#god imagine tim and the rest of the gang trying to help her....

[leslieseveride]

ffs someone tell me why i’m writing a fic of everyone scrambling to attend to lucy after getting shot to parallel with how they were scrambling to save caleb so could get answers to finding her on what was supposed to be her day of death??? like... ???? 

[celosiaa]

Yo Connor! I made a post a while back about this but imagine s1 archives gang: Sasha and Tim wanna play hooky to go drinking so they pretend to be sick to get sent home early. But their work gets piled onto poor poor Martin whos starting to come down with something. Cut to Tim and Sasha coming back to work to find a super sick and overworked Martin (my post has diff situations that they could come back to but basically it’s all “Martin is completely miserable”)

~ ineedmysickfix

Hello friend!!!!! Apologies for the delay!! I hope you’ll like this all the same :)

CW nausea

 “Oh, Sasha—you’re gonna hate me,” Tim drawls dramatically, draping an arm around her shoulders, causing them both to stagger. “You’re absolutely going to hate me.”

“Don’t tell me—ha! Tim—”

Sasha is broken off by a sudden, if sloppy, kiss to her cheek, the momentum of it nearly taking them both to the ground as they stumble on slightly-intoxicated legs. Well—perhaps more than slightly, after all.  It is later, much later than they had intended to be out, and dark has fully settled over the still-bustling London landscape as they attempt to make their way back to the Tube station from the pub.

Where they had been playing hooky. Gloriously.

It is a bit pitiful, how gullible their mess of a friend currently playing at being their boss could be. Shamefully, upon reflection, Sasha recalls Jon’s worried response that afternoon to the torrent of falsified coughs and sneezes he had heard from his office, before insisting that the two of them go home to rest. And to “not infect anyone else,” of course—tacked on in some feeble attempt not to care.

And go home, they had—if you can call a pub a home, that is. While it was not exactly buzzing with customers at the mid-afternoon, it had been a nice place to camp out for the day and enjoy each other’s company. Though they had lamented not letting Martin in on the plan—even if it was nice to have a evening just for themselves, something hadn’t felt right about leaving him behind. Not with the ever-growing tower of files on his desk, building up over the last week in a bit of an alarming fashion.

Sending out a quick thought for him as they walk, Sasha turns her attention back to Tim, linking her arm with his with a poorly-hidden smile.

“What have you done this time, Stoker? What else could there possibly be to make me want to kill you even more?”

“Even more? After I serenaded you at karaoke?”

“Especially after you serenaded me at karaoke,” she replies, pulling him just a little bit closer. “Bold move, especially knowing I’ve got a knife on me.”

“Yeah, a pocket knife,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Which we might have to use to break back into the Institute, by the way.”

“Tim, you didn’t!”

Groaning in dismay, Sasha stops their pace abruptly, searching his face for any sign of a joke—tragically, finding none.

“Tim. Hey, Tim.”

She grabs both sides of his face, pulling his forehead to rest against her own.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t forget your keys again.”

A nervous swallow, a flick away of his eyes—before a poorly-hidden smile laces his tone.

“I did not…do this thing.”

“TIM!”

“Alright, alright!! I may have!” he laughs as she drops her hands from his face, in favor of using them to push back against his chest. “But don’t worry! There’s no way even Jon is still there. Pretty sure he was heading home to rest after Salat al-Jumu’ah—said he hurt his knee, and he has PT in the morning.”

“Jon was going home?” Sasha asks in disbelief, her face showcasing the wild array of thoughts flitting through her mind. “First of all—concerning. Second of all—do you mean to tell me that we left poor Martin there all on his own?”

“He’s fine, Sasha,” Tim assures, throwing an arm around her to keep them walking. “Martin’s an adult, he knows he can leave any time he damn well pleases. Especially since Jon isn’t there.”

“Well, yeah, but—I dunno, he just seemed…off this week,” she replies worriedly, twisting a finger around her long locks.”

“He’s fine. We’ll make it up to him on Monday, or something.”

“Right,” Sasha sighs, leaning a bit further into his warmth. “You’re right, we can—we can get him some of that good tea that he likes, the expensive kind.”

“Alright, rich kid.”

“Shut it.”

With another peck to the cheek, both silly and giddy, they continue on their way back to the Institute—neither too displeased at having the other so close.

—

Work.

Just keep working.

Just focus.

Cold, Martin feels the cold of the archives seeping deeper into his bones with every moment that passes. Or is it heat? Too hot, suffocating, can barely catch a comfortable breath before the coughing starts up again, pounding against his skull and leaving him exhausted. Surely it hadn’t been this bad this morning—his therapist’s voice rings out in his mind, telling him it’s alright to go home, that he ought not have come in anyway—but he does not listen. Cannot listen, not with Jon out and in pain, and Tim and Sasha both out sick.

No—this was his job. Just has to push through, pick up the slack, keep going.

Someone has to.

For as much as Martin tries to tell himself that he’s not ill, that he never gets ill, he knows it’s all a lie. Sleep has come in sparse patches for him these past few weeks—and that has left him vulnerable to what he is now fairly certain is a nasty case of flu. It’s just been so much recently, with his mum intermittently calling him from the care home in Devon, and not answering the phone when he returns her calls. Though he would never want to think so poorly of his own mother—ungrateful, cruel, sad excuse for a son—he cannot help but have the thought that she’s doing this on purpose, calling him when she knows he’s busy—

Stop it.

Selfish.

Cruel.

Focus.

The stacks of files in the corners of his vision, piled so high he can barely see his surroundings beyond his desk, very nearly manage to draw out the tears Martin has so desperately been trying to hold back over the past—however long it’s been, now. Overwhelmed, he’s overwhelmed and wants nothing more than just to sleep. But Jon. Jon needs this done, Tim and Sasha need to rest—none of them need to have a miserable next week if he can just. Focus. Now.

Sniffing back against the congestion sitting heavy in his sinuses, Martin steels himself as well as he can, and drags his attention back to the piles and piles of nightmares before him.

—

As soon as they found the door to the archives unlocked, Sasha knew something was wrong.

Jon was so strangely protective of the place; always kept such a careful watch on it that it was unfathomable for him to not make certain that everything was locked, and the lights turned out at the end of each day. Surely, even if Martin had been the last one there, surely Jon would have called several times to ensure he would do the same—possibly even dragging himself back over the the dusty old basement, just to make sure.

And yet—here they are. Standing before the unlocked door to the archives.

“Can’t be good,” says Tim, running a hand anxiously down his beard.

“Not at all,” Sasha replies at once, voice low as she carefully pushes the door open.

The office beyond is almost entirely darkened, corners obscured by shadows and cobwebs and god knows what else down here. Only the light from a single lamp illuminates a desk—messy, piled high with stacks of files and reference volumes, some spilled over and scattered onto the floor. Martin’s desk. And Martin, leaning heavily against it.

Though she cannot see his face where it has been propped heavily between both of his hands, Sasha immediately takes note of of the blanket he’s wrapped himself tightly with, the bin by his feet overflowing with tissues, the row of mugs set on the floor to make room for more files. The way one has been tipped over, creating a dark spot on the carpet where it had spilled its contents, but Martin has not seemed to notice. A rarity—and a concerning one at that, for certain.

Exchanging a quick glance with Tim, who looks very much as worried as she feels, Sasha steps a bit forward, clearing her throat before calling gently to him.

“Martin? You alright, love?”

The impact is immediate—clearly, he had not heard them come in, nor seen their shadows stretching across the light of his lamp. For he jumps bodily in his seat, tipping it back with such a heavy creak that Sasha is certain it will send him to the floor completely. A gasp, loud and deep, as his wild, fever-glassed eyes meet theirs—before it turns into a fit of harsh, painful hacks that he buries hastily in what appears to be his last remaining tissue.

“Aw, Marto,” Tim says sympathetically as he strides over to him, rubbing a hand over his back as the coughing continues, Sasha following suit to grab a box of tissues from her own desk, and set it in front of him.

“Sorry, m’sorry,” he croaks, voice weathered and broken in the wake of his fit.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, mate,” Tim says softly, slipping a hand over Martin’s forehead—evidently not liking the heat he finds there, if his grimace is anything to go by. “How long have you been ill? You seemed alright this morning.”

“M’fine, Tim,” he mutters back, sniffing heavily and reaching for the new box of tissues. “Thanks, Sash—”

A sudden look of horror washes over his face as he meets her eyes, letting out a shallow gasp and covering his mouth with one hand.

“Wait, you’re—you’re ill, you’re both ill, you need these—”

“We’re not ill, Martin,” Sasha soothes at once, cursing both herself and Tim for going through with what was clearly a terrible idea.

“You’re not?”

“We wanted to skive off work,” Tim echoes, pulling Martin’s blanket back up from where it had slipped off his shaking shoulders. “We…we went out to the pub instead.”

“Oh,” is the only soft response that comes from him, as he drops his eyes back to the statement in front of him—and the guilt welling up inside Sasha is enough to break her heart.

“We would never have done that if we had known you were actually ill,” she clarifies rapidly. “We should have…we should have said. Shouldn’t have done that at all, really.”

“Yeah. Sash is right, we’re really sorry, Martin,” says Tim, wincing as the terrible coughing starts up once again, doubling him forward—and this time, he does not straighten back up.

“Oh,” he says again, miserably, squeezing his eyes shut against the apparent dizziness—enough to send Tim reaching for the empty bin from beneath his own desk, just in case.

“You alright?” asks Sasha, setting a bracing hand against his hunched shoulders.

It takes a few moments for him to reply this time, as he breathes as deeply as possible for a bit—still altogether too shallow, in Sasha’s opinion. She can hear the hitching at the back of his throat, knows that he’s trying so hard to keep from coughing again, whether for their sake or to avoid worsening the nausea, she can’t be sure.

“M’alright. Sorry,” he apologizes again, shivering hard as he does, pulling the blanket just a bit tighter around himself and sniffling. “Shouldn’t be here, you’ll probably catch it.”

“You shouldn’t be here, love,” Sasha counters, catching Tim’s gaze and jerking her head toward the breakroom—and he heads in that direction at once. “We’re going to get some water and medicine into you, and then you’re going straight home.”

“Can’t,” he whispers in return, shaking his head against the fresh tears that have sprung into his eyes, breaking Sasha’s heart to bits again. “There’s so much—so much to do, and Jon—Jon’s not well, and you—well, I suppose you’re—you’re not, heh—”

“Martin,” she says, bending crouching down to the level of his eyeline. “You do not need to be here. You do not need to do all this work yourself—if it makes you feel better, Tim and I can get some of this done over the weekend. But I highly doubt even Jon would ask you to do all of this today.”

“He—he didn’t.”

And now here come the tears, spilling hot over his cheeks, unable to be held back in with the stress the fever wracks through his body.

“I’ve—I’ve gotten so behind, this is almost a week’s worth of work, I’ve just been—I’ve not been focused, I can’t—god, I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright, Martin,” Sasha soothes, handing him another tissue which he uses to swipe at his streaming eyes and nose. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there?”

Squeezing his eyes shut again, tears leaking from beneath his lashes, Martin nods—burying his face in his hands, before Sasha wraps her arms around him.

“It’s alright, darling. Just hush, I’ve got you.”

It is to this sight that Tim arrives back from the break room, armed with medicine and a thermometer and a glass of water. Upon seeing them, his face falls in sorrow—reluctant to interrupt the stillness of the moment—before the whistling of the electric kettle from the breakroom causes Martin to pick up his head, turning his head toward the noise only to find Tim frozen in the doorway.

“Oh—thank you, that’s—” he pauses for a moment to cough behind closed lips, swiping at his eyes as he does so. “That’s really kind, I’m—I’m alright. I’m sure it’s just the flu, or something.”

“Don’t really think there’s such a thing as ‘just’ the flu, Marto,” Tim says, rolling his eyes with a smile—which, to Sasha’s immense relief, Martin returns, if still a bit watery.

“Yeah, Martin—let’s get you some meds, and get you home,” Sasha insists. “I’ll go fetch you some tea as well. Can’t send you home without something warm in your stomach.”

“I—thank you, really,” he beams, accepting the pills from Tim with his own, rather more shaky hands. “You’re—that’s really kind.”

“It’s nothing at all, Martin,” she replies at once, relieved to see him swallow the pills readily. “Let’s get you warm, and get you home.”

[taliaquinn]

Why Me!? Chapter 14

Marinette was bundled up in her blankets on her very expansive bed and was focused on the screen in front of her. An irritated Chloe Bourgeois, an impatient Aurore, and a glaring Kagami, who was sharpening her saber, were staring back at her. Marinette made a quick mental note to ask her how many sabers she has. Juleka had confiscated her saber, unfortunately, it seemed like Kagami had spares. 

“-then Alya had the nerve to ask the committee to reinstate your plans, of course since I’m on the committee I immediately shot down that idea, She of course immediately threw a tantrum and was almost kicked out, later she had a live stream ranting about how being class president is so difficult” Chloe said making air quotes. 

“Of course at this point, she had only 30 viewers, most of them from Bustiers” Kagami added putting away her saber. 

“How is it that Alya only had the job for LESS THAN A WEEK and is already stressed, meanwhile we both had the job for over a year and yet we never cracked” Chloe ranted. 

“Some people are just unappreciative,” piped Aurore. Chloe snorted, that was the understatement of the year.

“Anyways talking about her leaves a bad taste in my mouth, Marinette when are you returning to us?” Aurore asked she missed the bluenette.

“Probably in a year,I’m getting enrolled in some school in Gotham”

“Are your aunt and uncle okay with you staying for the rest of the year?” 

Oh right Marinette forgot that was her cover story. She hated lying to her friends even more. But She was scared of how the others would treat her if they found out her parentage and if she would be able to tell the difference between the honest people and the fake gold-diggers, the Alya’s, Alix’s and Nino’s so to speak. 

Now It was getting harder to be able to video call her friends in a spot that would get her privacy and doesn’t look too extravagant.

Her new room was far bigger than her room in Paris, which took Marinette some getting used to. Of course, Mr.Wayne made sure to give her money to fill her room up. Although a spool of thread does not cost triple digits, at least the thread that she uses. She already has an area dedicated to her sewing business. 

Tim has been gracious enough to be hmannequin until hers come. Marinette finds it unfair that someone like Tim can be sleep-deprived and coffee-addicted and still look like that. Unfair.

Marinette already finished Ms.Kyles' dress and she’s going to give that to her next time she comes to the Manor. 

“Yeah, they’ve been very uh accommodating, and great actually!!”

“It shows, you look way less stressed and more relaxed” Kagami noted

“The wonders of having a decent sleep schedule” Marinette quipped. Seriously she didn’t have school yet and didn’t have to worry about class duties anymore. It was awesome.

“Oh and great news, We’re going to Europe in a few weeks,” Marinette added excitedly

“WAIT!!!! Exactly when” Aurore asked. 

“Two or three”

“EXCELLENT” Aurore blurted out, “That means that you’ll be able to attend the school dance”

Suddenly all lightbulbs seemed to click on in all the girls.

“That was exactly the final piece we needed” Kagami nodded

“ Yeppers, now all we need is Ladybug and then we’re good” Chloe added.

“Waitwaitwait Final Piece to what?” Marinette asked

“Revenge” All three girls responded in unison.

“Oh boy, you guys wanna clue me in on it? Or is it that type of situation where I want as much Plausible deniability as possible?” With those three you never know.

“Probably best for you to not know anything yet” Chloe chimed sweetly.

Thank god That Marinette can now afford bail

Suddenly she started getting a video call from Dick

“Sorry guys I got my er-cousin calling me, I'll talk with you guys tomorrow,” Marinette said, Receiving a chorus of goodbyes and one whine in response. Marinette hung up and quickly answered Dick.

“Hiya Maribug, sorry I wasn’t able to call you yesterday things are pretty busy around here” Dick greeted. Marinette noticed that the poor guy seemed exhausted, he had dark bags under his eyes and kept on yawning.

“It’s fine Dick, What’s going on?” Marinette asked concerned.

Dick sighed. “It seems that Penguin and Black Mask have set up base here in Bludhaven, unfortunately, the two aren’t playing nice, so now we seem to be on the brink of a gang war,” Dick said tiredly. Both Officer Grayson and Nightwing were busy trying to stop the city from falling into a gang war, of course, that was exhausting.

