” Brenda finishes. “Look, man. We can grill those two all you want, but one thing about them is that they keep their shit simple and clean. There’s one priority: each other. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. What you did is in the past, but you’re here for them now. Your hands are full enough as it is, so maybe—” she shrugs. “Try letting stuff go?”

There’s nothing to let go, he wants to retort.

I already let it go, he fixes.

I thought I let go already, he tries again.

I don’t think I’m allowed to let go, is what he actually wants to say.

A quiet, trilling voice, one Gally almost forgot about, made itself known. “You held them too tightly before.” Teresa mutters, eyes downcast. “So now you don’t even want to touch them now. Right?”

Bitterness coats his throat. “You, of all people,” he says, emotionless. “Don’t get to speak to me about that.”

He shoulders past Teresa, ignoring her. “I’ll go ahead and take the first shift,” he tells Brenda.

“That’s the Gally I’ve heard about.”

He scoffs without heat and has to jog to catch up to Thomas and Newt when he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks, liquid sloshing at his shin. Dread, cold and heavy, settles in his stomach.

“Narrow, beatle—no, it’s not beatle,” Newt’s back is to him, shoulders pulled in tight and fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Narrow, hoax…”

“Newt,” Thomas speaks quietly.

“No, Tommy, just give me a minute. I swear I’ve got it.” Newt takes a deep breath. “The words are narrow, insight—fuck.”

“They’re just words,” Thomas tries mildly, but even in the poor lighting, Gally can see how his hands tremble. “Nothing more to it. It’s a stupid thing I made up, anyway.”

“It’s not stupid,” Newt hisses. “It was bloody important to you twelve hours ago, wasn’t it? Don’t go changing the rules on me now.”

Thomas places a hand on Newt’s chest lightly but firm. Taking a deep breath, movements exaggerated, shoulder rising and falling, Thomas holds eye contact with Newt. In the next set of breaths, Newt joins him; reluctantly at first, until the tension in his shoulders gradually relaxes, their chests rising and falling in time with each other.

“We good here?” Gally interrupts quietly.

Newt turns to him, meditative state seemingly broken, and for a second, he thought that Newt was going to have that distant expression on his face again, the one that says he doesn’t recognize Gally anymore. Expects to be met with gritted teeth and wild eyes and black veins. Gally readies himself. Anger, he can work with.

But Newt lets out a sharp breath and casts his eyes to the ceiling, visibly deflating. “We’re good here,” he sighs, and when he glances back down, his expression is sheepish. “Sorry.”

Gally nods, eyes flickering to Thomas, who reveals nothing.

“Come on,” Gally says, brushing past Newt, gently squeezing his shoulder. “Tunnel’s turning soon.”

—

The trickiest part of their journey into the city was always going to be outrunning the train.

“There’s too many of us to go all at once,” Gally announces, all of them hunched in a cramped tunnel with jagged rocks pressed against their palms. He speaks with a raised voice, the train whooshing loudly, the lights rhythmically lighting up their faces like search lights. “We should split this up into two runs.”

He studies each person and doesn’t hide a grimace. The dramatics of how to split this group of shanks is annoyingly complicated. “Me, Brenda, Newt. Greenie, Teresa. Sound good?”

Thomas opens his mouth, and Gally gives him an unimpressed look. “What is it now?”

“...Nothing.”

“Great.” Gally pokes his head out slightly. It’s almost time. “Brenda, Newt. Ready?”

They nod. “Don’t trip this time,” Thomas tells Newt, a shadow of humor in his voice.

“Nice to see you well enough to make jokes, Tommy.”

“Now!” Gally calls.

The three of them hop down, one after another in quick succession. With the rumbling of the next train behind them, they didn’t waste time with idle conversation again. They set out in a sprint, and Gally lets Brenda and Newt pass him, opting to take the tail-end this time. He expects their serious expression, unyielding even in how harshly they suck in their breaths, but Newt’s brows are ruffled in together as he passes Gally.

It goes smoothly, thankfully. The rubble doesn’t even get a chance to truly start vibrating until they were long up the ladder, slumped against the concrete walls to support themselves as they catch their breath. Gally stares at the ceiling, lets himself zone out for a few moments, waits for his lungs to stop stinging, before glancing to his right.

Newt is sitting up, spine ramrod straight, a tense hand on his holster and unblinking.

