#gun-grabbers always project

[you-stand-corrected]

No, you actually need to look in a mirror and admit that you’ve purposefully got everything totally and completely ass-backwards.    Not successfully done anywhere. I can justify making that factual claim because all of those countries, compared to themselves earlier, saw exactly zero benefit from those efforts at best. Whether you want to talk about the U.K., Australia, Germany, France, Spain, Japan, Sweden, Finland, etc. etc., it doesn’t matter. None of those countries witnessed any positive changes outside already long-established trends. You’re actually projecting so fucking hard that you’re actually going to sit there and with a straight face tell me that your country, where you live, has benefited in any material way. Nowhere did I even say that Canada doesn’t have any gun control laws or that these United States are the only country in the world, either, not even by the slightest implication.    You are not only insane but you apparently can’t even fucking read.    No, I’m pointing out the fact that you’re a racist. The Second Amendment was actually written to (supposedly) stop the government from infringing upon our right to keep and bear arms. The NRA was actually founded by Union troops to improve marksmanship, and local chapters therefrom actually assembled to train and arm civil rights activists like The Deacons For Defense, which protected Martin Luther King, Jr. All anti-gun attitudes, like yours, are rooted in the desire to murder black Americans. The Tulsa Massacre actually happened because gun-grabbers like you passed laws in nearly every state and territory that disarmed black people. Do you think they would have been able to do that if black people weren’t disarmed by laws passed by racists like you? You insist that guns aren’t needed to protect minorities. Well, there weren’t nearly as many armed blacks ready and able to fight back because of gun-control laws passed by racist white lie-berals like you. The white supremacists were actually able to easily overrun the town because of that. They weren’t able to fight back as effectively as they should have been, because that whole population had been deprived of arms thanks to racists like you. Even if it was illegal for civilians to own guns, those police officers that you falsely claim to distrust would have happily opened their armories to those white supremacists and the result actually would have been exactly the same.    That is THE absolute FINAL word on the subject. You’re done fucking talking. I’m not.  P.S.: You disabled replies because you're a fucking coward, as racists like you tend to be, anyway. Sooner or later, you're going to accept the reality that you're categorically wrong. When -- not if -- you do, you'll laugh at how retarded you sound today. It's only a matter of time. ;) Oh, and if you block me, I win.

Guns are deadly weapons used by civilians and police officers alike to kill people in cold blood EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Gun culture is toxic, unholy and perverse. If you consider gun ownership more important than the lives of men, women and children, you are a monster.

[serendertothesquad]

Seren's Studies: Odd Squad UK -- "Odd Jubilee" Episode Followup, Part 2

And on to Part 2 we march! Will Precinct 97531 get their party? Let's find out below the break!

I honestly can't decide if this guy's part of Animal Control or if he's a trash collector.

Given the context, I'll assume the latter...but when I saw the grabbers my mind went to ACO.

LMAO EVEN T H E Y HATE ERRANDS JUST AS MUCH AS I DO. Bless them. This is the right reaction.

Clearly Alexander Shaw's talent doesn't lie so much in singing as Asha Soetan's talent lies in dancing.

That being said, it's not the most egregious use of AutoTune this franchise has had. The end of "Double O Trouble" takes the rotten cake on that.

(Post-edit note: "The Sandwich Project". Not "Double O Trouble". I was mistaken.)

"This would sound so much better as a Vocaloid song."

-- These two, probably

THE CHEF IS A HAIRSTYLIST?!?!?!

THIS MAN?!?!?!?

T H I S M A N ?!?!?!!?!?!?

I'm not even fucking mad, I'm downright amazed. Where was this non-crippling-overspecialization for Oksana and Olly, hehh???

"Noooo, nooooo. We were, uh...talking about...bathroom stalls. They're not up to ground-reaching code. We have to fix them."

Awwww fuaaaaaaaack, they Miku'd and Kaito'd the damn big shoes!!!

First time hearing the catchphrase and it's a mere "Iiiiit's Orli."

Which, if I think about it like she's watched The Shining a lot, makes it acceptable.

he always spills it down himself

he hasn't been seen with any smoothie stains the entire episode

I get continuity is hardly a thing with this franchise, but can we get a little scene-by-scene consistency? Is that so hard to do or are they stu-

...Well fuck. Clever Chekhov's Gun. I didn't even notice that, and that's saying something!

Did...did he go to sleep with his suit and the key on? Does the De-Saturday-inator change clothes in addition to ridding the victim of the Saturdays? Does it also give them important things like accessories and keys?

I just...I need to know the rules. I'm not cheating. I just wanna know.

Yeah, y'know, I read "Party Agents arrive with a party box" and didn't expect anything less than "party stuff shoots out of a box".

"I guess I knew my partner better than I realized."

This would have been a pretty nice lesson for "O is for Opposite", if Olympia, Otis, and Oona wanted to get to know Oprah better. Problem is, that episode is smack in the middle of the season and that episode isn't about getting to know Oprah better so much as it's about rectifying her mistake.

Ah well, another one for the rewrite pile.

Everything...oh God...everything was going so well until this guy went from smooth dancing to janky shit.

I'm crying, dear God. It's such a beautiful mess.

Putting aside that we have a very awkward cutoff ending in line with what this franchise tends to have...and it's definitely one of the more awkward cutoffs...your credits for this episode. The garbageman/ACO/whatever guy is named Louis, I suppose. Good to know.

---------------------------

Overall, this was an okay episode. I enjoyed it a lot better than "A Dish Served Odd" before it, even if the song was a little...nyehhhh. Wasn't what I expected, but it was decent enough. I'd say "too much AutoTune" but that might be more of a Shaw problem than an editor problem.

Maybe I missed it somewhere in the episode, but I hear Orli's been working at the UK precinct for three months by this point, which is incredibly unrealistic for a 12-episode season. Anime doesn't even have that big of a time gap, not until the end of the show. On top of that, if Orli doesn't know all these things about Ozzie three months in, that's...not a sign of good chemistry between them! At the very least, Olympia had a good idea of what Otis liked a little ways into Season 2, even though there was no definitive timeframe in between, say, "First Day" and "Happy Halfiversary". My guess is that I can chalk it up to Paul also needing to find his footing with this series, though his writing was pretty solid for this episode.

But anyway. With that aside, next followup will be for "The New Ozzie", which also faces a similar problem with the whole "three months" thing. Make it make sense, please, while I at least try to not have a stick up the butt for it.

Seren out!