Gang War? AND HER BROTHER WAS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT!? Having a cop brother is stressful enough but having a cop brother in Bludhaven is something else, 

Seriously Bludhaven makes Gotham look like a resort destination and that’s after Nightwing has made his debut. Mr.Wayne told her that Dick was regarded as a good cop who’s been helping root out corruption in the BPD. Which of course puts the idiot in EVEN MORE DANGER. Jesus Christ. Now she can understand why Everyone always seems to mother hen the boy. She’s joining the crusade soon. 

“But you’re not going to be too involved are you Dick?” 

“Sorry Maribug, right now I’m involved, but don’t worry your brother can take care of himself” Dick quickly added with a wink.

“Uh Huh Sure, those eyebags say differently, Go Sleep” Marinette ordered.

Dick Barked out a laugh. “Oh alright Maribug, Night Night” 

“Nighty night” Marinette responded and hung up. She turned over and shifted in a comfortable position and let the darkness overtake her.

Batcave, Wayne Manor Gotham City, USA 8:50 pm

“Damian Marinette is going to start school at Gotham Academy in a few days, I need you to keep an eye on her and help her” Bruce informed Damian

“-tt- of course, father, But I am afraid we’re going to have to come up with a believable cover story”

“No cover story, people are bound to find out soon anyways, but she’s going to be enrolled as Marinette Dupain Cheng so people won't probably make the connection”

“Yeah demon-spawn and if people do get curious as to why you’re being decent, just say she's your cousin or something” Jason added oh ever so helpful

“-tt- Very well”

“We’re going to introduce Marinette in a few weeks anyways, we have a business trip to London so she’s going to make a pitstop in Paris and get her stuff in order before we announce her to the world” Tim piped up upon entering the Batcave.

“Jesus being the Child of Bruce Wayne is going to be stressful enough, imagine how wack it's going to be when she finds she’s the daughter of Batman as well” Jason noted

 “Speaking of which Bruce are you sure we shouldn’t tell Marinette about our little side job, I mean shes noticed that we aren’t exactly normal,” Tim said, while typing away on the batcomputer, right now he was busy trying to track down a few escaped convicts from Arkham and figure out any last known locations of Black Mask and Penguin.

“Yes father she is not an imbecile unlike you Drake”

“Why you little br-”

“We can’t do that” Jason cut in before insults started flying. “She’s a normal kid, She isn’t a secret superhero or nothing, she’s the embodiment of sunshine and happiness, which reminds me Bruce are we sure she’s your kid?” Jason asked

“Yes, I’m sure” Seriously what was it with people questioning it. He wasn’t that gloomy, was he? “She has her own business that has already gained attention and recognition, plus she was a class president in her old school, she had to get that from me” Bruce retorted.

“OH COME ON, we can’t loop her in, She was fucking president of her class, that’s as normal as you can get, Plus right now her sunshine counterpart dickface isn’t here to balance things out anymore” Jason finished. At that reminder, Bruce slightly grimaced. Dick had to go back to Bludhaven for his job. As a Cop. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been Bruce still worries about his oldest and his choice of career.

“Fine we don’t tell her, what’s going to happen if she’s ever in danger she doesn’t exactly have a panic button that we could give her without arousing suspicions” Tim added.

“Dupain-Cheng isn’t an idiot, she shares fathers blood she’s going to figure it out eventually”

Finally, Bruce made up his mind.

“We can’t risk her life, much less your sister’s life, by revealing our secret for no reason. We aren’t going to tell her-, For now” Bruce quickly added before Jason could make his protests. Taking a quick look at his son's faces it seemed that it was the decision that everyone could agree on, thankfully.

“This is going to totally gonna go wrong isn’t it?” Tim muttered.

It probably will.

Authors Note:                                                                                                     I hope that you guys liked my Infinity War Au. I am definitely going to continue that story line, however I have other one-shots saved to my drafts so yeah keep an eye out for those :). I will be making a taglist for those so just ask. Stay safe and Healthy <3

Hope you guys enjoy today's chapter.

Taglist:

@maribat-is-lifeblood @kass-is-weird @another-fan-of-anotherplan @damianette-is-life @amayakans @parallelparabox @miukiiu @valeks-princess @toodaloo-kangaroo @vixen-uchiha @thezestywalru @dreamykitty25 @pirats-pizzacanninibles @mochinek0 @shamefullove @mochegato @souleateralicestein @thestressmademedoit @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @aestheticnpoetic 

[captain-sodapop]

Headcanons about how each member of the Outsiders gang feel about the others?

ooh this is an interesting one...

(this is gonna be so long LMAO)

so, just to be clear: these guys are a gang, like brothers, and they would do anything for each other.  they might get seriously pissed off at one another sometimes, but when push comes to shove, they’ll be there if the other guy needs them, no questions asked

like, outside the group, they do have other friends, but the seven of them have something special that other people see and are envious of.  other people - no matter what side of the tracks they’re from - are sort of jealous of them and wish they could be like that with their friends

honestly, I think a big part of why they’re friends is because they’ve just always been friends, and it’s hard to imagine life without the others there, no matter how incompatible they may seem on paper - they’re a diverse, interesting group of guys with all sorts of different outlooks on life and personalities

that said, I do think they kinda pair off with each other a lot, especially now that Darry’s pretty busy with trying to keep a household

obviously Soda and Steve are BFFs 

Darry and Two-Bit are each others’ best friends, being the oldest and having known each other forever

then there’s Pony, Johnny, and Dallas, and they’re sort of a trio

however, Dallas and Tim are probably each others’ best friends, even though they kinda hate each other.  interesting dynamic there

but Johnny is also sorta both Pony and Dally’s best friend, and Johnny doesn’t like to pick so he’d probably say the same

Pony wouldn’t say so to Dally’s face, but in truth he’s pretty scared of him so...yeah.

but when any of these pairs pair up, or - worse - all seven of them are together?  watch the fuck out.  for real, these guys are mischief makers.  not dangerous, just incredibly stupid and loud lmao

like...Darry will 1000% cut loose if he gets the chance to be with the rest of them and they will all cheer him on to be the biggest dumbass he can be, and tbh it’s pretty cute, in a stupid boy way

oh - and Darry is everyone’s role model

Now, thinking individually:

Darry

Sodapop: obviously Soda is his younger brother and he has to look out for him legally, but I feel they’re pretty tight - Pony even says so in the book.  Soda can get away with teasing him, and he’s a great shoulder to cry on when things are getting stressful.  also: “little buddy” *wibbles*

Ponyboy: he loves this kid bunches, but he just doesn’t get him sometimes.  he also frustrates him to no end, and wishes he would just listen and realize he’s trying to help him.  he’s really protective of Pony, and sees him as a really little kid still, so sometimes he goes a bit overboard with looking out for him, but he can’t help it - he’s seriously worried about him all the time

Johnny: Darry also worries about Johnny a lot, but sort of in a helpless way - Darry just doesn’t really know what to do besides be there for him.  but he’s glad Johnny’s there for Pony, and when they actually get a chance to talk (which isn’t often), they always have the most laid-back conversations

Dallas: these two have a serious respect for each other, and for as much as Darry recognizes that Dally is a real-deal thug, he knows he has his own code that he lives by, and Darry respects that.  Darry isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with him, though, considering he always keeps his door open to him, so he doesn’t tolerate his bullshit

Two-Bit: like I said above, I see these two as best friends.  they’re total opposites, and that’s what makes them work as buddies.  Two-Bit gets Darry to loosen up every now and then, and they’ve known each other since before god, so it’s not unusual to see them on the front steps with a six pack shooting the shit and talking about their little siblings, sports, life, etc.

Steve: Darry respects and cares about Steve, but I think he’ll always view him as Soda’s best friend, so in his head Steve is just this annoying little kid still at times.  also, he still kinda holds a grudge for that “all brawn, no brains” comment.  but Darry would never turn him away, and is always asking him for car help

Sodapop

Darry: I feel like Soda sees himself as Darry’s equal, and that’s why he’s got no fear of him.  he will tease him, call him out on his bullshit, and listen to whatever he has to say without trying to give him a bunch of advice.  Soda does wish that Darry would lighten up a little sometimes, though, just relax and be present with the rest of them like he used to

Ponyboy: as a middle kid, Soda loves having a big brother, but also having a little brother that he can be there for.  he thinks Pony is just the smartest kid he’s ever met, and he’s really proud of him.  he also is Pony’s shoulder to cry on a lot of times, and he tries to include him in stuff to help him out of his shell if Steve isn’t being an issue

Johnny: Soda wishes he could see more of Johnny - he thinks he’s a good guy, a loyal friend - but they don’t really get the chance that often.  but Soda always asks Johnny how he’s doing, what’s new with him, and always checks in on him

Dallas: Dally doesn’t scare Soda that much, and they have a fun time together, but Soda’s not blind to the person he is, his darker side.  he knows not to cross him because he’s afraid of what happen if he will, so he tries to keep things light between the two of them, just shoot the shit and talk about girls, go driving, etc. 

Two-Bit: Soda’s favorite dumbass.  if Soda has a dumb idea, Two-Bit is his yes-man.  they play off each other really well, and Sodapop likes that with Two-Bit, things just don’t feel complicated.  life is just easy, and Two-Bit is always willing to either listen, or distract, and Soda seriously appreciates that

Steve: these two are just trouble when they’re together, no beating around the bush.  these two are also pretty different from each other, but they’ve been friends so long that Soda can’t imagine not having Steve for a friend.  they just get each other, and since Soda has so many people dump on him...Steve is the guy he goes to when he needs to vent.  they can just work on a car together and talk, and all Soda needs Steve to do is listen

Ponyboy

Darry: Pony wishes Darry could be the way he used to be before the accident, and he often gets frustrated with him, sees him as a nag and someone who just wants to be right and make everyone do what he says.  but he also loves him and looks up to him and knows that Darry is doing his best, so sometimes he tries to cut him some slack.  there are times when they’re one-on-one and Pony really enjoys that - Darry is smart, and they can talk about school and books without anyone looking at them sideways, and Pony really admires his big brother’s intelligence

Sodapop: we know Pony loves Sodapop - he even admits he’s his favorite brother.  he really does put him on a pedestal (when he probably shouldn’t), but Soda isn’t always on his back about everything and is a great person to talk to and work things out with.  Pony thinks he’s pretty much one of the coolest guys in town, too, and wants to be like that

Johnny: soft bffs :’)  Pony does definitely see Johnny as kinda skittish, but he’s also his best friend.  they don’t have to talk at all, which is honestly perfect for both of them.  Pony sees Johnny as his equal even though he’s two years older, and is always trying to play up to him, and even sometimes protect him from others.  I think Pony also probably likes to watch Johnny play pinball, lol

Dallas: Pony is scared of Dallas - period, point blank.  he respects him, but he’s scared of him, and doesn’t get for a long time that Dallas actually cares about him

Two-Bit: Pony sees Two-Bit as a goof, sure, but he also sort of looks up to him - he’s calm, he’s funny, he seems to have a grip on life; an understanding of it that he can put in concise words.  being with Two-Bit is easy for him, and he likes that Two-Bit is always willing to include him and talk to him and not make him feel stupid

Steve: even though he’s Soda’s best friend, these two are like oil and water.  Pony thinks Steve is too serious, too snarky, too mean to actually be able to like, but he still cares about him because of how close he is to his brother, and respects his intelligence and work ethic

Johnny

Darry: Darry has been kinder to Johnny than he could ever feel he deserved, and he’s grateful.  he’s a little scared of him, but really only because he’s a giant of a guy...but with Johnny, he’s a gentle giant

Sodapop: he kinda wishes he could be as popular and laid-back as Soda, as good with the girls as Soda.  but it’s so hard for Johnny not to like him because of how nice and chill he is.  he also really appreciates that Soda isn’t overbearing with “protecting” him - he just lets him be himself

Ponyboy: Johnny thinks Pony is just so smart, and so talented, and 99% of the time, he isn’t jealous of that.  he looks out for him in his own quiet way, but can also see how some might think Pony is kind of annoying.  but he really likes him, and is more than willing to let the kid either just sit with him quietly or talk his ear off about his books and movies

Dallas: Johnny’s hero.  what else needs to be said?

Two-Bit: Johnny thinks Two-Bit is a real cut-up - he gets on his nerves a bit at times, but he likes his upbeat, no-nonsense outlook on life and that he treats him like an equal

Steve: he and Steve are just sorta friends, without much complications to it.  Johnny thinks Steve is smart and surly, but his attitude doesn’t stop him from liking him

Dallas

Darry: this is the one person Dallas would never dare cross.  ever.  he may snark at him, but that’s it.  and you know what?  Dallas respects that.  he sees Mrs. Curtis in her oldest son, and that softens him towards him.

Sodapop: Darry’s kid brother.  he’s wild and way too upbeat for Dallas most times, but that wild energy can sometimes be harnessed into some real wild times, and that’s when Dallas really has fun with him

Ponyboy: Darry and Soda’s kid brother.  he knows the kid is something special, though, but he doesn’t know how to express that.  but he doesn’t mind him tagging along on his escapades, and gets a kick out of him

Johnny: the one person Dallas loved (however you view that love, romantic or platonic).  What else needs to be said?

Two-Bit: he’s annoying, but there’s something about Two-Bit that Dallas can’t help but respect.  they’ve gotten into fights before, but Two-Bit is the opposite in Darry in that he seems to have that same energy of don’t fuck with me, or you’ll regret it, which doesn’t make sense to Dally because he’s such a goof

Steve: Dallas respects that Steve is good in a fight, keeps his trap shut, and is smart.  period, full stop.

Two-Bit

Darry: if Two-Bit didn’t have Darry, he’d be in constant trouble.  he helps him feel like more of an adult, and he wishes he could be more like him at times.  but they’re old friends, and Two-Bit wishes he could see more of him like he used to, and he’s always trying to cheer Darry up while also asking him for advice and venting to him because he feels like everyone else will view that as him being a burden

Sodapop: again - this is a crazy duo.  just watch out for these two when they’re together.  Two-Bit will say yes to any of Soda’s stupid plans, and Soda will do the same for him.  seriously, just watch the fuck out for these two.

Ponyboy: Two-Bit is worried about this kid.  he really sees him like a little brother, and he wishes he could stay innocent and kind forever, and works to do what he can to preserve that because he’s so smart and has so much to offer.  he just tries to be there for the kid, and wishes he could see that the whole gang really cares about him

Johnny: Two-Bit honestly believed for a long time that they couldn’t get along without Johnny turns out they couldn’t get along without Pony.  he knows Johnny’s tough, but Two-Bit can’t help but be a bit protective over him, and often forgets he can handle himself  

Dallas: in some ways, for as much as Two-Bit likes getting up to trouble with him and screwing around together, Two-Bit thinks Dallas is an idiot.  he’s dangerously reckless, opposed to Two-Bit being more harmlessly reckless, and worries about Pony and Johnny hanging around him.  he likes him for sure, but thinks he’s a pretty bad influence

Steve: Two-Bit sees Steve as a bear to poke and get a reaction out of.  he gets a real kick out of messing with him because he’s so serious, but he also knows how smart and dedicated a friend Steve is, and really likes that about him.  he wishes he’d lighten up a bit and be nicer to Ponyboy, but he’s loyal to him and considers him a very close friend

Steve

Darry: Steve really respects Darry for the sacrifices he’s made, but he sometimes reads him wrong and crosses a line with him.  he tries not to do that because I think he wishes he could be more like him - just as smart, just as strong, just as dedicated

Sodapop: again - best friends, y’all.  Steve appreciates that Soda is the more upbeat person of the pair, can get him out of a slump and put things into perspective for him - things aren’t always quite as bad as they seem.  they’ve known each other so long, that Steve can’t imagine his life without Soda and sees him as the brother he never had.  if Steve’s the mechanic, Soda’s the driver

Ponyboy: thinks he’s a TWERP.  he hates how he’s whiny and always tagging along everywhere, and he can’t help but think of him as the baby of the group.  bitch bitch bitch.  but...he has to look out for him.  he tells himself it’s for Darry and Soda, but he feels this strong urge to protect him that he can’t quite explain (and definitely doesn’t like)

Johnny: Johnny behaves more like Steve wishes Pony would - he’s cool, and nowhere near as whiny, so Steve likes hanging out with him, and looks out for him, too - like when Sylvia came onto him.  he wants to help preserve what very little happiness and innocence Johnny has left, so Steve is always inviting him places

Dallas: Steve thinks Dallas is a bastard, but in a good way.  he thinks he’s tough and tuff, and likes how he doesn’t give a damn about the law and will fuck up anyone who gets in his way.  there are days where Steve wishes he could care as little as Dally, but he just can’t, and that’s where there’s sometimes still a disconnect - Steve does care, in his own way

Two-Bit: these two often get stuck together.   they’re actually close in their own way, especially after Johnny and Dallas die, because it’s the brothers and them, so Steve appreciates having Two-Bit around to lighten things up, even if he claims to think he’s annoying.  they can just sit around the DX and talk about whatever, and it’s easy, and Steve appreciates Two-Bit always trying with him, not being deterred by his often crappy moods

[incoherentbabblings]

First Date (7/9)

Tim has one more test to pass before Bruce will allow him out as Robin. Like Dick and Jason before him, he has to avoid being caught by Batman for one night. He has already failed once, and is determined to succeed this time. Determination which might not count for much when Stephanie Brown is on the run from the mob. Her mother kidnapped as a way to threaten her father, Stephanie manages to escape and run into Tim. Unable to leave Stephanie alone when she is in need, Tim decides to try and multi-task. All he has to do is rescue Stephanie’s mother, take down the mob, avoid Batman, and get Stephanie to agree to a proper date all in one night. Absolute anarchy ensues  Ao3 link here!