“Newt?” Gally asks slowly, starting to recognize that vacant look in Newt's eyes.

He watches as Newt’s focus darts between Gally and Brenda, lips moving silently. There’s a glint in his eye that leaves Gally uneasy.

“Newt?” Brenda repeats, levity gone. “What’s wrong with you?”

“How do you know my name?” Newt presses his back tighter against the wall, like he’s trying to escape. Escape from them.

Brenda and Gally share a look. “We’re your friends,” she starts.

It wasn’t the right thing to say. Newt tightens his hold on his holster. For a fleeting moment, he wonders if this is what Teresa felt during the interrogation. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he mutters, and Gally strains to hear him. “Not once.”

Gally slowly attempts to sit up, but Brenda subtly shakes her head. He settles back down.

“Where is he?” Newt breathes out, low and urgent. It’s faint, but there’s the softest hint of leather creaking, like Newt’s considering pulling out his gun. “Where’s Tommy?”

Sucking in a breath, Gally tries to reply—he’ll be here in a minute—when the next train whooshes past them, drowning out his response. In this sporadic lighting, Newt’s eyes burn bright, rapacious, boring deeply into Gally’s. The train fully passes them, and for a moment, darkness swallows them whole.

Then the lights flicker back on and Gally is staring directly into the barrel of Newt’s gun. When he speaks, it’s guttural, very nearly inhumane. “Where’s Tommy?”

Gally doesn’t flinch. “He’s coming,” he assures him, refusing to let his voice waver. “Maybe in ten seconds, he’ll be here.”

Newt presses the barrel closer, actually touching Gally’s forehead this time. “He wasn’t supposed to leave my side,” Newt retaliates, but it comes out unsure. “I know that much. We—we talked about that, I think.” For a moment, he shrinks on himself, before anger seems to seize him once more. “Where?”

A hand grazes Newt’s shoulder. “Hey—” Brenda murmurs.

The barrel leaves his forehead and is pointed at Brenda, but her draw is the quickest out of all of them. In an instant, both of them have their pistols pointed at each other, Newt shaking uncontrollably and Brenda calm, the only sign of her worry is from the downward tilt of her mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, Newt lowers his gun. “It’s been ten seconds,” he states abruptly. The whiplash leaves Gally reeling.

“What?” Brenda asks, lowering hers. “What are you talking about?”

“Tommy, he—“ Newt’s face scrunches, thinking. “He’s fast. I remember that much. It shouldn’t take him long. It’s not like him to be late. There must be something wrong.” The tunnel they’re in is cramped, but Newt tries to stand anyway, and suddenly collapses. “What’s wrong with this bloody leg…?”

In the back of his mind, Gally is vaguely impressed. Never mind forgetting Brenda and Gally; Newt forgot his limp, but is able to recall that Thomas can run faster than the average person. “You think Thomas is in trouble?”

Gally doesn’t hesitate—he foregoes the ladder and jumps down directly from the platform when he hears them, voices raised and Teresa clutching onto Thomas' arm like a lifeline. A flash of disbelief flares in his chest. How did Newt know?

“—You see that Brenda's fine? Can't you see there's—"

"I'll let this train run you over Teresa, I'm not fucking—"

"Please, this can save Newt's life—" Faintly, the screech of the train becomes audible, but the two of them pay no heed to it.

"Keep his name out of your mouth. You're the reason why his life needs to be saved—"

Gally doesn't even try to break into their argument. When he's close enough, he grabs Teresa's wrists and forcibly tears it away from Thomas. "I'm really starting to regret not taking Greenie's offer to just chop your thumb off."

"You have to listen," she starts, eyes shining with frustration, but the screeching is getting louder and louder. "The cure—!"

"How dare you," Thomas lashes out, ablaze. "Taunt the cure in front of me when you know I'd skin anyone alive to get my hands on it."

"The train!" Gally yells, but neither of them look at him.

"I'm not taunting, I know how much this means to you, and I want you—"

"And I don't, Teresa. I don't want you, I don't even want to see you, I can't stand to look at you."

Enough is enough. "Newt's memory is blanking again," Gally cuts in. "Has no idea who me and Brenda are."

Thomas whirls on him, Teresa completely forgotten. "Shit." Without warning, he turns and runs, the soles of his shoes barely hitting the ground before it's up again.