[entomycetic]

Written tidbits for some weird dwarf OCs under the cut so as to not spam the feed; maybe someday they'll get actual drawings and ref sheets :,)

Engineer (Beetle)

- Makes every solution to every problem Far too complex. Much to R&D's displeasure, he doesn't carry turret packages on the job. Rather, he's created his own RC drones with their own set of close combat melee weapons. The drone is able to project a hologram of a dwarf around itself so as to warn teammates where the drone is in the dark; Engie uses a headset to control the drone, at the cost of losing mobility. Yes I want a melee class how could you tell. No I don't care how impractical it is - Doesn't know what to think of Hoxxes anymore, due to current events brought up below - Is gay for Scout. His absolutely bonkers takes amused him

Scout (Dragonfly)

- A conspiracy theorist to the max, avoided by anyone beyond his crew; slightly comparable to a constantly shaking yet vicious chihuahua. He swears to core and back that DRG is only setting themselves up for a major disaster on Hoxxes, that the disruption of local life and food chains is going to come back to bite them in the ass, quite literally. This guy harbors all my little headcanons and love for Hoxxes' biosphere -...And in this timeline, he turns out to be correct! He and Engie found out in a very unfun way, and barely made it back alive. - Is gay for Engie. Someone finally believed him

Gunner (Spider)

- Will vehemently claim he's the Normal One of the group, and in the same breath will furiously defend his Oops! All Ziplines loadout (BFG, zipline, zipline, zipline, pickaxe). Always some level of grumpy until he has alcohol in hand, acts as if he's team leader (and everyone lets him), teases Scout as a hobby, yet still manages to be the most optimistic of the bunch in even the most dire of situations. He insists that the main reason he stays on this team is because they won't let him take such an R&D unapproved loadout with any "reasonable" team. While true, the amount of shit the team had gone through together forged a bond not even he can deny. - While they had been through plenty else, Gunner had been with Engie and Scout when the Conspiracy Fuckening occurred, but was in a separate part of the cave. While he could hear and feel what the other two were experiencing from so far away, he finds it difficult to believe what he was told went down

Driller (Cricket)

- Until recently, this position was frequently rotated. The vibes of the team were incredibly hard to match, much to Mission Control's torment. - In short, not long after The Incident: Scout would come across a crater in a cave harboring a starving grunt eating at very wounded yet still alive grabber. His bug-sympathizing ass deletes the grunt and successfully convinces the team to help the grabber. By some miracle they sneak it back on board, patch it up, and once they're off duty, Engie cyborgs the hell out of it. ..Only after enough time passes of them getting it to Not immediately attack them with the promise of food. It was first given general limb prosthetics, then experimented on with brain chips, all the way to building the now artificially enlightened beast a dwarf shaped mech suit. It remembered how it was found, now gladly and violently working alongside its team. Mission Control has been gaslit to high hell into believing all the weird shit this thing does is normal dwarf behavior. - As its ability to communicate and understand advances, Scout hopes they can get some insight into the ecology of Hoxxes that goes unnoticed by dwarfkind. For now though, drill go bzzzz and gun go pewpew

[seijch]

futakuchi kenji + gender neutral!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

superhero au, action/fluff with a bit of angst

content warning !! (nongraphic) descriptions of violence, mention of alcohol

14.2k

recommended listening

BY DAY, you attend classes and sling drinks at the campus cafe. By night, you’re known as the Harbinger, an individual with the Gift of shadow and darkness. Your two jobs have never had any reason to collide...not until the appearance of a fellow Gifted by the name of Ace, anyway.

"Your next job is an assassination," says the informant. He's tall, with blond hair going a little unruly in the wind. The real attention grabber, though, is the unblinking third eye that rests on his forehead. You feel his fingers probing at your brain, prying it open to tell you everything you need to know about your next target. This was a commonplace interaction between you; there were eyes and ears everywhere. The landscape of your mind was the safest place for secrets and information.

This time, it's some bigshot CEO allied with the Seijoh Conglomerate. He's trying to curry favor with the much smaller Johzenji Incorporated.

Negotiations are on Saturday, Three-Eyes (you'd never learned his name, not even his alias, and he'd never provided one) tells you. I've given you the location. You should know how to get there.

"Got it," you reply as his grip on your brain recedes. "Anything else?" The young man shrugs.

"The usual. Fly high. Don't fuck up. It'll look bad on all of Karasuno if you did." With that, his figure goes blurry and blips out of sight. Left standing alone at the rendezvous point, you sigh and slip into the darkness, riding the shadows all the way home.

 "Let me guess," Futakuchi says, shifting his gaze from his notepad to you, "a carbonara, extra cheese?"

"You know it." Say what you will about the simple dish, but it's been your favorite ever since the restaurant opened down the street before your first semester of university two years ago. Your eyes trace the brick walls of the small establishment, flit over Futakuchi's back as he enters the kitchen.

Due to its proximity to campus (and more recently, your apartment), you've been a regular patron since its opening. Despite this, though, it was your friendship with Futakuchi (and his employee discount) that kept a broke college student like you coming back for more.

(It started with an economics class you'd both taken in your first semester to raise your respective GPAs. You knew vaguely of each other, never having any reason to interact.

It continued the next semester with a group project for your communications class, once again shared with one Futakuchi Kenji. "Do you want to work together?" had spilled from your lips before you could think it through. You weren't friends. You were barely acquaintances. He was just the only one in the class you felt familiar enough with to ask.

"Sure," he responded. "Let's meet at the cafe close to the quad.")

"Here you go," Futakuchi says, taking you back to the present. "Without you, I'm sure this old place would've gone under months ago," he chuckles, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. He's thanking you, in his own roundabout way.

As always, you play along. "Aw, you'd miss me if I stopped showing up, wouldn't you?" He narrows his eyes at the grin you throw his way. You're sure he's about to hurl some sort of curse your way when an elderly couple walks past.

Schooling his features into something more refined, he gives you (and them) the smile of a saint. "Oh, please," he grits under his breath, "I give you three days tops before you come running back." You're left gaping at him like a fish, scrambling for a response, but nothing comes. His grin widens: he's won this one.

(After weeks' worth of research and countless cups of coffee consumed between you, the project was complete. You'd learned a lot about him — he was an electrical engineering major, played volleyball in high school, thought that Disney's Tangled was nothing short of a cinematic masterpiece — and the easy camaraderie you two had fallen into made your heart skip a beat.

Not that you'd ever admit it to him. He didn't need his ego to grow even bigger, lest his head get too swollen to keep upright. Whenever he walked into the cafe, the very same one you had your first meeting as partners at, to order his stupid chai tea latte, you would be forced to give it to him with a bright smile and held tongue.

You might've swallowed your feelings, but they've always been there, like a flower that had not yet met the right conditions to bloom.)

Saturday comes quickly. The venue is the most opulent hotel in the city, the crown jewel of the entertainment district. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke, a result of the casino located on the first floor. You wrinkle your nose at the smell, darting between shadows to reach the room you're looking for.

Three-Eyes needs to work on his navigational skills, you think. The penthouse suite could've been better reached by taking to the skies and landing on the roof. (Plus, you've always liked the feeling of twisting the thin, watery darkness into wings with which to take flight.) You chalk it up to needing to exercise the utmost caution, and for good reason: there are two armed guards stationed at the door. No way around it.

From around the corner, you send your shadow to strangle one of the guards, sinking incorporeal fingers into his throat. He gargles as his body falls, and you curse as it thuds on the marble floor. The other guard's on full alert now, his gun locked and loaded. He tries to move, to look for the assailant, but he can't: you've pinned his shadow where it stands.

Inky black tendrils make their way to the guard, his eyes widening. You wonder, dimly, what he must think. The thoughts people have before their lives end at your hands has always been a point of speculation for you.

Not that you ever give them much time to think; it's a small mercy, to kill someone swiftly. You may be a criminal, but you’re far from a sadist.

You crack the door open, catch a glimpse of the scene inside.