“Don’t suppose there’s a spare Robin suit in here Oracle?”  Asked Tim, rummaging through assorted shelves.  There were some black clothes, armoured no doubt, but nothing red, yellow or green. 

“No, I’m afraid you are not going to be able to save the day looking like a traffic cone.”

Tim sighed and began stuffing a belt full of explosives, sharp things and sticky things.  He looked for items that could, in general, cause the most chaos in a warehouse filled with men with guns and a (potentially) unconscious (dead?  No.  Not dead until there’s a body.) bat.

“I still think this is a bad idea.”

“Then Stephanie and I take full responsibility if it goes belly up.”

“This is serious!  You are not –”

Tim angrily tugged a pair of shoes off the shelf.

“I swear if someone else says I’m not ready or I’m not taking this seriously… I can do it.  I’ve been training for years!  I can do it!”

“I could lock you in here and that would be the end of it.”

“Then I will start opening up my stitches Ms Disembodied Voice From Above.” Stephanie snarked, sat on the table aside Tim.  She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail, a few pieces of hair too short to make it to the elastic fell cutely on her forehead and neck. 

Tim pulled a face.  “Please don’t do that.”

“If she lets us out, I will not do that.”

Tim huffed, walking over to a counter.  Stephanie leered as he stripped down and then geared up, assorted straps holding belts and containers in place.  He really was preparing for whatever could be thrown at him. 

“Anything for me?”

“You… are staying in the car.”

“The batmobile?  That car?”

“Yup.”

Rolling her shoulders, she mused on that thought for a moment.

“Can it shoot things?”

“Not with bullets but…”

“I can help from within the car though right?”

“Oh yeah, knowing Batman there’s probably a rocket launcher in that thing.”  He realised what he’d said, and whirled round, trousers halfway up over his underwear.  His eyes were wide, like he genuinely thought she would blow up half of the Narrows.

“Forget about that part.”

Resisting the urge to laugh, she nodded very seriously. “I promise I won’t blow anybody up.”

“The car can do lots of things, Oracle can help you help me.  Right O?”

Oracle gave a very deep sigh that crackled oddly with her vocal alteration.

“Yes.  I can do that.”

“Thanks O.  You can help Steph, promise.  Also, there isn’t much place safer than the Batmobile.”

“…I can live with that.  But what about you?”

“I have more equipment on me than I ever have had before.”  He reached over to a pocket and pulled out a small cylinder.  When he flicked it in certain manner, it extended at both ends into a staff.  It looked very good for smacking people with.  Tim whirled it between his hands a few times, getting used to the weight of it.

“You know Nightwing says I’m better at the bo staff than him.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I can’t beat him hand to hand, and when his got his escrima sticks… but if we’re on equal standing…  I can floor him.”

Stephanie smiled, fascinated by his tentative show of confidence.  Tim snapped the staff and it reduced once more.  He pocketed it in one of the pouches round his waist.

Muttering to himself, he paced around, looking for anything else to take. 

“Okay.  Think that’s it.  Let’s head out.”

He moved to Stephanie, getting ready to pick her up.  She pushed him away and ignored his slight look of betrayal.  Stephanie didn’t look like she was still made at him, so instead he was left confused.  She kept her hand on his chest, a compelling touch.   

“At least put a mask on Tim.”

“Huh?” 

“You’re gonna go superheroing right?  Superheroes need a mask!”

“She’s right y’know.”

“Thank you!”  She turned her eyes upwards briefly, but returned them quickly to Tim’s, who had tensed at the two women ganging up on him.  She squeezed his shirt, and he nodded, turning away to look for one.

Folding her arms, Stephanie laughed when Tim returned to her, looking somewhat more like a vigilante. 

“Now we’re ready.”

****

If Tim were honest with himself, his driving of the batmobile was a bit dodgy.  He was used to driving his little red car, not a hulking tank that the batmobile was akin to.  He was impressed with how roomy it was though.  The steering wheel was less of a circle and more like what could be found in racing cars (or arcade games) which made Tim a little clunky with it trying to turn corners.  He was trying to go fast, but the car definitely went faster than the average Ford, and despite her impatience, Stephanie was understanding of his nervy driving. 

“Batman’s never let you drive the batmobile before, huh?”

His eyes jutted away from the road, but a slight swerve made him jolt back to full attention.  “Oh, oh no.  Oracle is the only one who can do that.  And she does it remotely.  Don’t even think Nightwing’s…”  They bumped into another lamppost as they turned a corner.  “Whoops.”

“I’m sure the lamppost is more damaged than the car.”

“Oh sure, this thing could take a nuke blast and survive.”

“Really?”

“Well, no.  Probably not.”

“Hmm.”

“It is pretty sturdy though.”  Looking at the GPS on the dashboard, Tim saw they were getting nearer the warehouse.

“Hey Tim?”

“Yeah?”

Resting her head on the rest, she turned her neck around, playfully smiling.  “When this is all done, you promise that you’ll take me out on a proper date?”

Tim’s mouth dropped open in a moment of shock, but he quickly composed himself.  “Yes!  Yes.  Easiest decision of my life… yes.”  He laughed, nearly whooping and punching the wheel in jubilation.

“Where’d you like to go? Dinner?  We could do that.”  She gently prodded.

“Bit fancy?”  He said, peering into the cameras that showed the sides and rear of the vehicle.  “I mean, do you want to get all dressed up?”

“No, no, not to start, but I know this really nice diner.  The lady who runs it smokes like twenty packs a day, but they do really good burgers.”

“That sounds good.  I can pick you up, drop you off, and if you feel up to it, we can just walk about, not worry about being jumped…”

“A proper date.”  She smiled sweetly.  “Listen, I’d give you my phone number but I think it - along with my house keys and purse - are chilling at the bottom of Gotham river right now.”

“Oh.  Well I can pay for dinner, if that takes a weight of your mind.  A gentleman always pays on the first date… or something like that.”

Shifting to reassert a more comfortable position, Stephanie could only roll her eyes.  “Wow.”

“Wow what?”  Tim glanced sideways at her.  She paused, realising he was being genuine, because that was all Tim seemed to be capable of being.

“You’re serious?”  She asked, clutching her seat belt and leaning towards him.  She ignored a sharp stab of pain that tugged on her stitches the doctor had done on her.

“Yes?”

At his stupefied tone, Stephanie huffed and muttered, “Of course you are.  God, you are something else.”

She raked her eyes up and down at him, totally head over heels, and Tim blushed at her flirtatious tone and gaze.  It was silent, but only for a moment before Stephanie began her prodding once more.

“So, you on Facebook?  Or Twitter?  Or whatever you bats and birds and oracles use?  You don’t strike me as an Instagram fan.”

“Ha.  No, not Instagram.  The others sure, I’m not completely cut off from normal teenage things.”

“Well, what else do you like to do with your time?”

Tim tutted, flexing his fingers on the wheel.  “This is getting into first date conversation territory.”

“Oh, come on!  Tell me.”  She urged, tapping his shoulder.

“Uhhh okay.  I… like music?  I mean, I play the guitar.  Not well, but… well.”

“I used to play the piano.”  She interjected gently.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Maybe we can play together.  See how much I’ve forgotten and see how well you actually play.”

“Heh.  That sounds perfect.”

“What else?”

“Oh.  Um.”  He sounded so reluctant to talk about himself, but Stephanie knew it wasn’t from a lack of anything to say.  Tim would have stories for days. Stories about his parents, stories about Batman, about Nightwing, about his training.  Stephanie wondered if it was just because he didn’t get the chance to talk about himself very often. 

“I skateboard!” The idea seemingly came to him abruptly, and he immediately seemed embarrassed the moment he uttered it.   “I know that’s a bit lame nowadays and at my age –”

“Who told you that?”

“Um… my dad.”

“Huh, well, he’s wrong so there’s that.”  She was flippant, tone brokering no argument.  She didn’t know Tim’s father, but what she’d heard, she was not impressed.  “It’s really cool, watching those guys in the park.  I can’t do that.  The balance you need…”

“I can teach you, when your stitches are out…”  He said, a smile on his face at imagining the two of them at the skate park in Robinson.

“You can try boy wonder, no promises though.”

The nickname made his chest flood with warmth.  “…Thanks Steph.”

“Well, you’re welcome.  If you want, I can teach you to sew in exchange.  There’s something not cool.”

“And who told you that?  You know when the apocalypse comes, you’ll be the one actually wearing functional clothes and making objects whilst I’ll just…lay down and freeze.”

She laughed sharply. “From what I’ve seen tonight Tim I don’t think you’ll go down easy when the zombies come for our brains.”

He shook his head and began to slow down.  The smile slid off his face, and she recognized it as him slipping into superhero mode.  She readjusted herself once more, bracing against the door and dashboard, not knowing where Tim was planning to plant the car. 

He leaned forward, peering through the screens.  Jolting the car sideways, he slowed right down, and slid down one alley, barely wide enough for the batmobile to open its doors.  He then dimmed the lights and cut the engine.  The car remained on however, dozens of little knobs and buttons lighting up their faces like an airplane cockpit.

Tim took a deep, albeit unsteady breath, and turned to Stephanie.

“Serious talk.”

“Yup.”

“If I’m not out in half an hour.  Call the police.  Tell them where you are, tell them to swamp the place.  Do not go after me, or your mother, or Batman.  With us falling off the bridge, they may think we popped it.  I don’t know.  I’ll get your mom out first.  When your mom is out, call the police.”

She nodded, but her concerned look did not fade.  “And what about Batman?  What if he’s really badly hurt?”

Tim swallowed uncomfortably, his throat dry, and turned back to the wheel.  He chewed his lip.  “I might have to leave you behind, depending on how bad he is, and get him back home.  You’ll be safe so long as you’re in the car.  If it gets really bad, and the car starts to get swamped before the police arrive. Oracle will drive you away.”

“Towards the police?”

“Towards the police, yeah.”

 A soft kiss on the cheek made him jump.

“Big brave superhero.”  Her gentle teasing made him relax.  Just a little.  He turned and kissed her on the lips, a wet kiss that made a loud smack when they separated.

“Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

Tim smiled.  “Oracle can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.  I’ve connected you to the car too, so we both can keep track of you.”

Tim nodded at the thought of an audio audience.  He gulped once more, then smacked a button which opened the roof of the car.  He climbed up, fired a grappling gun up to the roof, and shot away.  The car roof swiftly sealed once more, with a definite suction noise sealing out external air.

Stephanie sat alone in the silence and the low light, her stomach gurgling increasingly with dread.  This was going to be a long thirty—

“Right madam, I need you to move over to the driver’s seat.”

“Huh?”  She gripped the sides of her seat tight, as if she’d been caught doing something naughty.  Oracle did not seem totally amused.

“You wanted to help right?”

“Yes…?”

“Then you can help by getting Tim a map of the building.  The car has a sort of sonar.  It can create a 3D map depending on what it bounces off.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Hop over, come on.”

Stephanie did as she was bid, hissing in pain as she shuffled her bum over the other seat.  She swung her legs round, and fastened herself back in.  She grinned, and excitedly grabbed the steering. 

“Oh, wow.  I’m in the driver’s seat of the batmobile!”

“Yeah, yeah but you’re not driving anywhere.   Upper left, a row of four buttons, near the left window.  See them?”

Leaning forward, she nodded and sounded off with a half-hearted, “Yes?”

“Hit the one of the left, hold for three seconds.”

She did just that.  She felt a high-pitched ring go through her ears, and the car shuddered.

“Do it three more times.”

“Do you get the image wherever you are?” She asked as she pressed the button.

“I do.  Can see there’s fifteen bodies in there.  You two and Batman took out a few on your city travels.”

“Is Batman in there?”

“Can’t say for certain, it doesn’t give a clear enough picture.  It’ll help Tim know what way to enter, so thank you Stephanie.”

“You’re welcome.” She said, tone genuinely in its gratitude. 

Tim’s connection crackled on.

“Going in now.  See if she can get the EMP to go off.  It’ll cut off my communications, but the other tech should still work.  It’ll mess with their stuff real good.”

“Be careful Tim.”

“Promise.”

Stephanie leaned forward, as if she could somehow spot Tim and where he was in the building.  All she could see was a brick wall, and no windows or light. 

“Oracle?  How do I set off an EMP?”

“One sec…” An awkward pause, then Oracle picked up the line once more.  “By the gear stick, there’s a circle of smaller buttons with a big button in the middle?”

“Hit the big button?”

“No.  Do not hit the big button.”

“What’s the big button do?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“What can I touch?”

“Bottom right.  Hit once, no more than one second.  It’s pretty fierce and will knock out a block if you hold it too long.”

Gulping, she pressed it firmly.  The resulting noise from the car made her jump and squeak.  Her stitches complained brutally from her sudden movement, and she clutched at her side, trying to control her breathing.

“Did it work?”  She managed to ask.

“Tim’s no longer hearing me, so yes.  Well done, Stephanie.”

“…Welcome.”  This time her response was quieter.  Neither woman sounded too happy about the fact that Tim was well and truly alone. 

Stephanie attempted to make conversation with the voice above, to distract herself.

“You work for Batman?”

“Ahem. With Batman.”

“Oh.  That’s cool.  How…how did you enter…that…profession?”

“Long story.”

“I have time?”

“Uh-uh Stephanie.  Just… think of me as mission control.”  A pause, then a gentler, “Your wounds, they feel okay?”

“They hurt.  But that’s fine.  I’d rather feel the pain than not.  Something would really be wrong then, huh?”  She laughed shakily.

There was no response.

“Oracle?”

Gun fire sounded off then, and Stephanie gasped in fear. 

“Sit tight.”

There was no other noises loud enough to be heard in the car through the brick walls, so Stephanie listened as the sounds got louder and quieter, seemingly at random.  Sometimes it was obvious that multiple shots from multiple guns were being fired, other times it seemed like just the one. 

The moment the gunfire fell quiet, she panicked.

“I have to help.”

“How?  You’ve been told.  Sit tight.”

“Oh God.”  She fell forward, head smacking off the wheel.

The car lit up then, bright as it had when Tim had been driving.

“Stephanie turn the car off.”

“Sorry, sorry I—” She began frantically, foolishly, pressing assorted buttons.  An explosion rang out from the roof of the car with such force that the wall the car was pressed against caved in.  The fearsome blast led to two men on the other side being knocked out with the momentum of the bricks hitting them.  She couldn’t see Tim, but one man and one woman saw the batmobile and seemed to enter an absolute rage at the sight of it.  They turned from whatever they were shooting at (Tim?  Mom?) and began firing at the car.  Stephanie flinched at the sounds and the impact of the bullets on the windshield, but of course the material was tougher than any shotgun, and they bounced off with no damage to the screen.

One of them gave an over the top yell, as if he were in a war movie, but neither person moved.

Something distracted them all then.  Stephanie couldn’t see what was going on inside, but she could hear.  A horrid screech, one from a man, cut off quickly and sharply. 

“What was that?”  Stephanie asked, monotone but frightened.

“Uhhhhh…”

“Oracle, hey, what just happened?  Can you see?”

The two people watched as something (someone?) was flung across the room.  The lady’s mouth dropped open in disgust.  Stephanie blinked, and looked down at the wheel of the car.

“It…well.  Everything’s fine.”  Oracle sounded just like Tim did when they were in the stolen car, and Stephanie by this point had learned her lesson, and did not believe anything was fine for one moment.

The mob pair slowly returned their gaze to the car, as if deciding they had better chances against it than whatever was on the other side of the wall. 

They began to run at the batmobile, aiming to swamp it.  If they managed to get the door open, Stephanie wouldn’t be able to fight back, she was practically immobile.  Panic took over.