Teresa stares at his back for a long moment before turning to him. Heartbreak isn’t a strong enough word to describe the devastation on her expression. it's as if she doesn't hear the train that's rolling closer and closer to them. Or maybe she doesn't care. "Will you listen?" she asks him.

Gally gives her a blank look. "If you don't run now, you'll die."

He sets off, and he can't help the surprise he feels when footsteps sound behind him.

—

Curiosity gets Gally this time around. “How’d you know?”

Newt glances at him. By the time they got back, breathless and exhausted, Gally doubly so, Newt seemed to have found his memories again.

After a long moment of silence, Newt simply shrugs.

It would have been naive to expect any other answer.

[lesbianrobin]

ok so here is my pitch for my dream buddie catalyst:

eddie and maddie are trapped in some sort of likely-fatal time sensitive situation together (drowning related probably because it's Them) (have they overused it yes is it still thematically appropriate YES) where one person could potentially sacrifice themselves for the other to survive. i want eddie and maddie using their combined experience and ingenuity to survive together and discussing who should be prioritized which means they talk about parenthood and how they both feel they've failed their children by "running," how their lives have been so defined by trauma and they don't want to scar their children any further by leaving them again. of course they're doing everything they can to get out together, but as the situation deteriorates throughout the episode(s) (c'mon something like this could be at LEAST a two-parter) they can't help returning periodically to the world's most morbid debate.

i want buck and chim on the outside both going out of their goddamn minds. they know that eddie and maddie are stuck (wherever), know that they're probably alive, but aren't sure in what condition and if they'll stay that way. rescue operations begin as everybody walks on eggshells around buck and tries to comfort chim, who wants absolutely none of it. time is running out.

eddie says that he couldn't possibly let maddie sacrifice herself for him and look buck and chim in the eye afterwards. maddie says that she couldn't do that either. she says that at least jee-yun would still have her father, and eddie says that christopher would still have buck. maddie says that of course none of them would just abandon christopher if something were to happen to him but—

and eddie cuts her off and says it's in my will. if i die, christopher will have buck. buck will have christopher.

they just look at each other for a weighted moment. maddie makes a decision. she says ...i meant it, you know. that i couldn't let you die down here (wherever here is i don't KNOW okay i'm not here to think up convoluted emergencies i'm here for drama) and look my baby brother in the eye knowing that i could have changed it. eddie says i know, okay, but it's different, you're his sister, and maddie says, yeah, but you're his... and she pauses. and eddie says what? best friend? partner? that doesn't—

and maddie says you're his. eddie, you're his.

and eddie... i want to see something slot into place. i want to watch him understand as maddie spills everything she's been suspecting since the day that buck came out to her and maybe since before she and eddie even met. maddie says you know, when i first came to california, you were all he talked about? you're still all he talks about. you and christopher. you're his. i couldn't... eddie, you're out of your mind if you really don't think that losing you would break him just as much as losing me. he would forgive us both, because he's buck, but i couldn't... i'm no saint, eddie, i want to survive. i don't want my daughter to grow up without me. but i can't do that to him. i don't know if he'd survive it. even if he did, the guilt would eat me alive.

meanwhile. buck is barely holding on to his sanity as rescue efforts are underway and time is running out. chimney is keeping it together as best he can but there isn't much that he and buck can do. he can't let himself fall apart because buck is already a stiff breeze away from clawing his own skin off and somebody has to keep their cool. something goes wrong—suddenly, their short amount of time has gotten shorter, and they may only have enough of a window to get one out before it's too late for the other. buck, who has been ranting and arguing and screaming this whole time... is silent. he is silent, and he stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, and we know that no matter which way the scales tip, his soul will be destroyed all the same.

eddie regards maddie for a moment. grief, heartbreak, anger, all flicker over him, but what settles is determination. he says that neither of them are going to leave again. that they'll survive together, or not at all, or leave it to the universe to decide.

of course they make it out. by the skin of their teeth, they make it out, working together, clawing their way back to life and love and possibility. maddie makes it out first, and eddie sees buck as she falls into chim's waiting arms. he watches as buck sees his sister, and reaches out to take her hand with trembling fingers and white knuckles, but there is no relief, no happiness in his red-rimmed eyes. just a deep, unspeakable grief, until his eyes slide past maddie and meet eddie's.

finally: relief. and then he is in buck's arms, a perfect parallel to chim and maddie, and we see eddie's face over buck's shoulder, and we know. he is in love, and buck is in love, and eddie knows, and he sinks into his partner's embrace with joy and acceptance.

after that, who knows? maybe a grand confession. a moment of quiet understanding. a passionate post-rescue kiss. a chaste, tender kiss in some kitchen or other. maybe eddie panics later, or maybe he's found peace for once. maybe buck has realized something and he makes the first move. maybe it happens immediately. maybe it takes a while, takes discussions about how it'll affect work and christopher and whether it's worth risking all that they have for all that they want.

and maybe they'll ask whether it's even a risk at all.