The target's running his mouth, his glass of red wine coming close to spilling with each flourish of his hands. They're decorated with gaudy rings, each outfitted with a flashy gem. A small staffing of guards watches the scene, all stone-faced and no doubt better trained than the goons you took out less than two minutes ago.

The room's nice, furnishing sleek and minimalist. It's also well-lit, bringing a frown to your face. You were at your most effective when it was dark as pitch, but the cogs turn in your head as you formulate a plan.

What intrigues you the most, however, is the young man standing behind your target. His mask covers his eyes, as though he were attending a masquerade ball and not overseeing a critical business deal. It's outfitted with...card suits. One side the spade, the other the heart, with the club and diamond in the middle. His stance is relaxed, bored, even. You're not sure who he is; Three-Eyes didn't tell you about this. He must be a new addition, you think. He's not armed. Is he Gifted, like you?

Doesn't matter. The modern chandelier above does well to light the room, but you find purchase in the shadow of a stool on the kitchen island. You leap into it, molding yourself to the darkness as you lie in wait.

"Those are the terms and conditions of our deal," the CEO from Seijoh finishes, lacing his fingers together as he leans back in his chair. "Do you have any questions?" The Johzenji representative opens his mouth, but you're only half aware of his response.

Fact: When you're assuming the form of another shadow, you can't send your own to do your bidding.

Fact: Making this quick and easy isn't possible.

Fact: Confrontation is inevitable.

Fact: You have a bad feeling about the man in the mask.

That being said, you wouldn't have gotten this far in Karasuno if you were afraid to get your hands dirty, whether you liked it or not.

In a single instant, you emerge from hiding and trap the masked man's shadow before he can spring into action. All eyes are on you, but before the CEO can sputter commands, you send an appendage of darkness to pierce his chest. He gurgles, blood spilling from his mouth, before he slumps into the chair. The red wine spills all over the plush carpet, seeping in to stain.

The guards launch into action, forming a protective circle around the Johzenji representative. They're all aiming for you.

Perfect.

Before they open fire, you lock yourself in a barrier. The shots, as you predicted, ricochet and knock out some of the lights from the chandelier. Once the roar of gunfire ceases, you force the barrier outward to skewer your attackers.

They choke, last cries strained as their bodies fall to the ground. You scan the room, all shattered glass and bleeding bodies. Well. I should clean this up a little before I leave. You don’t dwell on the thought for too long, though; there’s still one person left on the floor.

The masked man's stayed perfectly still and silent throughout this whole encounter. (Of course he would; he wouldn't be able to move, even if he tried.) "You're good," he remarks as you close in on him. "It's just a shame," he tuts, sidestepping—sidestepping?—your attack, "that I'm better." He's broken from your hold, somehow, and is out the window (when did it open?) before you can get a hold of him.

"Don't take it personally," he calls after you. "You were just unlucky." You curse under your breath; Three-Eyes is not gonna like this. You shackle the Johzenji representative to the ground, looking down at him as he quivers in fear.

"Well then," you sigh, cutting your losses, "why don't you tell me all about this deal Johzenji is making with Seijoh, hm?"

There was a young man with the Seijoh CEO, you tell Three-Eyes, though you know he's long since sifted through your memories of last night to know. I don't know if he was Gifted or not.

We have no record of him. When we meet tomorrow, I'll give you a supplement that will let you temporarily see who around you is Gifted. Take it before your next mission.

You make the mistake of letting your mind wander, and curse his stupid psychic Gift when he adds, tone bone-dry, No, not a suppository. Supplements are taken orally. He releases his hold on you and you swear you see him shake his head at your train of thought.

(Really, it's not your fault the two words were so closely related; as much as you've given to this second job of yours, you weren't ready to insert anything odd into your most personal crevices.)

"Meet in the usual place tomorrow. I'll also be giving you the details of your next mission." That's all he says before teleporting away. You glance at your phone, color rushing out of your face in record time.

"Fuck!" You fling open the service door of the campus cafe, retying your apron as you rush in. Cramming the cash from Three-Eyes into your bag, you rejoin your boss on the floor. He's chewing you out, and just as well: you've extended your fifteen-minute break to something akin to a twenty-five.

You're only half listening. Instead, you're replaying the events of last night, the man in the mask the only thing on your mind.

No one’s ever broken free before. You’re staring at your hands, clenching and unclenching them in the motion to trap a shadow. How did he do it?

"You in for a long night?" you ask Futakuchi, setting his chai latte on the table. He's come during dinner hours, rendering the cafe mostly empty.

"Yeah. The professors in my department have been working us to the bone." He stops to take a sip, nodding in appreciation. "I mean, I get it. Top five engineering school and all. But shit," he huffs as you wipe down a nearby table, "I feel like I can't catch my breath." You clean the store as he rolls his shoulders, a brief break before his fingers fly over the keys of his laptop. It's companionable, the lo-fi tunes from the speakers the only real sound.

(You were no stranger to all-nighters with Futakuchi by your side. In fact, that was the only way your project could have ever reached completion.

"College is not what I expected it to be," he'd groaned one night, the two of you holed up in a corner of the library. It was getting late: you're sure the staff was going to kick you out any second now. You looked up from your laptop to see him with his head in his hands, tablet pen still between his fingers.

In truth, you'd also been hoping for more of an opportunity to let loose. This was supposed to be the time of your life, the transitory period between what remained of your youth and true adulthood. Instead, you'd spent all your time at work, in lecture, or working with Futakuchi on this damn presentation.

None of those things were inherently bad, but they certainly weren't in line with the more...entertaining college lifestyle you'd envisioned yourself leading. To sympathize, you'd told him as much, garnering a laugh as he agreed with you.

"Well,“ he’d looked at you then, eyes hooded with drowsiness, “at least we're in it together."

Your heart leaped to your throat, and you fumbled over your reply. "Who said I was going to stick around?" It sounded less like a verbal jab and more of a stab in the dark.

"And here I thought you enjoyed the mutually beneficial relationship we had," he lamented, a hand on his chest in mock hurt. "Never again will I let you use my employee discount." You'd kicked his shin under the table and told him to get back to work.

When you'd gotten home that night, those seven words had kept you awake, tossing and turning. You were brought together out of necessity, after all; who's to say that he'd stick around once the shackles of obligation were broken?)

The amount of light pollution in the city has never done your powers good, rendering the sky almost starless, but you'll be damned if it doesn't look amazing from above. You land at the top of the old clock tower, the building standing only because of its history. It's a relic in a city bustling with modernity, and you find solace in the low ticks and tocks as the seconds pass into minutes. 

You watch cars race by, blips of color moving in the cityscape. You'd met with Three-Eyes earlier to receive the supplement (he'd reminded you once more to take it orally) and the location of your next mission. Your head still buzzes when you shake it, his influence not so easily forgotten.

Your wings drip with liquid shadow; when you'd first come into your Gift, you had been surprised at the almost milky texture of the dark. You're stretching them out, practicing your control, when you're interrupted.

"Huh," he says. "I wasn't expecting to see you here." Before he finishes his sentence, you've bound him from the neck down in an uncomfortable sort of straitjacket. You tighten your hold; he's not getting away this time.

"Good evening to you too," he grins. "How rude of myself to not even properly introduce myself," he barrels on before you can get a word in edgewise. "They call me Ace." His voice is casual, like he's meeting with a friend and not tied up in front of someone who wants to kill him.