“Oh my God, what do I do?”

“Stephanie—”

“What do I do what do I do.”

“Steph—” The man began to incessantly smash his gun down on the windshield, trying to break in, whilst the woman moved the driver’s side, trying to bust the door.  They couldn’t see in, thanks to the shaded windows, but that didn’t stop their faces being uncomfortably close to Stephanie’s.  “It’s fine, there’s no way they can get in.”  Oracle was trying to be reassuring, but Stephanie remained unconvinced, and leaned back further into the driver’s seat.

With a thunderous crack, the man managed to severely damage the front screen, and Stephanie squealed like a six-year-old.  He was seemed a man possessed and laughed maniacally like he was a genuine supervillain.  Stephanie thought in brief flash of contempt that he was just kind of pathetic.

Dangerous though, and nearly cracking his way in.

“Oh, okay, okay, okay, okay, no worries.”  Oracle somehow did not seem to be exhibiting the right level of fear, if anything she seemed very blasé, thinking on the go.  "Hit that big centre button.”

“The one you told me not to—”

“Smack it!”

With her fist Stephanie slapped it harder than probably necessary, but she was running on adrenaline at that point and was just doing as she was told with extra gusto.  Both mobsters were thrown back with an aggressive crackle.  The landed on the ground, one further up the alley, one being thrown back into the warehouse.  They stayed on the ground.

“Oh wow.”

“Tasers.  They’ll be fine.  Maybe peed themselves a little.”  Oracle sounded entirely too pleased at the thought.

“…I threw up on myself earlier.”  Stephanie offered dumbly.  Oracle actually laughed.

“You’re not having a great night are you?”

“I’ve… had better.”

Stephanie reached out for the gear shift, and lowered her feet to the pedals.  There were two, hopefully one to go forward and one to brake.  She moved the gear shift up, and tentatively put her foot down, wanting to enter the warehouse.

"No, wait!"

The car shot forward through the hole in the wall uncontrollably, like it was her first-time driving a stick shift 1990s Toyota. Bad enough and embarrassing enough, if not for the fact that her mother had come running out towards the hole in the wall the moment Stephanie jerked forward.  Crystal bounced off the car with a loud humph and fell to the floor.  Stephanie stared in abject horror as her mother wheezed and rolled around on the ground.  She was not hurt too badly, just in shock at being smacked by the batmobile more than anything, but that didn’t stop Stephanie from crying out.

“Oh God.  I just ran over my mom!”

“…Wow you are having a terrible night.”

[aresaphrodites]

Hey but sorry to bother u but could give me those book recs? Relying on u girl

of course!! sorry bout the long wait, dear x

you said you preferred trilogies or series’ (which i don’t read much of tbh) so here are a few of my favorites: (( some of these will have full on summaries and some… not so much, i got lazy lol ))

The Lux Series by Jennifer L. Armentrout : Meet Katy and Daemon! Katy is a funny, down-to-earth book blogger who has just moved to West Virginia. And Daemon? Well, he’s her hot and arrogant next-door neighbor. He’s also an alien. This one is cheesy, yeah, but it’s so FUN! Follow along as Katy and Daemon try to figure out what they mean to each other while trying not to get killed by the Arum; the Lumen’s enemy. In this world, the DOD is well aware that aliens exist and that they live on Earth. However, they are unaware that the aliens known as Luxen actually possess powers that make them.. well… powerful beyond means. This isn’t just a romance story; it focuses on family and friendships and it has a bunch of kick ass action and the entire plot with the DOD is so interesting. 

The Pine Deep Series by Jonathan Maberry ; I’m only on the first book but this one is a bit more mature in terms of horror and things like that. If you like scary books or feel like being spooky in time for Halloween, you should definitely check this one out! 

The Mortal Instruments Series by Cassandra Clare : I’m sure you know about this one, but if you don’t! Angels, demons, warlocks, vampires, faeries, werewolves? What more could you want? When Clary Fray discovers she’s actually a Shadowhunter; an appointed warrior of the Angel Raziel and has angel blood coursing through her veins, her life is about to change forever. Join her and the rest of the Shadowhunter gang (and even a few others) as they team up to rescue her mom and stop an all out war from happening. 

The Darkest Minds Series by Alexandra Bracken ; I’m only on the first book but I absolutely love it! It’s an intense read that has me on the edge of my seat constantly. I adore Ruby and she’s easily become one of my favorite female characters of all time. 

Dorothy Must Die Series by Danielle Paige ; Okay. I know, I know. Really? Dorothy Must Die? Hear me out! This book is FUN. Trashy? Perhaps, but fun! The first book is really fast paced and honestly? I am living for a world where Dorothy is evil. So basically our main character is named Amy and she is the other girl from Kansas. She’s sent to Oz to save it from Dorothy Gale who has become power hungry and is now pure evil along with the Tin-Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow. The rest of the series doesn’t really live up to the first book, but I would say you should read the first one anyway. It’s a lot of fun. 

Did I Mention I Love You Series by Estelle Maskame: Sixteen-year-old Eden Munro decides to spend the summer with her father in Santa Monica as her parents are divorced now. Once there, she meets her father’s new family and that includes Tyler Bruce; her new asshole step brother with a short temper and a huge ego but as she gets to learn more about him, she finds herself falling for him. This trope isn’t for everyone and I know the whole step sibling thing is super taboo but this series is awesome and I read it during a huge reading slump and it really helped me get though it. 

Perfect Chemistry Series by Simone Elkeles: When Brittany Ellis walks into chemistry class on the first day of senior year, she has no clue that her carefully created “perfect” life is about to unravel before her eyes. She’s forced to be lab partners with Alex Fuentes, a gang member from the other side of town, and he is about to threaten everything she’s worked so hard for―her flawless reputation, her relationship with her boyfriend, and the secret that her home life is anything but perfect. Alex is a bad boy and he knows it. So when he makes a bet with his friends to lure Brittany into his life, he thinks nothing of it. But soon Alex realizes Brittany is a real person with real problems, and suddenly the bet he made in arrogance turns into something much more. (Each book in this series focuses on a different Fuentes brother.)

Fighting to Be Free Series by Kirsty Moseley: Jamie Cole has just been released from juvenile detention. Determined to go straight, he tries to cut ties with crime boss Brett Reyes - but Brett has no intention of letting him go. Jamie’s life is already more complicated than it needs to be, yet it’s when he meets a beautiful stranger at a bar that Jamie knows he’s really in over his head. Ellie Pearce has just come out of a terrible relationship and isn’t looking for anything serious; until she meets Jamie. Their attraction is overwhelming and intense - she can’t seem to shake her growing feelings for him, even though she’s trying to keep it casual. But when fate goes horribly wrong and Jamie’s family is faced with ruin, he’s forced to strike a deal with Brett. Despite his struggles, he wants nothing more than a future with Ellie. That’s until Ellie finds out that he’s been hiding more from her than she could ever imagine. 

Mind if I drop in a few stand alone’s? I’m trying to read more series’ but I’ve always been more of a stand alone kind of girl, so here are some of my current favs: 

#MurderTrending by Gretchen McNeil : WELCOME TO THE NEAR FUTURE, where good and honest citizens can enjoy watching the executions of society’s most infamous convicted felons, streaming live on The Postman app from the suburbanized prison island Alcatraz 2.0. When seventeen-year-old Dee Guerrera wakes up in a haze, lying on the ground of a dimly lit warehouse, she realizes she’s about to be the next victim of the app. Knowing hardened criminals are getting a taste of their own medicine in this place is one thing, but Dee refuses to roll over and die for a heinous crime she didn’t commit. Can Dee and her newly formed posse, the Death Row Breakfast Club, prove she’s innocent before she ends up wrongfully murdered for the world to see? Or will The Postman’s cast of executioners kill them off one by one?

One Small Thing by Erin Watt : Meet Beth and Chase. Beth is entering her senior year and is still trying to move on from the death of her older sister three years ago. In a small town with parents who have suddenly become her wardens; that seems nearly impossible. And then she meets the mysterious and hot Chase who immediately draws her in. Their attraction is instant and he’s the first person who makes her feel like Beth Jones and not Lizzie; the young girl who lost a sister and is somehow broken by it. But as she falls harder for Chase, she’s hit with the reality of the part he played in her sister’s death. It’s about forgiveness, love, and moving on. It’s sad and sweet and such a fun, quick read. Definitely good for trying to get out of a slump! 

Autoboyography by Christina Lauren :  Fangirl meets Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda in this funny and poignant coming-of-age novel from New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren about two boys who fall in love in a writing class—one from a progressive family and the other from a conservative religious community. If you read one book off of this list, PLEASE let it be this one. This book is so… amazing. It’s been months and I still think about it constantly. 

Fault Line by C. Desir : Trigger WARNING: THIS BOOK CONTAINS A RAPE. It is not shown, but it’s the main conflict in the book. Over the years I have struggled with if I liked this book because it was good or if I liked it because of how much it fucked me up. I read this book in one sitting and when I finished, I sat in my bed for a good hour and just…. didn’t move or do anything. You will NOT be rooting for the main couple. The narrator is unlikable and you will HATE all the characters in this book. The ending is NOT happy and I don’t know why I’m recommending this but GOD. This book, after so many years, just stuck with me because of how fucked up it was. It deals with the whole “recovery” process in such a dark way that we normally don’t see in YA fiction and I think that’s what makes it stand out so much. If you want something darker, read this. But read it with caution. If this isn’t something you like then please, don’t bother reading it. It’s not happy and it’s sure as shit not fluffy. Summary : Ben could date anyone he wants, but he only has eyes for the new girl—sarcastic free-spirit Ani. Luckily for Ben, Ani wants him too. She’s everything Ben could ever imagine. Everything he could ever want. But that all changes after the party. The one Ben misses. The one Ani goes to alone. Now Ani isn’t the girl she used to be, and Ben can’t sort out the truth from the lies. What really happened, and who is to blame? Ben wants to help her, but she refuses to be helped. The more she pushes Ben away, the more he wonders if there’s anything he can do to save the girl he loves.

Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero : If you like Scooby-Doo or Archie’s Weird Mysteries this book is probably for you. 1990. The teen detectives once known as the Blyton Summer Detective Club are all grown up and haven’t seen each other since their fateful, final case in 1977. Andy, the tomboy, is twenty-five and on the run, wanted in at least two states. Kerri, one-time kid genius and budding biologist, is bartending in New York, working on a serious drinking problem. At least she’s got Tim, an excitable Weimaraner descended from the original canine member of the team. Nate, the horror nerd, has spent the last thirteen years in and out of mental health institutions, and currently resides in an asylum in Arhkam, Massachusetts. The only friend he still sees is Peter, the handsome jock turned movie star. The problem is, Peter’s been dead for years.The time has come to uncover the source of their nightmares and return to where it all began in 1977. This time, it better not be a man in a mask. The real monsters are waiting. 

Fatal Throne by Candace Fleming ; A book about Henry VIII and his six wives. If you like historical fiction then this book might be for you! It’s told through the perspective of his six wives (and even Henry himself) and it’s a really fascinating read. 

Okay, I think I’m going to stop here. Let me know if none of these speak to you and I’ll give you some more recs! I didn’t know what kind of genres you liked, so I tried to throw in a little bit of everything.

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Whole (Part 1) - brood au

Characters: Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Bruce Wayne, Jon Kent, bits of everyone Pairing: implied/past/future superbat Summary: Of all the trials and tribulations he’s been through, he never thought one of the obstacles between him and finally seeing his children after ten long years would a protective, superpowered almost-nine year old.  A/N: This AU isn’t dead I swear! Also, this going to be a multi-parter. A situation like this can’t be handled in just one fic haha. (Also I have to think of how the rest of it is going to go, oops~) I feel like this isn’t good. Oh well, I’m sorry :/

Other Brood AU things.

~~

Clark listened from the kitchen, sipping his coffee, as Jon talked to his mother.

“I won’t let him take him.” Jon swore as Lois helped him get dressed. Look nice for their guest. “Damian’s my brother, he can’t take him.”

Lois just hummed.

“Or Tim, or Jason or Dick or-” A shift, and a female grunt. “Or Cassie! They’re my family, not…not his!”

Clark sighed, and glanced out the window towards the drive.

No sign yet.

“Would he take Conner?!” Jon continued. “Because Mom, if he tries to, I’ll have to fight him…!”

“Jon, it’s alright.” Lois laughed. “I’m going to need you to calm down, okay…?”

Clark tuned his youngest out, then, when his technical eldest came dancing down the stairs, Tim on his back, just like when they were younger. Jason came down next, Conner in the same position. Damian trailed after them, rolling his eyes.

And they all seemed upbeat enough. Not as outwardly nervous as he thought they might be. At least, not the older ones. Damian mimicked his own motion of looking hesitantly out the window. Sat in the chair closest to it, glancing out every few seconds.

A few minutes later, Lois walked Cassandra and Jon down the steps, both looking cleaned up and polite. Lois smiled when she noticed Clark watching her, and let the children wander to their siblings at the table before coming over to him.

“You ready for this, Smallville?” She whispered, taking the mug of coffee Clark offered her.

He glanced over at the full table, as Jon climbed onto Dick’s lap, and Cassandra pushed silently against Conner’s side. Sighed, and looked down at Lois with an already-exhausted smile.

“Not even close.”

She laughed, and took a sip of her coffee, leaning into his side.

“…I know you heard me reassuring Jon.” She murmured, glancing up at him. “And…I mean…you don’t think he will, do you? Try to separate them?”

“I don’t know, Lo.” Clark admitted. “I mean, I would hope not? But…he would have every right…”

“Jon will fight him.” Lois hummed. “You know he sometimes says things like this, but…for Damian? And his brothers and sister? I think he honestly will. I think he will fight Bruce for them.” Another sip of coffee. “And Clark, you know if he touches my son I’m kicking his ass.”

Clark nodded. Sighed again.

“…Are you going to be okay?” Lois asked after a moment. “I mean…after all, you and Bruce…” She twisted her lips. “I know you still feel the same about him after all these years. Is that gonna…do you want me to handle everything today, so you don’t have to? Just so it’s not too hard for you, I mean. I know it’s already going to be hard enough for the kids…”

“…Maybe we should have waited longer.” Clark breathed nervously, in lieu of an answer. “Maybe we should have let Bruce get more acclimated. Let the kids take this in for a little while longe-”

“Too late for what-ifs.” Lois chirped as Damian suddenly sat up. Stared out the window for a moment more before leaping out of his chair and running out the front door. Lois put her coffee back down as Jon jumped from Dick’s lap, shoving his face against the window to look himself before racing after his brother, and followed after him. “He’s here.”

And Clark watched as the rest of his children poured loudly after. Dick herding them all like sheep towards the door, and following protectively after, only looking back at Clark once.

(And even he looked a little wary, in this moment.)

Clark inhaled and held the breath, following after his eldest, joining the gang on the porch.

And as a car slowly came to a stop in the driveway, already he could see a problem. Damian had run to the edge of the porch in his haste. Jon had taken his place on the top step, standing protectively in front of him, and incidentally Tim as well.

Already prepared to fight, and that is not what today needed.

Clark silently nudged Lois, who was closer. She nodded and leaned down, taking careful hold of Jon’s elbow.

“Honey, come over here.” She pulled gently. Jon didn’t budge, even as the car’s engine was shut off, and the front door opened. Slowly, Bruce emerged. “Jonathan…”

“No!” Jon screamed. Clark winced as Bruce’s head shot up. He heard Damian gasp. “Not until he promises!”

Lois frowned. “Jon, come on-”

“Not until he promises he won’t take them away!”

Clark felt a blush rise up his face, even as Dick snorted a laugh. Bruce, still scruffy and tired-looking, just blinked a few times, then smiled gently.

“…Jon, right?” Bruce asked quietly as he took a few hesitant steps forward. He glanced at Clark for confirmation, who nodded. “…Hi, Jon. Can I call you that? Or do you prefer your full name?”

And sweet little Jon steeled himself, leaned back and held his arm out in front of Damian.

“…Jon is fine.” He whispered as Bruce approached, bent slightly to get down to Jon’s level.

“Okay, that’s cool.” Bruce kept his smile as he held out his hand. Jon eyed it cautiously. “I’m Bruce. A…friend. Of your dad’s.”

Jon waited a moment, then took the offered greeting. Bruce’s shoulders seemed to relax as he shook the little boy’s hand.

And Clark had to hand it to him. He kept his attention fully on Jon. Never once glancing at Damian or any of the other kids standing on the porch. Clark couldn’t even imagine how difficult that must have been for him.