[genderjester]

And the reason comes on the common tongue of your loving me

[mitski]

RWBY (09x06)

Now I know I'm worthy of you Oh can't you see, you could be with me With every smile you told me, "I love you" I am your dream, I love you

[scoobydoodean]

[possession1981-moving]

two kinds of people

[wangxianficrecs]

Follower Recs

~*~

A short post canon fic where WWX mourning the death of the people he loved

redemption lies plainly in truth

by kaseyskat

T, 5k, Wangxian

Summary: “I…” Wei Wuxian pauses again, swallowing. Lan Zhan’s gaze softens, and he takes one of Wei Wuxian’s hands in his own, a gentle reassurance. Take your time, the gesture says, I am here for you whenever you are ready. “Lan Jingyi,” he finally manages, with a shaky breath, “reminded me that I… that I could. Wear white. For mourning. I never did my one hundred days of mourning for… for shijie, for Wen Qing.” Lan Zhan makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “I didn’t…” Wei Wuxian inhales, exhales. Breathe. “I had never… thought about that. I don’t remember being dead, Lan Zhan. It feels like… like three weeks ago, I woke up to Wen Qing and Wen Ning gone. Three weeks since shijie took that blade for me. Since… and it hasn’t been three weeks, but I…” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ or, Wei Wuxian comes to terms with the knowledge that he's allowed to grieve for the people he lost.

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

prayers for my poor brother please

[oatmealswizard]

slowly learning everyone at uni is chatgpting through everything. entering my joker era

[pickletrip]

Ouch. Even though I'm not invested in this couple, this last bit really hit home. It doesn't compare to the OG, but I'll take what I get.

[yellowheartz]

Thinking about how DreamWorks perfectly captivated the brotherly relationship Moses had with Rameses in Prince of Egypt and the pained expressions and the conversations they had and the fact that even Moses was still questioning why God chose him because that would mean he would have to be separated from his brother once again and-

[cassynite]

hello yes it is time for my monthly finding meaning in life bc of achilles come down by gang of youths

[sergeant-spoons]

128. Redemption Lies Plainly In Truth

Verity/Victor Rich

Taglist: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​​​ @chaosklutz​​​​​​ @wexhappyxfew​​​​​​ @50svibes​​​​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​​​​ @adamantiumdragonfly​​​​​​ @ask-you-what-sir​​​​​​ @whovian45810​​​​​​​ @brokennerdalert​​​​​​ @holdingforgeneralhugs​​​​​​ @claire-bear-1218​​​​​​ @heirsoflilith​​​​​​​ @itswormtrain​​​​​​​ @actualtrashpanda​​​​​​​ @wtrpxrks​​​​​​​

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

Verity woke up on the train just before sundown at the shrieking of a whistle. When she looked out the window at the vibrant Autumn leaves covering Boston Common, she realized it had blown to announce their arrival in the city. When she tried to stand, her legs felt like jelly, and there was a weight on her lap; discovering it was Web's book, she flinched and averted her eyes as she hid it away in her pack. Her fingers felt frosty, and she hastily rubbed them together until they burned from the friction. She'd had enough of frozen hands in Bastogne. In fact, she never wanted to be cold again. But it was only September, and she thought herself lucky to have several months ahead to prepare for the desolate Winter. There was no ice on the tracks below and no snow falling from the sky above. When Verity cracked the window open, she felt the warm air outside come streaming in, and that soothed her cares. Waiting for the train to come to a stop, she sighed, leaned back against the cushioned wall, and reminded herself of why she'd been asleep in the first place, hoping that retracing the steps of her fatigue would revive her weary mind.