You've turned the wings at your back into razor-sharp edges that itch to skewer his poor body. One of them grazes his Adam's apple, and he tilts his head up in defiance, looking down on you. "So you're Gifted?" It's barely a question, but one you figure you should ask regardless. As much as you’d love to skip to the part where he lies motionless on the floor, the idea of never scratching that itch, never getting the answers you’ve been wanting since you first met leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

"What do you think?" he asks, placid smile pasted on his lips. In the blink of an eye, he's wriggled out of your binding—how? "Pretty good, if I do say so myself," he preens at his accomplishment. You make to end him once and for all, answers be damned, but he dodges every spike that comes his way. He clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth in disapproval, leaping out of the way of a particularly nasty advance that pierces the floor. "I introduce myself, act nothing but cordial, and this is the thanks I get?" He lets loose a long-suffering sigh that only pisses you off.

"Not like it matters. I already know who you are." You try to close the distance, but he's quick to widen the gap. "The Harbinger...did you come up with that one yourself? It's a nice name, for sure. A bit vague, if anything, but oh so frightening." He's overcome with fake emotion, the end of his sentence condescending. He has the nerve to talk down to you, and you return it by pinning his shadow before he can run away again.

You're almost there. He's within reach, but your foot gets stuck in the hole you'd made trying to get to him. You curse, the sound guttural as it comes from the back of your throat. "Darn," he simpers, throwing in a pitying snap as you yank your foot out. "You almost got me there too. Unfortunately for you," he shrugs, once again free from your grip on his shadow, "I'm getting bored. Do better.” If being such an insufferable asshole was a real Gift, you’re sure Ace would be among the first to manifest it.

"Well,” he says, voice closing the door on the interaction, “'til next time, Harbinger." Before you can even try to get to him again, he's gotten a running start. Your eyes widen as he jumps from what must be a terminal height to the nearest building—and lands it.

Ace? Three-Eyes asks, once again in your head. Do you know what his Gift is? He's rewatching your encounter with him, and you ignore his snide comments about how easily he managed to wipe the floor with you.

No clue. He didn't attack me. The admission causes Three-Eyes' eyebrows to raise as he plays the encounter over again, looking at it through a new lens. Frankly, you're getting tired of seeing your ass get kicked. Definitely a slippery bastard. He's probably working for Seijoh.

We'll send an agent to do recon on their Gifted. This could just be an independent. Seijoh was fond of attracting Gifted to their cause, promising wealth in exchange for power. Three-Eyes seems satisfied with what he's seen, and you shiver as he returns your mind to you. No matter how many times he does it, you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling.

"At any rate," he throws over his shoulder, "don't fuck up tonight."

Seijoh is awfully fond of glitz and glamor, and it shows: the charity banquet is decorated to the nines. A part of you longs to participate, but you're here to gather information, to play the part of the fly on the wall. The waitstaff glides across the floor in a dance of service, offering champagne and hors d'oeurves alike to the chattering elite.

Take the tablet thirty minutes before you enter, Three-Eyes had told you. Once it kicks in, any Gifted should glow orange at the edges. A memory through the eyes of a stranger had entered your mind then, and in it you saw Three-Eyes outlined in neon orange, the edges softly blurred.

Sneaking in is much easier this time, a shadow creeping far enough past the door that you can slip in without a hitch. You're prepared to assess whatever shady deals Seijoh is setting up this time, but you see a man near the door stiffen. He's glowing orange at the edges, and you swallow. The man is big, with a shock of white hair. Leaning against the wall next to him is Ace, the orange outline bleeding in the space between the two Gifted.

"Harbinger," the unfamiliar face says, voice deep. You blanch, holding your breath as he turns to face you. He's fast for his size, head whipping in the direction you move to, taking the form of a different shadow. The guard detail tonight, armed to the teeth, focuses their aim where you hide.

This is bad. Gunfire claws against your ears, and you leap out of the shadow to put up a barrier before they tear you apart. Glass shatters. A lightbulb goes off in your head, feeling deja vu tug at the corners of your brain. You break into a sprint.

The security detail picks up on your plan, aiming one step ahead of you as you run to the now broken window. From the corner of your eye, you see one such bullet speeding towards you.

It feels like the world around you slows down, like you can see each detail of the dusky yellow metal as it hurtles to the point of impact. 

This is it, isn’t it?

The bullet will lodge itself (or worse, pass through) your midsection. This opulent room will be where you meet your end. They’ll clean up your body, mop up the blood. The cleaning staff is going to have their work cut out for them, you think.

You wonder if time slows for each of your victims before you take them out. You regret not being quicker about it; you thought you were doing them a service, but this? This is nothing but agony.

All you can do is keep moving. Your feet are heavy as one moves in front of the other.

The world returns to its normal pace.

Your momentum carries you forward. The bullet is off by what must be millimetres, grazing your back. You leap out of the window.

The last thing you see as you fly away is Ace's eyes on yours, heart hammering against your ribcage.

Three-Eyes has never been the most expressive nor the most emotional, so to feel the fury rolling off him in waves stuns you silent. "You failed the mission?" he asks. It's a rhetorical question, of course; he's seen your memories. Multiple times. "You had a job to do, and you...what?" His voice stays even, but the eye that rests at the center of his forehead trembles slightly.

He exhales. His third eye stills once again.

"Look," he reasons. "I know you're pretty new around here, but the higher-ups demand results. You cannot fail. Keep that in mind next time we meet."

Your informant leaves after that, phasing out of your sight. Your failure probably reflects poorly on him, too; you've never met the higher-ups, the head honchos of Karasuno, but you figure they must be forces of nature. Shame washes over you as you return home.

For the first time since you joined Karasuno, you don't return home with an envelope of cash.

“I feel like I’m seeing more of you these days.” Futakuchi sighs when you call him out, raising his hands in surrender.

“There’s a paper due at the end of the month. My GPA can’t take it if I fall behind, so I asked them to cut my hours at the restaurant.” He’s had impeccable grades since the day you met, but you figure they weren’t entirely borne of natural aptitude. You, on the other hand, have been taking on more shifts in an attempt to offset the cost of failing your last mission.

One paycheck from Karasuno was almost twice as much as you made at your day job. You close your eyes, see rent’s due date glaring at you. Three-Eyes was right. There can’t be any more fuck ups; you literally cannot afford it.

“Well,” you hand him his latte (he’d only admitted it once, but you were the one who made his order the best), “you’ve come to the right place.”

It's been getting colder recently. The chilly night air nips at your skin, sends goosebumps up your arms.

"I get it, this is a nice lookout spot," Ace says, jolting you out of your reverie. "But really? Once was bad enough. Imagine if I found you here while I was on the clock." You don't immediately move to kill him, so he stands a respectable distance away.

"On the clock? For Seijoh?"

"Who's to say?" he deflects.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It can mean whatever you want it to. Just because I'm seen with Seijoh doesn't have to mean I'm working with them." He says that, but his presence alongside some of Seijoh's bigwigs begs to differ. "At the end of the day, I'm just some guy with a mask on, right?"

"No."

He laughs, incredulous. "No? Are you denying it?" He taps his mask, the ornamentation of the spade shifting beneath his touch. "The evidence is right there, isn't it?"