“And.” Bruce drawled softly as Jon dropped his hand. “I’m…not here to take your brothers and sister away.”

Clark sensed a blush on Jon’s cheeks too, even as he shrunk a little bit into himself, and murmured, “…Promise?”

And Bruce, bless his soul, just chuckled. “Promise.”

Lois took the cue, tugging Jon again. This time Jon went willingly enough, staring only just a little sadly at Damian as he was pulled to the back of the pack, to stand with his mother and Conner off to the side.

Bruce kept his crouch in front of the stairs, now letting his eyes dart openly between the five remaining between himself and Clark.

None of the kids moved, except, of course, for Dick. Suavely shifted himself to the front of the group, jumping down the stairs and immediately wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck.

“Long time, no see.” Dick murmured as Bruce returned the embrace. His voice was a little shaky, the only thing belaying his emotions. “…Missed you.”

“God, I missed you too.” Bruce breathed, his own hidden emotions coming forth. After a moment, he released Dick, only to hold his face, eyes darting across his features to really take him in. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”

“I know, I made it to my twenties! Crazy, right?” Dick laughed in relief. He twisted out of Bruce’s hands, turned towards his siblings. “Want me to introduce you?”

And as Bruce looked back as his children, his eyes became misty, his smile lopsided and old.

“The rebel without a cause up there is little Jay.” Dick hummed. Jason just rolled his eyes, but waved sheepishly. “Then there’s Princess Cassie.” Dick glanced back. “Lois has been the best mom to her, by the way. Really helped her come out of her shell.”

Cassandra nodded vigorously, glancing towards Lois. With her hand, she silently said, ‘I love you’, which, of course, Lois returned immediately.

“Genius baby there is Timmy. Can you believe how tall he’s gotten?” Dick asked, sounding like a proud father himself. Tim merely stood there, almost like a deer in headlights. Just let the heat rush up his face.

“He has.” Bruce answered even as Cassandra giggled, moving past Tim and down the stairs. Bruce immediately opened his arms for her, and she crashed into his chest. “He and Jason both have. You’ve all…gotten so big…”

“And that leads me to the last, but most certainly not the least, as Jonno has already shown you.” Dick smiled. “…Damian.”

And with one arm still tightly around his daughter, Bruce’s next breath was a trembling inhale.

After all, Damian was barely a toddler when Bruce had last seen him. He could barely speak. Barely say ‘dada.’

He was the one Bruce knew least about. Spent the least amount of time with. Damian had only been in his life for a few months before he thrust him into Clark’s arms, begging for him to protect him before disappearing into the night.

“…Hello.” Bruce whispered. “Hello, son.”

There was a moment. Just one, with absolutely nothing. No breathing, no speaking, no movement.

“…Father?”

Damian barely breathed it, barely let himself say the word. Bruce sniffed his tears back, and nodded quickly. Without warning, Damian lurched forward. Wrapping his arms tightly around Bruce’s waist, burying his face in Bruce’s chest.

“I missed you.” Damian’s muffled voice sounded. “I missed you so much. I thought about you every day. Made Dad- Made Clark tell me about you every day…!”

Bruce slowly wrapped his free arm around Damian’s back. Carefully, as if Damian was made of glass, and would break under his touch.

And he was…sad.

But not because Damian’s slip-up with Clark’s name, Clark knew that. Was probably happy Damian thought of Clark as his dad, had that stability in his life.

Rather – because at least with the others he’d had a few years. Witnessed at least part of their childhoods.

With Damian…he had nothing.

“Oh…don’t do that.” Jason suddenly quipped, stomping down the steps. Bruce sniffed and blinked in question. Suddenly Jason was in front of him, face stern, but still flustered. “Don’t you start crying, old man.”

Bruce sniffed again and realized…he was. He was crying.

“I’m sorry.” He laughed, trying with futility to wipe at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just. You’re all here. You’re all so grown, and…”

He glanced up to the porch, one more time. Looked Clark dead in the eye. Smiled.

(A smile that was only for Clark. A smile Bruce hadn’t given since the day he ran from this house ten-odd years ago.)

“You’re all safe.” He whispered, as Tim finally stumbled down the steps himself. Slammed into Jason’s back, pushing him into Bruce’s space, and wrapping his arms as tight around them – and Cassandra and Damian – as he could. Dick, who had moved to stand behind Bruce, finished the embrace, holding all five of them at once.

Bruce just ducked his head into Jason’s hair. Kissed his second oldest’s temple.

“I missed you.” He admitted quietly. “I missed you all so much.”

“Us too.” Dick answered for everyone, then kicked gently at Bruce’s ankle and whispered, “Including the big guy hiding his tears behind his fake glasses on the porch.”

Bruce looked up again, watched as Jon pulled a dirty tissue from his pocket and handed it to his father. Leaned into Clark’s side as he took it.

And Clark caught Bruce staring, completely on accident. But let out a laugh, nonetheless, letting his face heat up in embarrassment as he covered it with his hand.

“Happy tears, Bruce.” He swore, waving Bruce away. A silent plea to not cut the time with his children short to focus on him. “These are happy tears, I promise.”

“…I missed you too, Clark. So much.” Bruce said quietly. In the corner of his eye, he saw Lois and Conner glance at each other knowingly. “And…thank you.”

“Happy to.” Clark nodded, squeezing Jon’s shoulder. “Thrilled to, really. But even more thrilled that you’re back.”

“…Yeah.” Bruce hummed, looking down first at Damian, who was staring wide-eyed up at him, then Cassandra, then Tim, and finally Jason, who had relented, and leaned his head childishly against Bruce’s shoulder. “Me too.”

[itispossibleihaveissues]

This Night - Chapter 4

TITLE: This Night AUTHOR: Mikimoo RECIPIENT: tristen84 PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Off screen Non-Con, murder of innocent young people, 

THIS CHAPTERS WARNINGS: Reference to non-con, a racial slur, violence and nastiness. The usual.

SUMMARY: The Red Hood and Officer Grayson are on the same case. A small misstep has far reaching consequences for them both.

Chapter 1, 2 3

Ruiz was waiting for him, crouched just off the path, gazing out at the dappled light of dawn. How many days had they been in this goddamn jungle? Jason had lost count.

“I can hear them coming,” she said as he approached. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her gun, but her hand was steady. Probably steadier than Jason's, who could really feel fatigue setting in. He was used to running on empty, used to over extending himself – but the high doses of drugs he had been shot up with just days before were playing havoc with his body as they were flushed out of his system. He could only imagine how unpleasant Dick's come-down was.

“Lets run,” he told Ruiz, pulling her to her feet. “Got to leave a clear trail for them to follow – then when we're far enough away, we can head into the jungle and try to loose them.”

Ruiz nodded and they took off at a reasonable pace. It was jarring and Jason's whole body ached and throbbed. “What kind of dog is it?” he asked between breaths, sudden curiosity helping to take his mind off the pain.

“What?” Ruiz panted beside him, shooting him an angry glance from under the wild tangle of her hair.

“The dog you're going to feed Dick to.”

She gave him another incredulous look, and Jason wondered if he also caused all those eye rolls and twitches that seemed so prevalent with people who suffered exposure to Dick Grayson and his special brand of bat-shitery.

“A Pomeranian,” she said at last, almost defensively.

Jason snorted despite his lack of breath. “One of those dumb fluffy things? Hardly a corpse devouring fiend.”

“Have you ever met a Pomeranian? They are tiny rat-bastards.”

“I'll take your word for it,” Jason huffed, amused despite himself. “I always fancied getting a dog, but don't really have the lifestyle for it,” he mused. By his calculations they had run a quarter of a mile; time to turn off the path and start making there way though the undergrowth.

“I enjoy dogs,” Ruiz said, her voice harsh with the effort of keeping pace with Jason's longer legs. “These little asshole ones especially – they're tiny savages.”

Jason motioned for her to stop and they both took a moment to catch their breath. “What's it called, your tiny, viscous fluff-ball?”

“Napoleon,” Ruiz said, straight faced.

Jason laughed loud enough even the dense jungle couldn't quite swallow the sound.

 Half an hour later and they were running again, this time fighting through the tangled, rough terrain of the forest. The good news was their ruse seemed to have worked and the gang was following them, rather than hunting for Dick. The bad news was the men tracking them were fit, well rested and well fed. And they had gained an alarming amount of ground.

It was only a matter of time until the soldiers caught up, and Jason was pretty sure they were still far enough out from the rendezvous point that when they did it would be a very uneven fight. But there was not much more they could do but run and pray to whatever gods might be listening.

In the end they got further than Jason thought they would. But it still wasn't far enough.

Bullets shot past them as they ran, and Jason tugged Ruiz behind a tree. She was flushed and panting, great gulps of air that looked painful. Jason's own lungs felt tight with exertion and sweat was running into his eyes. He wiped his face with his sleeve as he tried to think of a way out of this, but he was coming up blank - there was fuck all he could do to save them.

On one hand he was glad Dick wasn't here for this final stand, maybe he would have a chance to survive, maybe the mercenary would find him and rescue him, maybe he would be able to contact someone on the tablet. Or, on the other hand, Dick might be facing a long, slow death of fever, dehydration and sickness, alone in the forest. Either that, or he might end up back in their hands; tortured and abused. Jason shuddered, fought down the impotent rage that welled up in his chest. He couldn't let himself dwell on that. Dick would find a way to survive. He had the tablet and he was smart. If he managed to stay conscious he would figure out a way. Jason decided to stick to that thought, to keep faith in Dick's ridiculous ability to beat the odds.

“We know you're there, officers,” a voice called out from the bushes behind them. “You give up, and we let you live. I can even guarantee you will not be harmed. But you run, or fight back and you will be made to regret it before you die. This is your last chance.”

Jason had three bullets left. Ruiz had none. They were fucked.

Ruiz watched him check his ammo, her mouth set in a grim line. “I have no intention to go quietly,” she told him, “I won't make that choice for you, but I will ask that you save one of those bullets for me, if they capture me.”

Jason nodded numbly. For the first time he let himself wonder what had happened to her during her three days of captivity, whether she had endured the same kind of torture Dick had, if she had also been assaulted. He had assumed, because they hadn't drugged her, that they were keeping her unharmed for a reason. But perhaps it was just that Dick had been so much harder to handle.

Not a question he was going to ask, and not a choice he was going to contest, even if he wanted to. He handed her the gun. “That's your decision, Ruiz, but pick your moment carefully and use the other two on them. I'm going to see if I can take a few out before I go down.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Bullshit, mostly.” He checked his hidden weapons carefully and took a few steadying breaths. He was going to have to be convincing, if he had a chance in hell of getting in close enough to get a couple of them with his blade. He raised his voice, “I'm not one of the cops you want. That means you've got no reason not to shoot me, so I'm not seeing an incentive for giving up without a fight.”

“That's true, but we might go easy on you.”

“Yeah, right. I was you, I wouldn't go easy on a guy who killed my buddies. So I figure I got to give you a reason, right?”

“Right,” the guy said, unimpressed.

“How about fifty thousand reasons?”

“I'm listening,” the guy replied, his voice picking up a bit. Greed was a wonderful motivator.

“You know who the American cop is, don't you?”

“Wayne's gypsy brat,” the guy said, his tone contemptuous. “Worth more than his weight in gold, or he was. Not sure Wayne will want him back now, never thought sloppy seconds was the kind of thing a guy like that would go for.”

Jason took a moment to wrestle down the red haze of rage that suddenly colored his vision. The only thing that kept him clinging to his sanity was he would get to kill more of them if he waited until the time was right. Beside him Ruiz sucked in a sharp breath, and Jason could feel the fury radiating off her. She probably hadn't been aware of what had happened to Dick when they were separated. Her anger helped steady him, tighten his resolve.

This guy was going to be first to die.

Once he had his voice level he spoke up again. “Wayne will pay a ransom for me, too.”

The man snorted in disbelief, “I don't think so, a fucking cape like you?”

“Everyone knows Wayne finances the Batman and his crew,” Jason said, warming to his story. “You ever wonder why?”

“No,” the guy was starting to sound bored.

Jason did spare a thought for the shit-show that this bunch of crap could bring down on Bruce, but apart from the one big lie, he wasn't saying much that wasn't already known or rumored. He was actually quite proud of the thread of almost plausible shit he had just managed to cobble together on the fly.

“I'm his illegitimate son,” Jason said. The words sounded absurd when they came out his mouth, but they skirted close enough to the truth that they were almost convincing. And they were backed up by the gossip that had been circulating for years - that Bruce had fathered numerous kids and kept them and their mothers quiet with cash. There was even speculation Tim was his biological son, and the adoption was mealy a way to legitimize his chosen heir. Something that people felt was backed up by the fact he had not adopted Dick until he was an adult – the gossip sites liked to speculate that only happened to try to distract from the rumors that his interest in Dick had been sexual in nature.

Fuck knows what they thought of Damian, but Bruce did try to keep the boy out of the public eye. Partly because that kind of life was stressful for a child, and partly to avoid a lawsuit, when an incensed Damian verbally eviscerated a reporter or two. Or literally, with that kid, literal disembowelment was also on the cards.

“Right,” the guy said, unimpressed.

Time to sell it. “Grayson knows me, that should be obvious – he rescued me, I rescued him. We're brothers, after a fashion. Not to mention the fact that if you ask Wayne and he denies it, I know I'm going to die a lot more painful than a bullet to the head.” Jason was aware of Ruiz watching him carefully, assessing. Jason hoped there was enough truth in there to persuade the bad guys, and enough lies to convince her he was bullshitting to save his skin. “You've got nothing to lose, and everything to gain. You either get cash, or the chance to kill me.”

The guy was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I hear a lot of you talking, and not much from Grayson backing you up. You got anything to say, or you just let the real men talk?” he said, presumably to Dick.

Jason bit his lip until it bled, forcing calm before answering. “I'm afraid you've lost your chance with Grayson. He's long gone.”

“How'd you mean, long gone?” Now the guy sounded angry, the thought of that ransom slipping through his fingers.

“We separated a while back, he went his own way, figured we were more likely to survive that way. So, you have very little chance of catching him up, I'm afraid. Which means, you want your ransom, you got to go with me.”

There was a moment of angry silence while the guy thought it over. No doubt weighing his need to hurt something for the embarrassment of losing Dick, verses his greed. Greed won out, it usually did. “Throw down your weapon and step out. Let me look at you.”

Jason tossed out his empty gun. “The guy that's speaking, is mine,” he whispered to Ruiz, “use your bullets carefully, and run like hell. You might get away while I distract them – don't argue – if there is a chance one of us can live to get help for Dick and to bring these guys down, we have to take it.”

She didn't look happy about it, but she nodded.

Jason stepped out into the clearing, his whole body braced for the bullets that didn't come. It looked like they had taken the bait, at least for now. He could feel the comforting weight of the long knife strapped to his back, and the firm tug of his wrist sheath as he calculated the odds. He had to get closer. In his left sleeve there were three tiny shuriken that could be released and flung with devastating results at this range, but he wanted to gut this fucker.

He took a step forward.

The man looked him over carefully. Jason thought about what he would look like gurgling his last breaths, blood pulsing over the blade of Jason's knife. He tried to keep the bloodlust off his face, but might not have suceeded, as two of the men took a step back.

The lead guy could only see money though. “Fifty thousand is not much for a man like Wayne. Not much for a son.”

“I didn't say he liked me, just that he's my father. However, he is very fond of my mother, so you let me speak to her first and she'll push the price up. Sky's the limit.”

The guy nodded, already seeing all of Bruce's money at his disposal. Jason wondered if he was actually supposed to be doing this or whether he was planning to act independently and keep the cash. Made sense, as they had not appeared to have made the connection between Dick and Bruce back in the house above the river.

“Okay, lets take him,” the guy said.

Jason tensed, feeling adrenalin flood his system. The shuriken fell into his hand when he released them and nestled between his fingers. The smaller knife slid free too, ready to stab that piece of shit in the throat.

He stepped forward again, as a thug with some cuffs moved doubtfully towards him.

Then everything changed.

He saw the sudden glint of a sword slicing down toward the leaders undefended neck and time seemed to stand still for a beat, then the guys neck and part of his jaw exploded outwards with the impact of the blade. Jason threw himself forward, not a second too soon as some of the guards fired there weapons in surprise, aimed right at the spot his head had been moments before.

He hit the ground hard, but rolled with his forward momentum and saved himself from being perforated by the dumb assholes squeezing the trigger at random. His instinctual lunge had saved him from death but a bullet still clipped his ankle sending white hot pain shooting up his leg.