As soon it had hit her—her aloneness—she knew she'd have to shake it off or spend the train ride a weeping wreck. To stave off the weight quickly sinking on her chest, she'd pulled out the book Web had given her, intending to read it to pass the train ride. She opened the cover and immediately saw the inscription he'd mentioned, and in no state of mind, not even the strongest, could she have skipped it.

To my friend~

May you keep your chin up and your pen moving until we see each other again. May your travels be kinder to you than Gulliver's. May you never let your poetry die.

Godspeed to the day of your liberation.

With love, David

A teardrop had fallen just below the handwriting, turning the endpaper from cobalt to navy. Verity shut the book at once, afraid she'd ruin the inscription with her tears. The bottom of her vision was all warped and wet, and she felt a little lightheaded, and when she tried to lean back, she slipped instead.

One moment, she'd been fine, and the next, she was bawling her eyes out on the trembling floor of a blessedly, wretchedly northbound train.

She thought of all the people who'd kept her secret, and then Perry's, and her thoughts turned swiftly to her friend and everything she was dealing with out in California. At some point, she managed to claw herself back up onto the cushioned seat, clinging Gulliver's Travels to her chest, sobbing all the while. Someone rapped on the door but moved along shortly thereafter, apparently connecting the dots of the silence of the silhouette. Verity cried until her throat was dry, her eyes were parched, and her face felt crusty, and it was only then that she finally fell asleep. She dreamed of nothing, alone in that train compartment, and when she woke, all her heartache seemed to have been packaged up and stuffed into some forgotten corner of her heart. She'd open it again soon enough, whether she wanted to or not, but for now, the distraction of the train pulling into the station (and what that meant for her) put the grief out of her mind.

By the time the wheels made their final, sluggish rotation, Verity had straightened out her senses, gathered up her things, and promised herself she wouldn't cry again until she met her father face to face. They came to a full stop and she left the compartment behind her, gripping the doorframe as the train settled beneath her. Silent and a little unsure, she followed the steady, sleepy stream of passengers toward the nearest exit. The sky had gone orange by the time she came down the broad steps of the station, and when she looked up and to the east, she knew there must already be a few stars out (even if she couldn't see them through the city smog). Putting one foot after the other, she started north toward the bus depot. She didn't need directions, but the shock of knowing these streets made her want to ask anyway; the more she recognized, the harder it seemed to keep going. She felt almost squeamish as she stepped into the bus depot, raising her hand against the glare of the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"Can I help you, soldier?"

Verity had gone without speaking to a soul since that last goodbye in Norfolk. Now, as she bought her ticket home, the words she spoke felt clunky and incorrect. The young woman behind the counter didn't seem to find anything amiss and rang up the transaction without batting an eye. Verity didn't remember her ever working here before—then again, she'd been away for three years. People's lives still went on outside the war. Now that it was over, would there be room for all the veterans? The number seemed staggering; the task daunting. Alton was a pretty small place. Who would hail the soldiers returning? Who would wish there weren't so few?

"Sir?"

Verity flushed and accepted the ticket, the world refocusing around her in a shamed twilight as she apologized. The ticketer flashed a pretty smile, told her no harm done, and thanked her for her service. All Verity could think to do was try to smile back and mumble an awkward thanks in reply. Two years ago—one year ago, for that matter—she would probably have blushed, made bashful by the attention in a way that might have endeared the young woman. Tonight, her embarrassment felt like a mat of burrs stuck to her very soul, uncomfortable and hard to rid oneself of. Confining herself to a corner seat as far as she could get from the glare of those bitter lights, she dug her canteen out from her pack and settled in to wait, as the bus she needed wasn't scheduled to arrive for another hour. All the crying she'd done had landed her with an awful headache, so she drank the rest of the water from her canteen, then went to fill it up from the public fountain and drank all that twice. She took a trip to the bathroom but made it quick, made antsy by the memory of the last time she was in the space, leaning over that sink, staring into that mirror, framing a new face and a new life.

She felt raw, in a way, as if she'd shaved her face free of a three-year beard and abruptly returned to her youth, with its smooth, pink skin.