"I meant that you're not just some guy." When you swallow, it's heavy. You've started having nightmares about that day, ones where you don't make it out alive. You were so sure the bullet would connect...until it didn't hit at all.

More than anything, you remember the look he gave you as you ran away. It's that gaze that makes an appearance behind your eyelids every night. You've given up on trying to piece it together by now.

"Aww." Ace tilts his head, pursing his lips in sarcastic affection. "You sure know how to make a guy feel special, don't you?" You (once again) start to wish you'd killed him where he stood.

Instead, you say, "What did you do?" He gives you yet another look you can't decipher, another thing to mull over alone in your room under cover of darkness.

"Who knows?" he shrugs, avoiding a straight answer once again. "Maybe you just got lucky. Why do you assume I had something to do with it?"

(He has a point; all you have to go off of is a look and a feeling. You hate that he's right.)

The only noise at this point is the steady tick-tock of the clock tower and the breeze passing by, a gentle tap on your shoulder, a kiss on your cheek. You don't respond, soaking in his words. He could be lying. He could also be telling the truth.

You're not sure which you'd like to hear more.

"You said you were off the clock," you say after the silence has set in long enough to change the topic. He nods, gaze focused on the few cars on the road below. "I take it whatever...arrangement you have with Seijoh isn't permanent."

"Is work all you talk about? Man, I hope you're not this much of a stick in the mud behind the mask."

That hits a nerve. "I'll have you know I am very pleasant beneath the mask," you defend. He smirks, casting a sideways glance in your direction.

"I'll believe it when I see it, Harbinger."

“Okay, be honest,” you begin, shutting the menu with a snap (as if you even read it). “Am I...uptight?”

Kenji inhales sharply, taking your menu with careful fingers. You’re well aware you’ve just dropped him in a minefield, but you watch him squirm with serious eyes. Ace’s words from the night before ring in your ears, and you’re itching to prove him wrong.

Poorly equipped to answer the question at hand, Kenji instead asks, “...You sure you want me to be honest?” He yelps when you aim to whack him with a roll of complimentary bread. “You were the one who asked!”

“You’re supposed to be a good friend!” you hiss between bites of another dinner roll.

“You asked me to be honest! What was I supposed to do?” he sputters. “Lie?” Kenji confiscates the roll of bread, uttering a mocking hum when you whine.

“Yes!” He doesn’t bother replying, muttering under his breath as he takes your order—and your makeshift weapon—to the kitchen.

You'd think that a business conglomerate with its fingers deep in the city's underbelly would do a better job at hiding confidential files. You guess Seijoh's got bigger fish to fry. Not that you're complaining, of course; this only makes your job easier.

(We've done extensive recon on this location, Three-Eyes had informed you. He was still tense with the knowledge of your last fuck-up, but you were given a mission regardless. It's where they keep their records of the Gifted in their system, hired or not.)

The job, for once, is simple. Get in. Collect the files Three-Eyes had drilled into your brain. Get the fuck out.

(Just watch out. They have this guy running point on their security. In your memory was the image of a man, hair dyed blond save for the twin black stripes running parallel lines around his head.

He...kinda looks like a bumblebee, you'd thought, hoping to draw a laugh from your informant. It didn't work. His jaw had hardened, and his eyes—unfortunately, not the third one—had rolled.

They call him the Mad Dog. If you see him, do not engage. His Gift—if you can call it that—is the ability to break bones and pop blood vessels with a single touch. Okay, yikes. You'd breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of examples Three-Eyes had given; he was often very thorough, but you were grateful he'd refrained from providing a visual this time.)

To his credit, Three-Eyes' navigation skills are getting better. Getting to the archives poses no problem, the office completely dark. If you got into a fight, you were almost certain you’d come out on top.

The only catch is the dozens of the drawers you'll have to open to find the files you're looking for. With a sigh, you fish out the small flashlight given to you by Three-Eyes the last time you were tasked with recon.

(I should also warn you, Three-Eyes said, that you might be terminated if you fail this mission. We won't kill you or anything like that, he'd assured you when you'd flinched. At least, I don't think so. But your memories of this time will be erased entirely from your mind.

His gaze was devoid of any levity, any mercy. I can put things in your head no problem, but I make no promises to be gentle if I have to take them away.)

You're thumbing through the files of the independents Seijoh has hired when you see not one, but two faces you recognize.

The first is the large man with the white hair that had managed to sniff you out from the shadows. His real name is redacted, the same as every other report, but you catch a glimpse of his designation. Bloodhound Unit 1-A. Fitting. You'd already collected the files of other members of Seijoh's bloodhounds; this was the last one on your list.

They all possessed similar enough Gifts, in the end: the ability to locate Gifted whenever they used their powers.

The second file you recognize is Ace, pictured in all his masked glory with a shit-eating grin. You stop to read this one; it’s not every day you learn the ins and outs of the biggest pain in your ass to date.

Gifted #1110 has the ability to manipulate the probability of events (moderate effect), the classification reads. This makes him uniquely suited to an escort position for negotiations with other companies.

That explains why you've only seen him around officials. You trace your encounters back to the beginning, to all his comments about luck. He'd escaped you because he'd willed it, forced the hands of fate in his favor.

This casts the events of your last mission under a different light: he let you live.

Why?

You take both reports, the last two files needed, and make your escape.

It’s midnight. The clock tower rings out behind you to welcome the new hour, but you’re not paying much attention. Bouncing around in your mind like an old computer’s screensaver is the project due at the end of the month and the need to confront Ace about what exactly happened the night of your last mission.

You're about to call it a night and leave the clock tower when he appears. "Why is it that every time I come here to think, you show up?"

"I wasn't aware you were capable of cognizant thought," you fire back.

"Wow. Okay. Low blow." You manage an indignant laugh from him. "And especially rich, might I add, considering I'm the one who's come out on top every time we've crossed paths."

You don’t bother beating around the bush; you’ve waited too long to engage in his verbal sparring matches. "You really are a lucky bastard, aren't you?" It's not a question. He grins in response, as if you’ve passed a test.

"Took you long enough to notice. I was beginning to worry I'd have to spell it out for you."

Your meetings at the clock tower become routine. Ace shows up at midnight, you notice, fond of startling you as the tower rings.

("Are you stalking me or something?" you'd asked at the start. "Is your friend with the white hair sniffing me out so you can work up the courage to ask me out on a proper date?"

He laughed at that longer than was really appropriate, long enough for you to wonder what could possibly be so bad about posing yourself as a dating prospect. Second occupation aside, you were a catch and a half, and you were about to let him know when he caught his breath enough to reply. "Don't flatter yourself, Harbinger," he wheezed. "If anything," he'd sniffed, now nonchalant, "I should be asking you that question."

"What was it you just said?" You tapped your chin, coming to a realization, "Oh. Don't flatter yourself," you replied flatly. At this point, he was standing next to you. You'd turned to look at him, then. Not to look in the way you'd done several times before, but to really look at your...enemy?

You didn't know what to call him. Live saver might have been accurate, but you would rather have taken the bullet than call him that to his face. You weren't friends, nor were you enemies—not right now, anyway.

You didn't know what to make of this in-between you've found yourselves in, this space between hate and friendship.)