One of the shuriken had sliced his fingers as he rolled but the other flew out and in to the eye of an armed guard, who screamed and dropped his weapon. Jason dove for it. Most of the men were now firing haphazardly into the jungle trying to hit whoever was picking them off with a big-ass sword. Big mistake. Jason sprayed them with bullets not caring who or where he hit. Ruiz sensibly remained behind the tree, thus missing being splattered in the uncoordinated spray of bullets from both sides.

Then there was an eerie silence, men lay dead around the clearing, and Jason was almost giddily shocked he wasn't among them. He blinked stupidly at the gun in his hand and his bleeding fingers. Then his ankle remembered it had been shot, pulsing with sudden agony and Jason sat down on his ass, hard.

He hoped it was just a brush of a bullet and nothing more serious, but he couldn't tell with the throbbing and the banging feeling in his head. He was suddenly aware he was incredibly thirsty, almost gasping, and his body felt shaky and weak.

He was also very aware this was not over yet.

“Jason, are you OK?” Ruiz called from behind the tree. Her eyes were wild but she was still gripping her gun with a steady hand. Jason added one hundred points to his already very high opinion of her as she remained hidden in the relative safety of her spot until she knew if their mysterious rescuer was friend or foe.

“I'm fine,” he was amazed at how even his voice was. “You may as well show yourself,” he called to the person waiting in the line of trees.

The man that stepped into the clearing was instantly recognizable despite his dark, nondescript fatigues and black balaclava. The sword was only part of it, the way he moved made the hair on Jason's arms stand on end.

Fuckity fuck. This was one of the three people he didn’t want to have picked up their contract.

They stared at each other for a moment, Jason still sitting in the dirt clutching an empty gun. Wonderful, not at all awkward.

From behind him, he could hear Ruiz's ragged breaths – she might not know who this was, but she sure as shit could sense the dangerous menace radiating off him.

“Oh, for fucks-sake,” Jason burst out eventually. “Tell me you're taking the contract and I don't have to fight you?” he tried to keep the plaintive note out of his voice, but he suspected he hadn't quite managed it.

Slade Wilson pulled his balaclava up, revealing one blue eye and an amused smirk. “You're not the brat I was expecting,” he said, “and you seem to be one light. My contract was for three.”

Jason nodded, unbelievably relieved, but not ready to let his guard down – he and Wilson did not have the best working relationship. “How much did you hear?” he asked, forcing his body to move he struggled to his feet. His ankle ached and throbbed but he was glad to find it took his weight.

“Some,” Wilson said, after a pause.

Cagey fucker. Well, Jason would deal with that issue later, for the time being they needed to get Ruiz to safety and head back to where they left Dick. The sense of urgency was nagging at him, every second they wasted was courting disaster. “Dick was injured, we left him a way back, we didn't know who would pick up the job, but we figured getting to them was our only hope.”

“Hmm,” Wilson said, turning his single eye towards the tree Ruiz was still crouched behind. “You didn't just abandon Grayson when he became too much of a burden?”

“We did no such thing!” Ruiz shouted angrily, “and the longer we spend here the more likely he will be found – we must go back!”

Wilson looked amused. Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. “Do you have transport?” he asked, hopefully. “And tracking equipment? We have a signal we can follow back to where we left him.”

Wilson nodded. “I came by Night Jet. Lets return there and see if we can pick up this signal. My contract was for three, and three I will bring back, dead or alive.”

That sounded so encouraging.

Ruiz finally emerged from hiding, still clutching her gun. She eyed Wilson suspiciously. “You know this man?” she asked Jason, quietly, although probably not quietly enough to escape his notice.

“Yeah, Slade Wilson. He's a... private contractor we paid to help us escape. We have some history.”

“You trust him?”

“Not an inch. But he is good at what he does, as long as we pay him, he'll help us.”

Ruiz nodded and bent to retrieve the gun of a fallen guard. She looked exhausted and at the end of her reserves, but she still examined the weapon carefully and tucked it into her belt as she picked up another. Jason followed her example and restocked his own ammo supply, and then moved after Wilson back into the jungle.

 The Night Jet was a small military grade stealth plane. Ruiz sank into the seat Wilson pointed her too with open relief. Jason perched on the edge of his, reluctant to sit properly in case he couldn't get up again.

“So,” Wilson begun, “what should I call you, Red?”

“Jason,” Jason replied, wearily. He appreciated Wilson's efforts not to blow his cover, but he was fairly sure Ruiz was going to have some serious questions for Dick when this was all over. He hoped they could come up with something convincing.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, but gave no further indication of his opinion. “Track Grayson's signal and I'll find him.” He passed over a hand held devise.

Jason quickly utilized it to find Dick's signal – it was still strong. Although that didn't mean there was any guarantee he was still in one piece, it was still a relief to know they could track him. “I'm going with you,” he told Wilson, handing the devise back over.

“You don't look like you are in any fit state, Jason.” He practically purred the name and it made a uncomfortable shudder work its way up Jason's spine.

“No compromise.”

“Okay, it’s your money, and your skin.” Wilson smiled like a shark. “Or is it Wayne's?”

Jason grit his teeth. “Doesn't matter as long as you get paid, right?”

“I'll come too,” Ruiz said, struggling upright from where she had been sinking into the comfortable seat.

“No,” Jason said, “not because you would be a hindrance, you wouldn't, but if shit goes wrong, I want there to be someone who gets out and brings the hurt down on these fucks.”

“We will come back,” Wilson put in mildly, “at least I will.”

“Well, then you can get her out of here and then take the extra cash to return and help clear these bastards out,” Jason snapped. “Can we stop wasting time and just go?”

Wilson shrugged his huge shoulders and stood with the fluid grace of a man who was completely at ease with himself. Jason had to concentrate all his energy and stubbornness just to regain his feet and even then he couldn't keep the wince off his face.

Wilson looked at him critically. “I'm willing to humor you to some extent, kid, but not at my own expense. You want to come with me, you let me patch you up.”

The thought of Deathstroke that far in his personal space, putting hands on him, made Jason shudder again. But they really didn't have time to argue, and Wilson was holding all the cards. Jason nodded stiffly and sat back in the chair.

Wilson raised an eyebrow at his easy compliance but didn't mock him for it, for which Jason was grateful. “Apart from the ankle, any other major injuries?” he asked kneeling in front of Jason and taking hold of his boot in a strong grip.

“Bruises mostly. Bit stiff from being shot through body armor and pumped full of weird drugs.”

“When was that?” Wilson started to untie the laces on his boot, each tug made Jason's jaw clench in pain.

“Few days ago,” he said, attempting to control his voice. “Dick shot me out a window.”

Wilson snorted and the edge of a smile tugged at his lip under the short beard. “Did he now?”

His fingers against the swollen, sore flesh of Jason's foot were not gentle, but they weren't overly harsh either - brisk and firm; professional. Jason wished it were painful instead. The sensation was making his skin crawl.

Wilson declared his foot unbroken, but the bone might have chipped a little from the impact, it was obvious from his expression that he thought Jason was going to fuck it up even more if he traipsed back tough the jungle on it. But instead of giving the lecture he expected, Wilson just wrapped it tightly in bandages and handed over a couple of light painkillers.

The walk back into the forest was unpleasant, but Jason had come back from the fucking dead, he wasn't going to let a little exhaustion and pain get the better of him. Also he had already fallen on his ass in front of Wilson once today, he wasn't going to do it again.

The jungle itself felt more oppressive now, although he felt a lot safer with Wilson's big frame in front of him. Wilson would take down any attackers, he had no doubt, but Jason was sill hyper aware that he himself was a walking liability. It was a nerve-wreaking trip.

It felt like hours, but was probably closer to forty-five minutes. Apparently in their frantic run he and Ruiz had taken something of a convoluted route. They finally made it back to the path and Jason felt another bolt of adrenaline hit him. Was Dick okay? Had he been discovered? Had he succumbed to his injuries and they were walking towards a corpse? Jason's heart was hammering so hard in his chest he felt queasy, and there was a cold pit of anxiety bubbling in his stomach.

The other nagging concern was if he was making a huge mistake trusting Wilson – he wasn't sure what he and Dick's relationship was at the moment. Over the years it seemed to have run the gauntlet of wry, antagonistic affection, all the way to outright hatred and back again. Jason couldn't shake the worry that he was leading Deathstroke towards a critically injured Dick who would be unable to defend himself if Wilson was currently holding a grudge – or someone else's contract.

But there was fuck all choice at the moment – if things went to shit, he would just have to deal as it happened. If Wilson had any indication of the direction of Jason's thoughts, he gave no indication and instead tugged aside the undergrowth to reveal Dick, awake, but glassy eyed and sweating. He was also holding Jason's gun in shaking hands, pointed right between Wilson's eyes.

Relief flooded though Jason, the feeling so intense it almost knocked him off his feet. “Stand down, Dickie,” he said.

Dick blinked up at him, the gun stayed pointing at Wilson's face though. Wilson, for his part remained still and calm – a wise move Jason suspected.

“Jay,” Dick slurred, “Ruiz OK?”

“Yeah, how you holding up?”

“M' fine,” Dick said, unconvincingly. He swung his gaze back to Wilson – recognition in his face this time. “He our help?” he asked.

“For our sins, Yeah.”

Dick didn't look overly alarmed, and lowered his gun, which went a way towards convincing Jason that Wilson might not just kill them out of hand.

“You look a mess, kid,” Wilson said.

Dick grimaced at him and held out an arm to Jason, like he wanted to be pulled up.

Jason stepped towards him, but Wilson held out an arm to stop him. “You don't look like you could withstand a healthy sneeze in your direction, Red. I doubt trying to help the kid up is going to do more than land the pair of you back in the dirt. And I don't think we have the time to take the luxury of sorting you out again.”

Jason didn't like it, but it was true. He was wobbling on his bad ankle and Dick didn't look too steady either and he was still sitting down. Wilson didn't give him time to think it through though, and reached to haul Dick to his feet, holding him upright with one big hand.

Dick clearly wasn't expecting it and lashed out wildly, toppling backwards in an uncoordinated flail of limbs. Wilson looked comically surprised. None of the frantic blows hand even landed, which was a testament to Dick's physical condition, but it was the action it’s self that indicated his emotional state and it felt wrong. And not just to Jason, judging by the way Wilson was watching Dick as he lay panting in the undergrowth.

“Sorry,” Dick said into the awkward silence, as both Jason and Wilson stared at him. “You took me by surprise. I'm not with it,” his speech slurred slightly at the end of the sentence, and he wet his lips, peering up at them.

Wilson nodded and held out a hand again, this time Dick accepted the help and Wilson pulled him upright. Once on his feet he wobbled for a moment, looking pale and sick. There was no way he was going to make it back though the jungle on his own two feet, and Jason wasn't going to be the one to carry him. From the look on Dick's face he knew it too, and didn't like it.

“Kid,” Wilson began, but Dick waved him off.

“I know, just give me a moment. Got water?”

Wilson handed him a canteen and Dick drank greedily, his eyes almost closed. Then he nodded his consent. He avoided looking at Jason, as Wilson scooped him up in his arms like he didn't weigh a thing. Wilson remained impassive, but Dick looked explosively tense for a moment, before relaxing into the hold and laying his cheek against Wilson's shoulder. It made Jason uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite say way.

“Red, you need to take point,” Wilson growled at him.

Jason forced his body into motion again. An hour to safety. 

Just an hour.

[theliterateape]

Farewell to Chicago [1989–2019]

By Don Hall

Thirty years. Almost to the month. Like my ten years with the Chicago Public Schools (closer to nine), my decade in the public radio mines (shy by two months) and my five years hosting The Moth (just short by a month), I’ll round up and if that bothers you, consider yourself a pedant and kin to that fucker who corrects your grammar while in line at a CVS.

No one in Chicago knew a goddamned thing about me on April 7, 1989. I didn’t know anyone in Chicago that day as I drove my blue and grey 1984 Bronco II onto a crowded Lake Shore Drive in Friday afternoon rush hour. Having spent my years growing up jumping from place to place, new wasn’t intimidating but that traffic was something I had yet to encounter. Christ, it took me two days in Chicago to figure out that when other drivers were honking at you, they weren’t waving but flipping you off.

I had no clue on that day that I’d spend the next thirty years of my life in Chicago. 

A recitation of accomplishments, jobs, marriages (three), personal and public wars, and lessons learned easy and hard wouldn’t do it justice. I might as well list the cash amounts paid out to rent and utilities. There are, however, moments that help sum up and define what became known as my Chicago.

1989

“Are you the new librarian?”

“No. I’m the music sub but they didn’t have a music position open so I’m being paid as the library sub.”

“Oh. Well, can you bring the book cart to my classroom at 10:45 anyway?”

“Sure.”

“By the way, you know you can’t sleep in your truck in the school parking lot, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Got it.”

BIG FISH

1990

Marty DeMaat welcomes the Level One students to the Second City Training Program. I look around at the new faces and see Alida Vitas, whom I steamrolled through in our audition scene a few weeks ago. I wave “Hi” and she smiles. Joe Janes is there. He auditioned right after I did so he was in the room during mine. He seems slightly surprised to see me.

“Oh.” he says drily. “They let you in?”

Weeks later, he and I and a cast of other trainees concoct a sketch show entitled “Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman” that we produce in Andersonville later in the year.

1991

“I can’t believe you’ve never had a Lincoln Breakfast,” he mused.

Carey Goldenberg, a Jewish Deadhead who had performed at Second City with Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Dan Castelleneta and was now an eighth grade math teacher, sat down at the booth.

“Try the The Monitor Skillet Eggs.”

“Monitor?”

“Named after an Ironsides ship from the Civil War.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“So what’s the big number for the choir next week?”

“We’re doing a tribute to Journey.”

“And the kids dig it?”

“They love it. It’s all new to them. They think ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ was written with them in mind.”

“It kind of was.”

“Yup.”

“You aren't Going to Tell My Mom, are You?"

1992

Jeff Hoover, Joe Janes and I, sitting in the grass just behind the Chicago History Museum. Each of us have cigars and are smoking them.

Weeks earlier, Jeff and I saw “Cannibal Cheerleaders on Crack” on Broadway and, in a slightly drunken haze, decided we could could probably do better.

“Let’s call Joe,” Hoover slurred, tipping his Modelo just enough to dribble some on his shoes.

In the grass, amidst the stinky clouds of barely smoked Romeo and Juliettas, the three of us decide to start our own theater company. Weeks later, we hold auditions in the Neo-Futurarium and cast Level 6, an ensemble of improvisers and sketch comedians with aspirations of something more.

Peculiar Journeys Ep. 28

1993

From the Chicago Reader when they reviewed shows every week, every show:

A MEAN WATUSI

Level 6 and Free Pickles 

at Shay's

Only suckers and wimps do just one show at a time: that seems to be the spirit behind the two new revues being hosted by the comedy group Level 6, and for chutzpah alone they deserve credit. While running their straight improv show A Mean Watusi every Sunday night at Shay's bar, they've also put together a scripted show, Silence of the Frogs, a so-called "nonrevue of unimprovisation," which they perform Wednesday nights. Unfortunately, the young group's ambition has overreached their talents, and what might make a fresh 90-minute show has been inflated into two overlong evenings.

The group's biggest mistake is failing to isolate its real creative strength. In A Mean Watusi Level 6 shows what it does best with new twists on the standard improvisational games and some quick wit. While not all the scenes are winners, the group's good humor and high energy make the clunky moments easier to take.

SILENCE OF THE FROGS

Level 6 

at Puszh Studios

In Silence of the Frogs, the creative limitations of Level 6 really begin to show. One would think the luxury of a script would prompt them to weed out some of the dross, but instead their material only seems worse. After an interesting introduction in which actor Don Hall plays a muted trumpet to an audio background of croaking frogs, the show screeches to a halt in the first scene.

Cliched dialogue, nondescript characters, and half-realized situations, the sketches end before anything really happens. To make things worse, Joe Janes's direction is so uncertain that the actors appear uncomfortable as they carry out silly stage business (such as when the workmen begin scrubbing an el platform, a spectacle I have never witnessed in all my years as a commuter).

The rest of the scripted material suffers from the same problems. The choppy structure and uneven quality of material give the revue a sluggish pace that is often hard to follow. While a lack of communication between people seems to be the vague thematic thread, it is never clearly outlined and comes across as a lazy afterthought. The show picks up, though, after Silence of the Frogs, when the group returns to do some improv.