A smoke break was warranted after Verity thought she saw her old employer coming in and panicked, darting out the back door into the night. Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later, she was relieved to find the woman she'd mistaken for Mrs. Eustace was actually a stranger—Mrs. Eustace had brown eyes, not blue, wore exclusively checkered dresses and sweaters, and would never in her life be caught reading the Bible (she was Jewish and staunchly proud of it). By the time Verity's heartbeat had relaxed, the bus had arrived, fading from grey to weathered hazelnut as it pulled out of the indigo evening into the scope of the roadside lamplight. She found a seat right in the middle, unconcerned with having a seatmate due to the obvious sparsity of passengers. As the driver welcomed each rider in a low, gravelly voice, Verity tuned out and leaned her head against the glass of the window. The bus must have driven south to get here, for she could tell the window was slowly cooling down after soaking in all the heat of the late afternoon sun. She stared out into the dusk until she blinked and all she could see was her reflection; the changing light had refocused her eyes, and now it was fully night.

The drive only took a couple of hours, and though it was much shorter than the train, it felt just as long. Maybe it was Verity's anxiety, or the stagnancy of the dark outside, or simply that her sleeping on the train had warped her sense of the time that had passed. She got off the bus at midnight, not the last but certainly not the first to disembark. The Alton depot was closed for the night, and the only light came from the lampposts positioned sporadically around the narrow parking lot. As people scattered into waiting cars and a single yellow taxi, the street quickly emptied. Even the bus driver left, whistling his way uptown, swinging his keys off his finger.

Verity, who'd been all alone to begin with, simply shouldered her pack and started walking.

The difference in the air between midday and midnight was searing. It was surprisingly cold for September, but then again, the sun had gone down several hours ago, taking any atmospheric warmth with it. The night was dry and brisk. Verity stepped on something that crunched, and when she looked down, she saw the first cider-brown leaf of an Alton Autumn. As she went along, she tugged at the sleeves of her uniform, wishing she'd thought to get that new cashmere turtleneck (an opulent souvenir from Austria) out from her pack and put it on before she got off the bus. Nevertheless, she just kept walking, thinking about how warm that sweater would be and not doing a damn thing about it.

At the edge of town, just as she was starting on the long road to take her home, she passed a bar with music and laughter seeping through the board walls. Three shadows dawdling on the stoop whistled at her, calling her 'honey', but when she turned toward them, they shut up and scampered off. She was puzzled at first until she remembered how she must look in the low light, still in her uniform: a gaunt soldier dragging himself home. The shadows darted under a street light and she realized they were just rowdy teenagers, not even old enough to serve, nevermind drink. They probably thought she'd give them a thrashing for catcalling her, especially thinking they'd (ironically) mistaken her for a woman. A part of her wanted to call them back and give them something for their troubles—a purple heart, if she'd have any of those—but she knew better than to try.

Twenty minutes down the road, she rounded a copse of aspens and it hit her just how close to home she actually was. She could see the boulder that marked the start of her neighborhood in the near distance, looming darker than the night. Without entirely meaning to, her pace sped up, and her heartbeat followed suit; she could feel it pounding at the very base of her throat as she rounded the corner to her street—and stopped. She was almost there, she could see the half of the fence that hadn't been eaten away by termites over the years, but she had finally realized she was shivering, and it halted her in her tracks. Verity could hardly believe just how much she hated being cold now. She'd never felt such revulsion before, and she cursed aloud, knowing exactly what was to blame, as she dropped her pack and rooted through it with abandon for that cashmere sweater. Tugging it on over her uniform, she looked up and happened to catch movement in the house across the street. The shade was being lowered in one of the upstairs windows facing her.

Seeing as anyone awake after midnight ought to have a good reason for it, Verity paused, surprised, and looked at the shade wobble until the light went out behind it. She stood up slowly, one arm through the sweater and the other still free with the cashmere bunched up over her shoulder, and a chill ran up her spine. Someone had been watching her. Staring, more like. Now she'd gone still on the sidewalk, breathing in the scent of goat wool and army standard cigarettes and—was that Lt. Nixon's favorite whiskey? She'd smelled it on his breath before, she was pretty sure every Toccoa man had...

That's enough. Not now.