To throw a wrench into things even further, you find that he looks...handsome in the low light. You add the thought to the growing list of things you'd be quicker to take to your grave than admit to him.

(There was truth to the statement, though. You couldn't make out all of his face, of course, but the slicked back hair paired with a strong jaw looked promising enough. It's not like he was spindly either, body all lean muscle. You'd been staring for much longer than was considered socially acceptable, and he'd noticed. "Like what you see?"

"Not at all," you'd lied.

The worst part had been the fact that checking Ace out—sizing him up—wasn't on your list of regrets. What it was on was your laundry list of things regarding Ace that you couldn't wrap your head around.)

You learn things about him, things you'd sooner learn about a normal person instead of someone you seek to kill half the time.

He likes dogs.

(“I had one back in junior high. When I move out of the city and into a real house, I think I’ll adopt one of the same breed.” He’d shuddered before continuing. “I could never get one of those small dogs, though. All bark and no bite.”

“I think they’re a perfect fit for you,” you told him.

“Oh, ha ha. Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one on a losing streak.”)

He spends an inordinate amount of money on candy.

("You should see my pantry," he laughed. "I used to really like those like…” he was talking with his hands, gesturing in the air, “sour gummy worms back in high school. I guess the habit of buying them never wore off."

"I’m surprised you don’t have cavities."

"Please. My dentist loves me.")

He refuses to admit to crying when Mufasa died in The Lion King.

("So what if I was five?" he'd huffed, crossing his arms. "That's no excuse.")

It's humanizing.

It's concerning.

Now, when you look at Ace, you no longer see an unexpected roadblock, the joker being put into play. You begin to agree with what he told you weeks ago: he really was just some guy in a mask.

You begin to wonder when you became so quick to agree with him.

Your fork twirls around the pasta, you and Kenji sitting cross-legged on your carpet as a Marvel movie plays.

You'd been the one to suggest a celebration, having made it out of midterms alive. He'd agreed, bringing over some of your favorites from the restaurant after his shift.

The movie is good (though Kenji's uncanny ability to chime in during emotional scenes makes your eye twitch, just a little), the food even better. Before you know it, both of you are blinking bleary eyes awake in the morning light.

"What time is it?" you mutter, hand slapping the surface of the coffee table you'd fallen asleep on in an attempt to find your phone. Kenji rolls his head around in a circle, trying to ease the crick in his neck.

"Too early. Maybe around eight," he yawns, trying to once again make himself comfortable on the couch and go back to sleep.

You, on the other hand, have never been more awake in your life. When you find your phone, you find that he's right—it's almost eight. Your shift starts at nine. At this time of day, it takes half an hour to get to work.

"Shit," you curse, forcing your half-asleep body to move and do as much damage control as you can manage. "I have work in an hour. You can leave now if you want, but you gotta be out when I am."

"Nah, I'll give you a ride. My place is in that direction anyway." There's something about the way he says it, his voice a touch deeper with the morning and the way it rolls off his tongue like he's said it a million times, that makes your heart clench. There's not enough time to dwell on it, so you let him stay while you get ready for the day.

(Somewhere, deep in the pit of your stomach, that same seed of infatuation you'd swallowed months ago threatens to sprout.)

The name Ace, as it turns out, is one he came up with himself.

"You really couldn't have come up with anything better?" you ask. "It's a nice name. A bit vague, sure," you parrot the words from your first meeting as Ace narrows his eyes at you, unimpressed, "but oh so frightening." Emboldened by his confession and greedy in the light of your victory, you tilt his chin to meet your gaze head on.

The touch is electrifying, like a spark igniting for the first time in a brilliant flame. You force it to fizzle out as quick as it came, hand drawing back in shock.

These midnight meetings have changed your dynamic with Ace. It's delicate, like a house of cards that stacks higher and higher with each encounter. You worry that the slightest deviation from what's been established might send the whole thing crashing down.

"The people at Karasuno were the ones who named me," you fumble, trying to defuse the tension. "They saw me flying when I was still learning what I was and offered to take me in."

Almost a year ago, you'd been discovered by two boys. It was embarrassing, in hindsight: you crashed into the taller one, leading to the other doubled over in laughter.

You learned that their names were Kageyama and Hinata, and they were pretty new to this whole Gifted thing, too. You haven’t seen much of them recently; once you three “graduated,” for lack of a better term, into full-time operatives, you often found yourself flying solo.

"So what?" Ace asks. "You just joined a criminal organization?"

"I didn't know it was Karasuno at first," you snap. "Not until it was too late. But I'm here now. Money is money."

"You could've just..." he lets the words hang in the air, trying to find the best response. "I don't know." Instead, he asks a different question: "Would you have joined Seijoh or done something else if not for Karasuno?"

"What difference does it make?" you ask. "When you break it down, we're the same. Our Gift manifested, so we joined the first organization willing to pay us enough in exchange for being the ones to do their dirty work. Besides," you huff, head tilted to try and find any hint of starlight in the night sky, "I'd be doing exactly what I do now if I was with Seijoh."

"...You don't sound very pleased about that."

"Yeah?" Your laugh is humorless as you chew on your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be doing this at all if I could afford it. This all started because I wanted to get in touch with my Gift and learn more about it." You bring up a web of darkness, warping it into different shapes in a show of control. "Just so happens they help me with my rent enough that I don't have to live paycheck to paycheck."

He's pensive, nodding along with your words. "You know, we should bring drinks up here sometime. I think we both need a break. You from your rent, me from my tuition deadlines. How 'bout it?"

Despite yourself, you reply, "Yeah. I'd like that." 

(Even worse is the fact that you don't think you want this to be an empty promise.)

You're at the clock tower again. The routine's stabilized into a weekly affair; it's unspoken between you two to meet on Friday nights, right as the day rolls over into Saturday morning. "Do you remember our last conversation?" Ace asks.

"About how you still owe me drinks?" Your legs are dangling over the edge of the tower, knocking against Ace's feet as the world whizzes below you.

"I thought it would be a potluck-style affair. We did establish that we're both broke, right? Why are you making me buy everything?"

"Wasn't my idea to get drunk with someone I've tried to kill," you offer. "Multiple times. I figured Seijoh's dirty money would be more than enough to afford a pack of shitty beer."

"If I'm going to drink with someone that's tried to kill me," for your benefit, he tacks on, "multiple times, I'm going to make it good. But that wasn't the part of the conversation I was talking about."

"Then what was?"

His shoulders tense, almost imperceptibly. You wouldn't catch it if you weren't sitting next to him. "Do you ever wonder..." He's reticent with his next words, as though they're better unspoken, "what would've happened if we worked together?"

"If this is some ploy to get me to join your so-called good side," you drawl, throwing up some jazz hands, "I'm afraid it won't work. We've been over this: it wouldn't make any difference."

"No," he says. He's not looking at you, but rather at the full moon that smiles at you from above. "I mean like...a world where it's always like this." He bumps his shoulder against yours, and you become hyperaware of the lack of space between you.

(When did it lessen? You could layer your hand over his, if you so pleased. Are his fingers calloused, are they warm?)

You force the thoughts back into the dark corner of your mind from which they came. "Don't go falling for me," you warn. (You're not sure who you're warning, exactly, but it's a warning nonetheless.) "You should know by now I won't be around to catch you."