In their press release, the group makes a revealing statement: "In Silence we're out to create good art. That doesn't mean it's not entertaining, it's just not our primary objective." Maybe they should abandon their pretensions and stick to what they're good at. At least in improvisation there's not enough time to think about making good art.

— Tim Sheridan

Government Cheesh

1994

Closing up the band room after teaching from 7:30am til 3:30pm and then having after school band until 5:00pm. One of my students, a drummer, helps put things away.

“What do you do after school, Mr. Hall?”

“Some nights I have shows with my theater company. Other nights I perform improv comedy with ComedySportz.”

“Ain’t you married?”

“I am.”

“Prolly not for long.”

✶

As one gets older it becomes more difficult to make friends. At least that’s been the case for me. In my experience, the friends whom I can say I’ve cemented a lifelong bond with have all come from making art together. Sure, many have come and gone in that theater immediacy of sort of falling in love with each other during the rehearsals and run of the show, the promises to keep in touch after the show closes, only to move on and be friendly acquaintances. Faceborg connections. 

Chicago is one of those places in the world, like the bizarre tourist attractions that give power to Gaiman’s American Gods, that draws amazing artists to her embrace. I have met and worked with so many extraordinary humans within the gates of this town it boggles my mind to reflect upon the sheer number. Because art is a dramatic and contentious preoccupation, there are some whom the explosion of ideas and execution burned away from the raw electricity. The burning of those connections are always a bit sad but the celebration is of the creation.

One friendship that has remained intact and with the gravity of true family across my time in Chicago is that which I have with Joe Janes. He and I have been a part of so many artistic experiments — from the early days of Level 6 to the producing of his first full-length play to the spectacle of putting up all 365 sketches he wrote in a year — despite some dark patches and irreconcilable differences along our nearly thirty years, he is the closest thing to a brother I’ve ever had. I hope I can convince him to move to Vegas but even if I don’t I will always consider him the best of friends (not to mention one of the kindest humans I’ve ever run across from and the Spock to my Kirk.)

✶

1995

We held a yard sale. We sold bars of chocolate. I managed to snag us an Air Canada sponsorship for ridiculously cheap flights and booked a 17 room three-flat just minutes from the Fringe Central ticket center for around $50.00 per person for the month.

“The Armageddon Radio Hour” and ComedySportz. 26 shows in the month of the largest theater and arts festival in the world. While Chicago roasted that summer, the gang of WNEP Theater performed and saw more awesome, bizarre, experimental stagecraft than we could’ve imagined. We stole so many of those ideas and employed them back in Chicago it is no exaggeration to say that a month at the Edinburgh Fringe is better than a theater degree.

All Sandwiches Matter

1996

Joe Bill (of the Annoyance Theater) and I sit in the court room, waiting for my name to be called. We were there because a few months prior, in an act of guerrilla marketing, I instigated the fly posting of thousands of ‘teaser posters’ for the newest WNEP play and wasn’t smart enough to realize that once we put up the real posters, we’d get busted by the city.

For a few weeks in our little circle of artists and theatergoers, the question was “What the fuck is ‘Metaluna’?” Posters featuring the word and a photo of Sigmund Freud in a slip were plastered everywhere. I had multiple conversations about the mystery always with a smirk in my brain because we were in rehearsals for this ridiculous, massive show that made no sense spawned from the cracked mind of Joe Janes and directed by the equally off-balance Bob Wilson.

Five stages. Two constructed fat suits. Expanding arms. Muttonchops. A theremin. DADA poetry on vaudeville stages. Giant circus-like posters painted by Kevin Colby. It was the most ambitious show we had created to date and caught the eye of Jen Ellison, who after seeing the show, decided she wanted to be the artistic director of the company responsible.

The city fined us $20.00 but warned that they could’ve fined us $10,000. It was not the last time we would come into contention with Chicago but it was definitely the lightest sentence.

In Nonsense Is Strength

1997

Mr. Jose Barrias was the beginning of a trend.

Hired by Sharon Hayes to come in and teach music at District One Middle School, my predominant skill she prized was my tendency to bend both the rules and the expectations placed upon the role of music teacher.

My classroom had no desks or chairs. We had rugs and pillows. We didn’t spend any time learning to play plastic recorders. We listened to and discussed music and musicians and read from my college music history text. I had the HOT ROOM across the hall. I had a wall of gum that the students (not supposed to chew gum in school but did anyway) would add to every day.

In 1996, Sharon left. Barrias was hired. Jose did not appreciate my less than orthodox approach and, while he did his best to get me to follow a more traditional protocol, it didn’t take.

A year later, my teaching career was over. The trend was set — get hired to shake things up creatively, person who hires me leaves, bureaucrat comes in who wants a by-the-book approach, I stay a year longer than I should then split.  

Did I Say Hot Room?

1998

“I think I want a divorce. We’ve been this for a while since college and I’m pretty sure you hate Chicago and I love it and we’re both kind of miserable.”

“That’s what my grandma said marriage was.”

“Seriously? I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll probably get a bachelor apartment in a crummy neighborhood, jump right back into another relationship, get marginally suicidal but mom will talk me through it. The theater company will kind of blow up because I’ll spend too much time drinking because the idea of being divorced is a bit intense for me and I’ll be a total fuckwad. We’ll do some shows but I’ll be mailing it in for the most part. It’ll cause a huge rift between Joe and I but we’ll repair it a while later. How about you?”

“I’ll get the fuck out of Chicago, move back to Texas, get remarried, he’ll die a year later but then I’ll meet the man of my dreams, we’ll get married and have two children. Oh, and I’m keeping both the dog and the cat. You can see them on Facebook in ten years.”

1999

FOR WNEP, IT'S `APOCALYPSE' NOT YET

THE FOUR HORSEMEN ARE READY TO RIDE

It was always about Keith Whipple. Sure, we had a massive cast and spent more money on this ridiculous, ambitious monstrosity. Twenty-five working televisions, five VCRs connected, amazing costumes, and a dark satire on Christianity. Cathleen Carr, one of our producers, broke her pelvis during load-in. Joe Kaplan built a set that could actually withstand the apocalypse. 

Whipple, however, stood out on Lincoln Avenue before every show improvising riffs on Revelations with a megaphone to an unsuspecting pedestrian audience before crashing the start of the play. He endured eggs thrown at him, physical threats, and the police called on him. And he never once flagged or complained. 

✶

The wonderful cesspool that is Chicago holds a special place for the transplant. Sure, there are the diehard Chicago natives, stuck in their neighborhoods and allegiance to their high schools and local digs, but the transplant has this wide open space to navigate. Chicago has been a magical playground, like a hardcore Midwestern Disneyworld with different “lands” to go to and experiment within.

I was always the new kid in school because we moved around a lot. As much as anything else, it is this foundation upon which my many career moves were made while surfing across Lake Michigan’s shores.

Public school music teacher. Off Loop Theater Producer, Director, And Actor. Improvisational Comedian. Playwright. Improv Coach and Teacher. Venue Manager and Landlord. Retail Tobacconist. Massage School Facilities Manager. Public Radio Events Director. NPR House Manager. StorySlam Host. Digital Publisher and Writer. Independent Events Consultant & Producer. Front of House Manager of Millennium Park.

Only in Chicago could I bounce around so sporadically, learning from each experience and growing in my skills. Only in Chicago could I have that many shifts in vocation without adding “Unemployment” or McDonald’s to my resume.

✶

2000

She was both excited and incredulous.

“You signed a lease on a theater?”

“I did. It was about time we had our own clubhouse.”

“Can we afford it?”

“We have to. I mean, we don’t really have a choice now.”

“How much is in the company bank account right now?”

“$18.00.”

“…”

2001

I woke up late. Jen was in the front room. She was crying. I came in and she was staring at the TV. The footage was live and it was off a disaster of some sort in New York. As I sat next to her, neither of us spoke. We sat like that for almost an hour as the non-stop feed kept informing us of the attack.

Later that day, she and I went shopping for props for her one-woman show that was in tech rehearsals. We went to a vintage toy store on Broadway. The streets were mostly deserted.

Later, I started getting emails and phone calls from the cast and crew of “Lives of the Monster Dogs” and “Soiree DADA.” We were scheduled to open the Monster Dog play on September 12. We had a DADA show that night. What were we going to do? Should we cancel the DADA? Should we postpone the play?

Jen was of no help. So I decided. I sent out an email to everyone in the theater company. If people felt strongly enough that they couldn’t perform, that was fine but we would do the shows despite the attack. We would do what we do. We would entertain as best we could.

I’ll never forget Bob Wilson, in full DADA costume, reading the ending monologue from The Armageddon Radio Hour and sending chills throughout the room.

2002

I lived across the street from our theater which meant I was on call whenever any one of the thirteen shows per week was running

A random Friday night. A midnight show by a renting organization. I’m in the back, watching to make sure everything is copacetic. I notice a guy, solo, in the back row. He’s jerking himself off. No one else in the audience or onstage is the wiser.

“Yo. You get two choices, bub. Unclench your pud and quietly get the fuck out of my theater or continue to choke it as I drag your ass out of here by your hair. Choose now.”

Just a day in the life.

Nothing is Sacred. Not Even You

2003

I was upstairs when I got the call. The DoR was downstairs. They wanted to see our Public Place of Amusement license. “It’s on the wall. In the nice frame.” Three minutes later, the phone rang again. There was a problem. I threw on my pants and came downstairs.

The next morning, the Sun-Times ran a short story about the DoR sweep of six or seven small, Off Loop theaters that had been shut down due to licensing violations. We were among the list. Adding insult to injury, our theater was saddled with the only full paragraph and quote, saying that our license had been forged. I called to see what they were talking about. I called my landlords who didn’t return my calls. I called the League of Chicago Theaters and was told they couldn’t help us because it was reported that we��— I — had forged the license.

Outside, there was a huge red sticker on our place — CEASE AND DESIST. We were being shuttered. I spoke to an attorney and was cautioned about what I might say to the press. “Don’t piss these people off. Play nice.” I was told. So when I was interviewed for the Reader, I played nice. When I was interviewed on WBEZ, I played nice. I’m not particularly good at playing nice, at watching what I say. And it made me seem guilty. The expectation of those around me was that I wouldn’t sit still for this. That, if I were in the right, I would tear off my shirt, march down to City Hall and raise bloody fucking hell. A natural born brawler, I tried to dance the political Foxtrot.

Three of my best friends — who had stood up with me at my wedding — became convinced that I had, indeed, forged the license. That, while they were performing shows, I was out in a back alley, selling forged documents to strangers using Photoshop and a color printer so kids could get into bars and underage girls could get abortions. They started working with the landlords to transfer the lease to a member of our Board who was ALSO a member of a theater company that had also been shut down.

My books were audited. Every dime, every receipt. It was concluded that everything was kosher — that there was no malfeasance. In fact, it was this audit that uncovered the fact that I had “donated” over $35,000 of my own money over three years to keep the place afloat. But, said my friends, I was pretty clever and could have figured out how to cook the books ahead of time. In the span of a month, I had gone from the guy who made sure the stage was painted and the lights worked to a criminal mastermind. It was like Kafka.

At a meeting of the majority of the 48 members and associates of the theater, I broke down in tears. I felt trapped and maligned. The tears were hot and angry and impotent. I was failing on an epic scale and could not find a way to make things right. The Three Groomsmen had successfully negotiated the transfer of the lease to the other theater behind my back; it was up to us whether or not we wanted to try to fight it out. We didn’t because I didn’t.

Getting Up the Eighth Time

2004

From the New York Times (top of fold on the cover of the Arts Section in the print version):

“John Huston's ''Let There Be Light'' (1946), a meticulously shot government-sponsored documentary that presented psychiatrists curing World War II veterans of mental ailments with such absurd quickness that many suspected it was rehearsed, now appears like more of a piece of propaganda for Freudian psychoanalysis than for the United States military.

Jen Ellison and Dave Stinton's adaptation of this fascinating movie, which was banned by the United States for over three decades, is one of the most curious shows in this year's fringe festival. It's a staged version of a documentary that may have been staged itself. Instead of commenting on or contextualizing the material, the creators of the play, which concentrates on four of the soldiers, play the material as straight as if it were a kitchen-sink drama. While the style can be stiff, the sensitive actors playing the soldiers -- Peter James Zielinski, Peter De Giglio, Chad Reinhart and James Yeater -- manage to tease emotional depth and nuance out of their thinly drawn parts.

Still, the show's optimism about the government's treatment of its veterans is jarring, especially when compared with more cynical recent moves like ''Born on the Fourth of July'' or ''The Manchurian Candidate.'' It's almost comic when Cpl. Joe Hardy (Mr. Reinhart) regains the feeling in his legs after a few moments of hypnosis.

Ms. Ellison and Mr. Stinson seem to acknowledge this anachronism in their one major departure from the film -- Mr. Zielinski's sensitive and beautifully realized portrayal of a depressed grunt who never recovers from an unspecified psychological sickness. He adds a dour tone to the drama, reminding us that the talking cure has its limitations.”

2005

One fall day, I substitute taught at a school in Humboldt Park. It is a neighborhood filled with culture and vibrancy but is one of those in Chicago left mostly out of the resources loop but I discovered that I am, as a teacher at least, at my absolute best when working in the classic "troubled inner-city school" filled with kids who America has chosen to leave behind.

I bopped around the school in the early morning, providing prep periods for fourth and sixth grade teachers - strictly high priced babysitting. Then I landed in Room 102. Seventh Grade Science. For the rest of the day.

Most teachers I know fear nothing more than seventh and eighth grade. The kids are just swimming in the chemical dump of their overloaded hormones and their emotions and bodies are careening at a breakneck pace without the experience to guide it away from the fourth turn wall. I love this age. They crack me up; every time I work with them I have new stories to tell and feel like I successfully navigated a rudderless boat through the most violent of storms and lived to tell about it. (Jesus - a NASCAR metaphor and a sailing metaphor in one paragraph - what you got to say to me now, motherfucker?)

The day was interesting. I had enough time during the day to talk to a couple of the teachers, all of whom looked tired and stretched a bit too thin and who spoke in the slow, hushed tones of the shellshocked. They told me of the gentrification on either side of the local neighborhood and the resulting dramatic rise in drug dealers and gangs in their school over the past few years. They quietly railed against the sense of entitlement their students were trained to have in an environment that dictates that teachers could not punish children in nearly any way whatsoever for increasingly violent behavior - the idea that flunking, suspending, or holding back a kid who has no perceived use for school in the first place is like fighting a wooly mammoth with a loaf of bread. While the kids were away, they would talk with a worn but slightly amused look on their faces which immediately hardened into a disgusted scowl as soon as any kid appeared.

Excerpts of my day include:

"I forgot to tell you," I gleefully stopped the class in the mid-riot of getting prepared to switch classes. "Look at this look on my face." I deadpanned. "It says 'I don't care.' You say you absolutely have. to go to the washroom or you'll die and you must have your friend with you? 'I don't care.' Your friend jabbed you in the eye and you can't see? 'I don't care.' Your teacher said that you sit in the corner with six others while 'doing your science' together? 'I don't care.'"  "You say you need to KNOW something or are looking to LEARN something?  Then I care."

"Mr. Hall, why are you so happy?" "Because teaching you guys is like a day at the zoo! And who doesn't like the zoo?"

"Pardon me. (a beat) Excuse me. (a beat) I need your attention! (a beat) I don't want to yell over you, folks. (a beat) Excuse me! (a beat) GOOD GOD - THE SKY! LOOK AT THE SKY!! OK, listen up really quickly -" "Mr. Hall - you're weird."

At one point, I run into Antoine. Antoine is a 15-year old, six-foot-three inch, drug dealer's son. He is a huge white kid who somewhere along the line decided he would mimic a stereotyped black kid. He is in the behavior disorder class and, according to his teachers, pretty much has the run of the school. He is what most teachers know to be a hopeless case - no pragmatic use for education, no respect for any adults except those that can pummel him, and the realization that nothing, absolutely nothing can be done to him until he's eighteen.

He came in during a class switch and was chatting up one of the girls. I had no idea he wasn't supposed to be there and was actually mystified that he simply would not shut up for me (I'm actually pretty good at that sort of thing). He literally acted as if I wasn't there. After ten minutes of attempting to explain the science lesson (Matter, Mass, Volume, and Density), he gets up and makes for the door. I intercept.

"Where are you going, Antoine?"

"This ain't my class."

"Then why have you been here for ten minutes?"

"Ah bumbbges digghuff chaetky mumblemumblemumble...."

"What?"

"Nothin. Get out my way."