She squared her jaw, pulled on the sweater, and put one foot after the other until she'd made it to where she needed to go. She pushed past the chipped gate, noticing how the paint was flaking the way it did after a dry spell, and walked evenly up to the doorstep, knowing if she stopped again, her legs might give out from underneath her. She went to the flowerbox affixed to the downstairs bathroom window, poked at the dirt until she found the spare key they'd kept there ever since she was a girl, and let herself in. It might have taken her one minute to cross the threshold, it might have taken her ten, but by the time she was inside, she was more than ready to shut the world out behind her, intoxicated by the smells of home. There was the distant musk of the firewood where it was stacked on the back porch, the thick wool of the carpet on the stairs, the striking yet faint fragrance of the house itself, a sort of fresh but tired smell. Leaving her boots by the door, Verity went into the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap. She was strangely comforted by the slight metallic taste, unaware she'd ever missed it until she had it again. 

Sufficiently hydrated, she went back down the hall and made for the stairs only to stop with her boot on the first step. Her bedroom was upstairs, but so was her father, and as dearly as she missed him, she loved him too much to wake him at such an hour. She'd slept in plenty of less favorable places; the couch would more than suffice for tonight.

The living room had changed a little while she'd been gone. Someone—maybe her father, maybe a younger assistant—had swapped the rocking chair with the sofa and the tanning rack with the lamp. The room smelled like leather and paper, and Verity was pleased to think her father had taken up his old trade again, even only as a hobby. A single card stood on the mantel, and Verity, curious, went to investigate. She picked it up and nearly sneezed when a layer of dust rose with it. Pressing her sleeve to her nose as the urge subsided, she decided that one of the first things she ought to do once she settled back in would be to dust, not only the living room but the rest of the house—especially, she guessed with a pang, her bedroom.

Returning her attention to the card, Verity cracked a small smile. She knew as soon as she saw the bedazzled tree on the cover who it was from and what for. Her aunt and uncle on her father's side consistently sent a Christmas card for her birthday on the 17th of December, taking care to aggressively cross out every mention of the commercialized holiday to pen in their own, more appropriate well wishes. There was a slight weight on the opposite side of the cover flap, and she knew what it was without having to look. Every year, her aunt and uncle taped two Canadian dollars to the inside of the card, and every year, Verity deposited them in a jar in her bedroom, knowing she'd never get down to the exchange office in Boston even if she'd had the time and the nerve. 

Still, she appreciated the gift, well aware that the reason for the Christmas card was not laziness or carelessness. The Rich-Du'monts ran a fairly successful maple sugaring business up in Montreal, and by the time the winter season rolled around, they were swamped with orders and always in a rush to get a card in the mail. This one must have come almost a year ago last December (hence the dust). Her father hadn't sent it along because by then, it had been six months since she'd asked him to stop writing. Who knows if she would have received it even if they'd stayed in touch—the night of the 17th, 1945, was the very same the 101st had moved out to the Ardennes.

Verity put the card back without opening it. Later, she kept telling herself, you have time now, you have 'later'. She saw that her hand was trembling, and when she looked away from it, her fingers began to itch to touch everything she hadn't touched in three years. She ran her hand over the arm of the old rocking chair and sank down into it. The clock that sat directly across from her on the mantel read 1:37 a.m., and it occurred to Verity that despite her nap on the train, she was thoroughly exhausted. It was warm in the house, and dark, and within minutes, she was dismally sleepy. Yawning, she pulled off the cashmere sweater and halfheartedly flung it over the arm of the rocking chair; at the same time, she sank onto the floor in front of the sofa, settling onto the carpet as she might have a fine mattress. She didn't mean to, but she fell asleep right then and there, her head reclined on the couch cushion, her hands in her lap, and her pack on the floor beside the tanning rack.

The next thing she knew was the caustic sound of something shattering on a hardwood floor. As panic forced her awake, she rolled behind the nearest barricade, groping blindly for her rifle, but it wasn't there where it once was, where it should have been, shit-shit-where-is-it-

"Brandy?"

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

2/15 updates left.

[irascibleblackguard]

For those seeking a link to the study and citations thereof:

"We have collected, from orchestral manage- ment files and archives, a sample of auditions for eight major orchestras. These records contain the names of all candidates and identify those ad- vanced to the next round, including the ultimate winner of the competition. The data provide a unique means of testing whether discrimination existed in the various rounds of a hiring process and even allow the linkage of individuals across auditions. A strong presumption exists that dis- crimination has limited the employment of female musicians, especially by the great symphony or- chestras. Not only were their numbers extremely low until the 1970’s, but many music directors, ultimately in charge of hiring new musicians, pub- licly disclosed their belief that female players had lower musical talent.