His gaze is somewhere far away when he says, "I know."

There's a warm mug in your hands and a show you're barely watching on TV. You're alone, bundled in your comfiest blankets. You and Kenji had scheduled a movie night, but you had cancelled on him, citing your neverending pile of assignments as an excuse.

Somehow, seeing him hours after being with Ace feels wrong.

You take the day to unpack everything about Ace you normally save for the wee hours of the night, when your heart still races as you return home from the clock tower. Your eyes are glazed over as you analyze his every word, every action, try your best to read between the lines.

Then it hits you.

Why bother reading so much into it? Why expend so much energy into trying to figure him out?

It's not like—

Oh.

The realization of your feelings for your sort-of enemy isn't a loud affair, not at all like glass shattering or the freefall felt after leaping out of broken windows. It's quiet, almost unnervingly so.

Taking a sip of your drink, you step into this newfound truth as though it were your favorite pair of pants.

Here's the problem with this new truth: you're pretty sure that being in love with a member of Seijoh is off-limits.

"You'd think that in a city this big, we wouldn't be seeing so much of each other," he quips. Why is he always where you want to be? It had been annoying (until it wasn't), but on this fine Wednesday night, you’d wanted anything but to see him. 

"And here I was, trying to find someplace new." Instead of the clock tower you'd both made your unspoken rendezvous point, you've come across Ace atop a skyscraper.

"Aww, I thought we were friends." Is that what he thinks? You're not sure if that's a testament to the change in your relationship or a confession just shy of what you really want.

(But is this what you want? A life of secrecy and hidden eyes?)

Ace pats the space next to him, motioning for you to come sit. You don't move. You worry that if you do, all the things you’re keeping hidden will come tumbling out unbidden.

(Would it be so bad if it did?)

"I'm fine here," you squeak. Your voice is meek, only serving to raise suspicion.

"...Are you okay?"

(What are you supposed to say to that? That you think you're in love with him when you barely know him, don't even know what he looks like? Are you supposed to tell him that even though you're on opposing sides, his eyes are the ones that haunt your dreams? How do you convey that all you could ever want is for things to stay like this, the city cloaked in perpetual night with Ace at your side and in your heart?)

There aren't any words in the English language that could get the point across.

He draws closer, as if magnetized to you. If words can't do it, maybe actions can.

You don’t think. You don’t speak.

All you do is yank the collar of his shirt towards you, crashing your lips against his. The house of cards you two had so delicately put together is lit aflame, but in this single selfish moment, you have no regrets.

You pour gasoline all over everything you know, tilting your head to take as much of Ace as he's willing to give.

(He pulls you flush against him, and later on you'll try to puzzle out how much of his reaction was instinct and how much of him was wanting for this, for you. For now, you're more than content to burn against him, with him. You take his bottom lip between your teeth and pull.)

“I think I did something stupid,” you groan, head in your hands as Kenji scrawls your order onto his notepad. You’re his last customer, but he doesn’t bother pulling out his finest Food Service Voice for you, not when you’re like this.

“What happened this time?” His question only elicits another drawn-out groan as you drag your hands down the sides of your face. “Yikes. That bad?” Returning to his notepad, he mumbles, “Extra cheese,” adding it to your order.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Kenji, to his credit, doesn’t push the issue.

The food is good, as always. It distracts you a bit from the crippling weight of what you’d done not even twenty-four hours ago. You even find it in yourself to give a heftier tip than usual.

And somehow, that’s enough.

For now.

Your next meeting with Ace is awkward, to say the least. 

The haze of desire that plagued your mind that night has cleared, and you're left to face the consequences of your actions. The stars above twinkle and titter in equal parts at your embarrassment.

He's waiting for you at the clock tower. A change of pace, considering midnight is a ways off.

"Fancy seeing you here." You're trying for normalcy, but it comes out forced.

"What can I say?" There's no wind tonight, and that only serves to charge the energy between you further. "I guess we're just drawn to each other." The accuracy of that statement sinks in, and you gnaw at the inside of your cheek as you roll it around in your head.

"About last night—" comes out of your mouth at the same time as "Listen, what happened—" comes out of his.

Nobody speaks. You're reminded of one of the first nights you spent with him here, the silence almost companionable. Tonight, it's oppressive, suffocating you with its iron grip.

"So...are you okay?"

"Am I?"

"I mean, I guess not. You didn't answer the question last time."

"I did answer it," you defend hotly, stiffening as the words spill from your mouth. Way to go, you grimace. You've done a bang-up job bringing up the one thing you were trying to avoid. Ace shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Do we...wanna talk about it?" he asks, giving a tentative poke at the elephant in the room.

"Good question." You're looking at the ground, eyes catching against the hole from your very first meeting here. "You seem to be full of those lately."

"Thank you," he replies, on autopilot. For a moment, it's like nothing's changed, the house of cards still standing. "I try my best." There’s another lull in the conversation. You’re not even looking at him anymore, instead finding much to observe about the hole you’d made a month ago.

Fuck it. You've already dug yourself six feet under—you might as well force yourself all the way to rock bottom. "You know that this," you gesture between you, "can't happen, right? You don't even know who I am."

"You seem to neglect the fact that I might want to." Not for the first time, you curse his ability to parry even your worst remarks. Right. Your heart flutters, a betrayal of the highest order.

"You seem to neglect the fact that when you're on the clock, we're at each other's throats."

He grins. "Maybe."

"Are you always this irritating underneath the mask?"

At some point in the conversation, he's come to stand one breath away. "Why don't you find out?" he whispers against your lips as he closes the distance once more.

You're seething, knuckles gone white as you clench your fists at your sides. You're not the only one pissed: Three-Eyes is about to pop a blood vessel, a vein bulging on his forehead. Whatever you think you're doing needs to stop. He plays your exchanges with Ace over, sneers when he sees you kiss like it were gum caught beneath his shoe. There are more important things than...this. 

You might have the worst informant in all of Karasuno, forced to watch as he skims through the month of private memories you'd tried to keep under lock and key. This was supposed to be a quick meeting to receive the details of your next job, but it seems he had caught wind of what you had been so eager to hide.

What you're doing endangers not only Karasuno, but you especially. There are fates worse than termination and much worse than death, he reminds you. There’s an undercurrent to his words, both a warning and a threat. See to it that you change your behavior before your next job.

"For the record," he says, quick to leave your mind, disgusted by what he's seen, "I kinda liked you. Shame you won't remember that if I have to wipe your memory clean."

He's gone before you can respond.

"You look like you just got broken up with," Kenji remarks as you shovel pasta in your mouth. When your only response is a withering glare, his voice softens. "Alright, what's going on? 

"It's nothing," you lie. You're at the restaurant to eat your sorrows away, but the reason why is a can of worms you can't exactly afford to be forthcoming about. Explaining exactly what mess landed you halfway to sobbing with each bite you take to Kenji of all people would only end with you behind bars for all you've done. "I'll be okay, I just...really needed some pasta."

He doesn't look like he buys it, but he backs off. It's a half victory you're more than willing to take. "If you do need help, you know who to call." You nod, unable to respond with your mouth full.

When it's time for you to pay, Kenji emerges from the kitchen to tell you that just this once, your meal is on him.