"How about we wait for the security guard to swing by and take you to the class you're supposed to be in - I don't get a thrill at the prospect of you roaming the hall freely."

"What?" He tries to shove me out of the way of the door, getting right up in my face. "Don't you lay your hands on me!"

This is a trick. Antoine knows that this is the phrase that freezes the blood in most teachers' hearts. In a time where parents file lawsuits against teachers for failing grades, the stigma attached to a corporal punishment charge is career suicide.

"I didn't lay a hand on you, Antoine. In fact, it was you who laid your hands on me. We now have two choices." I get quiet enough for only Antoine to hear. "We can wait for the guard to come by and pick you up and escort you out of here so I can teach some seventh grade science. Or. I'm gonna beat the crap out of you and then have you arrested for assault. Make your choice."

His face reflects a number of conflicting emotions and finally he flashes a shit-eating grin and asks, "We cool. right?"

It turns out that the kids don't really care much for Antoine. They're afraid of him. The teachers are, too. I think it's a shame that things have come to this - it's only October. The atmosphere for the rest of the day slows down to a mere category 2 hurricane and the day breezes by.

✶

In thirty years, I’ve lived in a lot of the neighborhoods in the city. Again, in the laundry list version:

Edgewater Rogers Park Bridgeport Lakeview Avondale Northcenter  Portage Park Bucktown Uptown Wicker Park

Every neighborhood has its own flavor and people and businesses. The cornucopia of experiences based entirely upon your immediate surroundings is extraordinary. All of it connected by the train (and busses if you go to where their are fewer rich, white people...)

The best part? Local businesses. My guess is that Vegas will be populated more with chain restaurants, bookstores, etc. It is the local dives and boutiques and coffee shops that make Chicago one of the most amazing places on Earth.

My Chicago is:

The Lincoln Restaurant Haymarket Pub & Brewery The Green Mill The Metro Chicago Comix The Athenaeum Old Town Tobacco Bang Bang Pies The Red Lion Victory Gardens Theater at The Biograph Quenchers The NeoFuturarium G Man Tavern Smoke BBQ The Chopin Theatre Pequod’s Pizza Easy Bar Uncharted Books The Music Box Theatre Empty Bottle Lem’s BBQ Dollop Coffee Black Dog Gelato

Sure there are more but I’m old and can’t remember everything. Calm down. 

✶

2006

“Did you hear that Hall kicked Bernie Sahlins out of the Athenaeum lobby last night?”

“What? Why?”

“One of his Chicago Improv Festival stage managers pulled the lights on some Los Angeles group because they were going way over time and Sahlins lost it. Found Don and tried to dress him down in front of a crowd getting tickets. Hall stood by his stage manager and Bernie was not having that. Finally, he snapped an told him to get his old motherfucking ass out of the theater.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, Pitts got heavy pressure from Second City so he had to fire Don.”

“He’s been with CIF for, what, five years?”

“Not any more.”

2007

“Can I ask you a question I’m not legally supposed to ask? You seem like you’d be alright with it but I want to check.”

“Shoot.”

“You’re twenty years older than every other applicant for this job. Why do you want it?”

I laugh. “First, I like Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” Second, I like NPR and WBEZ. Third, if I do a great job house managing for peanuts, maybe you decide to offer me a full time gig.”

Four months later, he offered the full time gig.

2008

“Are you Jackie’s son? She’s right. You got fat.”

Betrayal in Tornado Alley

2009

Monday morning at WBEZ. Eighteen voicemails. Not so many until you understand that the outgoing message specifically instructs people to NOT leave voice messages and that these eighteen recordings were from the same person.

“Hello! My name is [REDACTED] and I’m here to see “Wait Wait...Don’t Tell Me!” I have a ticket and I’m at the Chase Bank but I can’t find the auditorium. Can someone call me back?” - “Hello. [REDACTED] again. I’m wandering around the bank and no one seems to know where the show is being taped. Please call me back. I don’t want to miss a minute!” - “I’m in my car right now and I can hear that you’ve started the show! Where am I supposed to go? There are no signs and nothing on the ticket page. Where are you?” - “Goddamn it! I can HEAR THE SHOW RIGHT NOW! LISTEN! Someone needs to call me right the fuck now or I’m going to lose it!”

This went on for an hour, all the way up to voicemail number seventeen which was apoplectic. Voicemail number eighteen was the next day, Sunday.

“Hello. This [REDACTED] and I am so sorry I left all of those messages. Oh my. I’m so embarrassed. My husband pointed out to me that the ticket to your show was for Thursday night, not Saturday morning. I’m so used to hearing it on Saturday, I thought... Well, you can guess what I thought. Please accept my apologies.”

I called her back and gave her tickets to the following Thursday. VIP. But only if I could tell the story.

2010

For part of 2008 and all of 2009, Jen worked with a team of nineteen writers on a project that involved them writing short one-act plays or scenes inspired by the artwork of Edward Hopper.

Following the divorce and her resignation from WNEP Theater, these writers came at me.

“Are we going to do anything with these pieces or was it all just wasted time?”

So I hunkered down, stitched together 24 scenes to create a ridiculously huge theater piece, cast 18 actors, 4 understudies, booked the Storefront Theater on Randolph Street, and hired a few brilliant designers

It was the last show I produced for WNEP. It was the last theater piece I directed for WNEP. Unbeknownst to me, included in the sold out run’s audience were Jen and her new husband, Lois Weisberg, the acting Chairs of the MCA, The Art Institute and the Driehaus Museum, and a woman who hadn’t been in Chicago for very long but heard about the show and came with a friend. This mystery woman also went to the play’s off-night series and reconnected with her college roommate, Scott Whitehair.

Four years later, I’d marry her in Las Vegas.

2011

“There’s no electricity in this warehouse.”

“What? It’s 4:30am. Why are you calling me?”

“The warehouse where I’m supposed to set up the movies, the spoken word, the B-Boy/B-Girl Dance Battles? I have no electricity and the door between spaces is welded shut.”

“The Block Party starts at noon. It’s 20 below zero. What are you going to do?”

“I suppose I’ll find an old breaker box that seems to still be connected to juice and try to hotwire it. I’ll electrocute myself the first time and my fingers will turn black from it. The second try will knock me unconscious for around seven minutes and make my mouth taste like pennies. The third time — because I’m both tenacious and stupid — will work. Though later tonight when I get home, my feet will be bizarrely bruised and look like dark purple beets with toes.”

“Oh. Good plan.”

“Breeze?”

“Yeah?”

“WBEZ doesn’t pay me enough.”

2012

“Your story was amazing. We loved it. We wanted to know if you were interested in hosting the story slam at Haymarket?”

“Hosting? Why not have Tyler do it?”

“He’s the producer. We love him but he’s not really host material.”

“Yeah. OK. Sounds good.”

The back room at the Haymarket Pub & Brewery is packed to the point that people are sitting on the floor. Tyler introduces me with platitudes about being the House Manager for WWDTM — it’s a touchpoint the largely NPR crowd can cheer.

“According to the legend, The American feud begin over notches on the ears of a hog Exchanges of retribution from this humiliating start Gaining traction to equal the obsession of two warring families 

The thirst for vengeance, once fomented Is unquenchable, irresistible, all-consuming The Klingons say revenge is a dish best served cold But most of the meal involves the heat of righteous anger. 

Someone became stridently political Someone else cheated with your boyfriend Yet another spread rumors about you There is no end to the razor-sharp slights you have endured.  Time slipping through your fingers, wasted on rage That thing that got the revenge ball rolling Lost in a cacophony of calls for justice and "It's not right" 

Revealed to be, in the end, nothing more than notches on a hog's ear. 

Tonight’s theme is GRUDGE. Welcome to The Moth!

Like a Burning Moth Without a Clue as to How He Caught on Fire: A Collection of Word Jazz

Of The Seven, Americans Suffer Sloth More Than the Other Six

✶

The act of reflection upon a thirty year period forces perspective. In writing this, one of the choices to make has been to determine which moments are worth hanging onto and which ones are better left erased. Sure, these erased moments are still visible but like a heavily used white board, the remnants of the words are almost scrubbed off, slightly visible but unimportant.

The odd, highly passionate fights that occurred are not limited to one or two years but peppered throughout like scars that look like faces if you squint. The betrayals are lower in volume, a tune you remember from way back when but can’t quite recall the lyrics. The specifics and details behind divorces and other failed relationships might be juicy in that Buzzfeed sort of view but aren’t truly relevant.

I scaled a mountain and, during the journey, broke few bones, got hypothermia, and lost some of my equipment but no one wants to hear the tale of those things but rather the feeling of epic transformation that such a path includes. I’ll not use my platform for therapy, gang.

I know people who tend to stare back into the rear view mirror and wax nostalgic as if the best times (or worst) are behind them. I am not one of those people. What’s past informs the navigation but does not determine the destination. I have very few regrets and I think that’s the best way to live.

✶

2013

“You were involved with the Global Activism Expo?”

“Yeah. I produced it.”

“The 5K Fun Run with Peter Sagal?”

“Produced it.”

“The Chicago Chef Battle at Kendall College? The WBEZ Day of Service? The Winter Block Party for Chicago’s Hip Hop Arts? The Year in Review at Park West? The Sound Opinions Summer BBQ?”

“Produced them all.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“Oh yeah. The Richard Steele Holiday Party at House of Blues with featured performers Billy Bragg and the Sons of the Blues. That was seriously one of the highlights of the year.”

2014

“Hey. How about you shut the fuck up?”

Three dates later.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

How to Jump Out of a Plane and Survive

2015

Along the road, there was General Admission. It was a WBEZ podcast co-hosted by my Events Assistant and myself. We interviewed local artists as well as a handful of national talents (including Kate Mulgrew, Steven Yuen, Taylor Mac, and, of course, Henry Rollins.) A true highlight of 2015 was getting to sit down with a personal hero of mine, Chuck Palahniuk, and ask him questions. The interviews for these are long since deleted but the memories remain.

Half a Century

2016

A meeting at the bar below my apartment. Commiseration over the online trolling I’d endured from unfriending a psychopath and her army of aggrieved idiots. A pitch — how about an online magazine? Something cool and interesting and featuring all kinds off writing? Something that Himmel could sink his own Angry White Guy voice into like a fetid beef sandwich with so much mustard it covered up the gristle and the rot?

“Well, I’ve recently updated my 10-year blog (Angry White Guy in Chicago) to something less Trump-centric sounding. I’m calling it Literate Ape. Whaddya think?”

“Sounds perfect.”

2017

“In the nearly five years I've hosted The Moth (58 regular slams, 8 Grand slams and nearly 700 stories in that time) I've had a real ball.

I started every single slam with the admonition that while we are each snowflakes, unique in every way with our individual crystalline natures, we are all just made of fucking snow.  With the onslaught of identity politics and partisan bickering, I hope that is something people remember. 

I closed every single slam with a quote: "If you want to change the world, have a meal with someone who doesn't look like you." - Chef Coco Winbush.”

Farewell to The Moth

”In parting ways, I can say that my decade working for WBEZ, Vocalo, and especially NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! was thrilling, challenging, inspiring and worth every moment. I got to watch Obama's first speech as president on multiple televisions in a bona fide newsroom. I got to meet Michael Moore, Denis Leary, speak to Bill Clinton and hang out with Tom Hanks. I produced events for as many as 5,000 people (as well as had a hand in producing a record-breaking performance of WWDTM at Millennium Park for 17,000 people). I produced events at the House of Blues, Victory Gardens, Adler Planetarium, Metro Chicago, City Winery, Chicago History Museum, Chopin Theater and hundreds of other excellent venues.

I was there to assist in orchestrating the 10th Anniversary of WWDTM at Adler Planetarium. I was there for Carl Kassell's final show in D.C. I directed Ira Glass, Scott Simon and Peter Sagal in a gala performance. I have been privileged to work with Bill Kurtis. I got to throw Richard Steele and Claude Cunningham their retirement parties. Winter Block Parties with YCA, New Year's Eve Parties with The Moth, Pi Day, the brilliant town hall meetings for the Race Out Loud series. Jim and Greg of Sound Opinionswith Frankie Knuckles on the MCA stage. Drive-In movies in West Chicago. 5K Runs with Peter Sagal. Running front of house for WWDTM with Kate Kinser by my side almost every single night. Laughing and planning things with the amazing Vanessa Harris.

The list of amazing experiences and incredible people is a bit mind-boggling in hindsight. And Good Christ, the Pledge Drives..“

Farewell to the Public Radio Mines

2018

“In the park, there is only one we, the collective patronage of the thousands of multicultural Homo sapiens gathered to hear an orchestra or a jazz ensemble or the blues or a rock band. It is a larger and more lovely we and, therefore, a stronger foundation from which to find solutions to the seemingly insurmountable obstacles to society.”

All the World’s a Stage and Identity is Just Another Costume

“"Tiffany to Don."

The terrible analogue radio crackles in my left ear.

"This is Don. Go."

I'm on the southwest end of the park. It's hot. Really hot. Hot enough that one begins to question the sanity of standing out here, wearing all black, amidst 11,000 people listening to a world-class orchestra play Tchaikovsky. Tiffany is one of my 50 ushers. She has encountered an older couple who came out to the park to hear the music yet hadn't really thought through the difficulties of being post-70 years of age in heat that can only be described as Global Warming Hot as Balls HOT. The gentlemen is so overheated that he can no longer walk. They need a wheelchair.

"Copy that. I'm on my way."

I walk quickly to the Welcome Center on Randolph, check out a wheelchair, then navigate the unwieldy thing through throngs of casual walkers around to the east side of the the stage. It takes me around eight minutes and I'm sweating like I'd been in the volcano room at King Spa. The old man sits in the chair after navigating the fear of just falling on his ass while sitting down. They need to go to their car in the parking garage.

Tiffany shrugs. "I don't drive. I don't know the parking garage."

"I got it," I say with a forced smile.

I wheel the man and his wife through the bowels of the building. We get to the elevator and they can't quite remember what floor they parked on. They left their ticket in the car. We sit for a moment, as the garage is huge and the prospect of finding their vehicle with no concept of even what floor (of the seven levels) it is on is an impossible task.

"It's on three."  "How sure are you?" "I'm pretty sure it's on three."

We go to three. No idea what section (3A? 3B? 3C? Jesus Christ…) they give me a description of the car and a license plate number and we set out through each aisle, each row, looking for the car. Thirty-five minutes later — with frequent radio calls for assistance that I direct while seeking an end to the labyrinthian journey I'm on — I spy their ride. They are relieved and thrilled. So am I.

The wife wants to tip me and offers me a dollar. I politely decline and send them on their way. I return just as the concert ends and just in time to set up the two recycling bins in the arcade for the ushers to dispose of the now outdated programs leftover from the weekend.”

Managing a House for 50,000 People

2019

Seven weeks. 2019 in Chicago has been spent doing side gigs, hanging out with people who have meant something to me in the past thirty years, and driving to old neighborhoods and reflecting upon the time here.

My last night in Chicago is spent on the Haymarket Pub & Brewery stage doing BUGHOUSE! And drinking myself stupid on Mathias Ale. 

✶

And that, as they say, is that. 

If you made it all the way down to this sentence and clicked enough half of the links, I applaud you. Writing this freaking tome took me most of the final seven weeks and occupied more of my brain space than most things I can recall. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life in Chicago, a feat that I could never have predicted in 1989. 

Chicago has shaped me, taking the doughy calzone that crashed upon the shores of Lake Michigan and baking me until I was a golden brown with tons of gooey melted cheese and some questionable meat product. While not born here, I can and do call myself a native. A Chicagoan. 

Certainly, I won’t miss the weather — I’m quite certain there is no such thing as dibs or a viable need for shoveling and salting your walk in Las Vegas.  There will be things I will be happy to shed my daily grind of: the incredibly high cost of living, the taxes, the corrupt government, the fucking parking issues, the baked-in tribal mentality of neighborhood cultures, the extreme segregation, the crap school system. Dana and I are riding the crest of a wave of deserters as Chicago continues to bleed residents like she goes through restaurants.

I will, however, miss the grit of the people. I’ll miss the almost blissfully ignorant pride in the city. I’ll miss the transit system that binds us together like arteries and the theater and spoken word scene that blossoms even under the auspices of the interminable social justice rage profiteers. I’ll miss my friends especially those who have stood by through good times and harsh times and, while always challenging me, never gave up on me either. Just like the city. 

There is so much I did not include in this Dear John letter it’s hard to fathom but that’s the nature of something like this. Plenty left out but always stuck to me.

Just like the city.