The question is whether hard evidence can support an impact of discrimination on hiring. Our analysis of the audition and roster data indicates that it can, although we mention var- ious caveats before we summarize the reasons. Even though our sample size is large, we iden- tify the coefficients of interest from a much smaller sample. Some of our coefficients of interest, therefore, do not pass standard tests of statistical significance and there is, in addition, one persistent result that goes in the opposite direction. The weight of the evidence, however, is what we find most persuasive and what we have emphasized. The point estimates, moreover, are almost all economically significant.

Using the audition data, we find that the screen increases— by 50 percent—the probability that a woman will be advanced from certain preliminary rounds and increases by severalfold the likelihood that a woman will be selected in the final round. By the use of the roster data, the switch to blind auditions can explain 30 percent of the increase in the proportion female among new hires and possibly 25 percent of the increase in the percentage female in the orchestras from 1970 to 1996. As in research in economics and other fields on double-blind refereeing (see, e.g. Blank, 1991), the impact of a blind procedure is toward impartiality and the costs to the journal (here to the orchestra) are relatively small. We conclude that the adoption of the screen and blind auditions served to help female musicians in their quest for orchestral positions."

Did you know that after they switched to blind auditions, major symphony orchestras hired women between 30% to 55% more? Before bringing in “blind auditions” with a screen to conceal the the candidate, women in the top 5 major orchestras made up less than 5% of the musicians performing.

[telanaadas]

time for tags.

[dxvotionis]

Name | Zephirin de Valhourdin Titles | Zephirin the Just, Ser Zephirin, Father Zephirin Occupation | The Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens’ Ward Age | 29 Gender | Male; He/Him Species | Elezen; Wildwood Height | 5'6 Loyal to | Ishgard, The Holy See, The Archbishop, The Heavens' Ward

Zephirin's mother died in childbirth, and his father followed her when Zephirin was seven. His father had been the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, and his busy life had meant he had limited time to spend with his son but Zephirin still idolised him. His father had many friends that helped look after Zephirin in his childhood years, but after his father had passed Zephirin spent a lot of time training in swordwork. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, but also because his home felt incredibly lonely. He was a small child and was a lot smaller than all those he saw training, and in his young mind, he desired to be seen as stronger. He found a greatsword in his home, along with a small maroon crystal. He didn't understand then what the Dark Knights were, or why Ishgard hated them. When he was met with criticism for his weapon choice, he pushed back with a deep seated stubbornness. With his greatsword in hand, Zephirin entered the Temple Knights' grand tourney at the age of fifteen and won. He joined the Temple Knights and due to his steadfast and unflinching self, began to be known as Zephirin the Just. At one time, he was the favoured candidate for the position of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, but instead the title was given to Ser Aymeric de Borel, who had been the one person Zephirin had considered a friend. He did not want his disappointment to sully Aymeric's victory and so he did what he could to smile but ended up falling into a deep depression, as his singular goal in life was no longer accessible. His saving grace was Ser Vellguine of the Heavens' Ward, who did not wish his talent to be wasted among the Temple Knights and offered Zephirin a position within the Heavens' Ward and Zephirin accepted. He flourished within the Ward and when Ser Vaindreau 'retired', and Ser Vellguine turned down the position of Very Reverened Archimandrite, Zephirin was given the honour and became the leader of the Ward.

Verse | Main Set before and during the Heavensward expansion up until The Singularity Reactor Zephirin leads the Heavens' Ward - Ishgard's finest, tasked with protecting the Archbishop Thordan. They are aware and complicit in his plans to become an all powerful primal, allowing and encouraging Ishgard to fall into chaos so that Ishgard may survive. The ends justify the means. (Note - Zephirin was not tempered. All he did was truly of his own free will)

Verse | Survival The sole survivor of their battle, Zephirin awakens later on the cusp of death surrounded by the bodies of his men. The battle had taken its toll and Zephirin found himself unable to manipulate aether and so unable to teleport. It took a long time for him to get home, found collapsed in the snow not far from the gates one day. The frostbite had set in, the injuries lingering from the fight and then further hurting himself traveling, he had a long ways to recovery and so he was taken to Ser Vaindreau's Grace. Even after recovering, he will be disabled for the rest of his life. Mostly by his own request he is stripped of his knighthood and his position in the clergy, and now spends his time in his estate. (Note - I am just straight up ignoring the EW caster quests)