Kenji's taking his break, sitting right across from you as if he hadn't been waiting your table less than five minutes ago. (His manager had shouted for him to take his break in the back, but Kenji, it seems, has long since mastered the art of selective hearing.) He doesn't say much, scrolling through his Instagram feed while you eat. You continue in relative silence, the only real noise being the sound of your fork against your plate. 

You're more than halfway done with your meal when he pipes up. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

He rolls his eyes at you, locking his phone and putting it down. "Ha ha. Very funny. I'll be in the front row of all your stand-up comedy shows," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Thank you," you reply with a smile. "Anything for my number one fan." He pulls a face. "What did you want to talk about?"

Despite being the one to start the conversation, he's clamming up. "Forget it," he says, eyes focused on the people passing by outside rather than on you. "It's not important, anyway. Just some relationship troubles," he lets slip.

"Oh?" you ask. You're in much of the same boat, though you suspect that Kenji, at least, has met someone that he can reasonably be with. "What's wrong?"

"I'm with someone right now," he blurts before he can think it through. "Or I mean...sorta with someone."

"What does 'sorta with someone' mean?"

"I mean...we see each other every now and again, but our relationship's never been clearly defined. I know the feeling is mutual, but there are some," he gestures with his hands, "obstacles stopping us from being together."

"Like?" Kenji's never come to you with anything like this before, but he's being rather secretive about this whole affair.

"We're not...meant to be together?" He doesn't sound sure of that answer himself, considering his wince. "That's not right. There are just...a lot of factors stopping us from being together, that's all."

You twist your straw between your fingers before you take a sip. "Sometimes, timing is a big factor," you tell him. "Maybe you're not meant to be together right now? In that case, it might be better to end things before they go too far." Kenji nods, soaking your words in. 

"At the end of the day, Romeo,” you remind, "the only person you have to please is yourself. What do you want?"

"The only person you have to please is yourself," he repeats. Louder, he says, "I know what I want. Don’t really know what I’m gonna do about it, but..." he rises, his break over, "you know. Thanks, I guess.”

You do, in fact, know. "Anytime."

Pocketing his phone, Kenji whisks away your empty dishes and returns to the kitchen.

Solving his relationship problems had been so easy. You only wish untangling the mess that was your own was that simple.

>> (11:08 AM) kenji: are you free after your shift today

>> (11:13 AM) you: yeah

>> (11:13 AM) you: why?

>> (11:14 AM) kenji: no reason 

Sure enough, when the bell fixed to the door signals a customer's entrance towards the end of your shift, it's Kenji you come face to face with. "The usual."

"No please?" you ask, typing in his final total.

"Sorry, we haven't reached that level of friendship yet.” He pays with his phone, the screen displaying a blue check before he pockets it. "Ask me again in a few months."

"My bad. I seem to have mistaken our months of companionship and movie nights for something other than close friendship," you say, scribbling the name Coochie-kins on the side of his cup. "How will I ever make it up to you?" Your voice is monotone as you pass his order to your coworker. A quick glance to your watch tells you that Kenji is your last customer. Untying your apron with practiced ease, you clock out.

When you emerge from the back, now dressed in casual clothes, you approach Kenji. "Well? Not studying today?"

"Nah. I needed a break. Mind joining me?"

Before you know it, you're at an arcade. It's one of those modern ones, revamped for all ages and teeming with all sorts of bells and whistles. You stop at the entrance, peering into the glass where a large stuffed turtle calls to you. "You want it?" Kenji asks.

Right now, you're not sure if you've ever wanted anything more. After a quick stop to load up a card with enough credits to make your wallet ache, you return to the crane game. "Hit me," you tell him, and he swipes the card for you, looking amused.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You're a fucking supervilain working for one of the most prolific criminal organizations in the city. This stupid crane game doesn't stand a chance.

...is what you told yourself three attempts ago. The turtle slides out of the crane's grip once more, taunting you. You resist the primal urge to bash your head against the glass, instead opting for a drawn-out groan. "Is it even worth it?" you mumble.

"Let me try," Kenji says, hip bumping against yours as he nudges you to the side. "Watch and learn." He cracks his knuckles as he grips the joystick, fingers feather-light as they rest on the buttons to engage the crane. The setup looks exactly the same as your previous tries, and you scoff as he presses the button.

The turtle goes up. Big deal, you think. It'll come down before it goes through the chute. The game is rigged, anyway.

Or not.

The turtle lands neatly in the pickup zone.

"What'd I tell you?" he asks, like it was nothing. "Sometimes it just needs that magic touch." He wiggles his fingers for good measure.

"Wh-" you sputter. "How?"

"It's like that episode of Spongebob," he explains, handing you the turtle. "Be the crane."

You resolve to beat him at something, the competitive side of you flaring up.

(It's the start of a losing battle. Kenji hands your ass to you in every game, be it skeeball or basketball or even those awful ones that demand a button pressed at just the right time. The arcade staff double, triple check the amount of points your card's accumulated.

It's kind of ridiculous, really, but you leave with a Nintendo Switch you claim joint custody over, so it's not like you're complaining.)

"Why did you call me out, anyway?" you ask, the turtle you've named Chichi (after the Dragon Ball character and not Kenji, thank you very much) in your lap. He glances at you before returning his eyes to the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"I said it earlier, didn’t I? We needed a break. I also wanted to thank you for last time." It’s been a couple of weeks since that day; you don’t think you would’ve remembered if not for how out of the blue it’d been. You’re kind of surprised he’d been thinking about it, really.

"What did you do about it?"

"Turns out, I didn't have to do anything," he exhales. His voice is bitter when he says, "I got ghosted."

You wince, sucking in a sharp breath through your mouth. "Ouch. Sorry to hear that.”

"Don't worry," he says. "Not like you had anything to do with it."

Your next job goes off without issue 

You don't see Ace at all.

It's been almost a month since that night. Does he still shows up at the old clock tower at midnight in search of your silhouette? You would’ve done more, would’ve said a proper goodbye, but you’ve got bills to pay. Drawing Three-Eyes’ ire is the last thing on your to-do list.

You count the cash given to you by Three-Eyes, toss it onto your nightstand. Unfortunately, this isn’t some fairy tale where you can have your cake and eat it too.

(But was it so bad to long for that bit of fantasy?)

You trade your view of the city at the dead of night for pasta and movie nights on Mondays.

Weeks bleed into months, and you draw closer and closer to Kenji. When he asks if he can kiss you, fumbles with the words a bit before you leave his car, you let him.

He leans over the center console, one breath away, giving you one last out if you need it. You let him close the gap.

You like Kenji, you do. 

But when your lips meet his for the first time, it's not the same. Ace might not be dead, but you're chasing after his ghost all the same, seeking him out in everything and everyone. What was once explosive, electrifying, even, barely manages to simmer in the pit of your stomach. It's not enough to boil over.

You'll take it.

(With your eyes closed and fingers tangled in his hair, you can almost taste the night winds on your tongue, hear the clock tower tick with each passing second. You tell yourself that maybe this is good for you, that the day will come where you see Kenji instead of longing for Ace.)

In the end, being with Kenji isn't at all what you expected. It's not at all what you wanted, either.

It's like coming home and finding out the hard way that all the furniture's moved three inches to the left: not immediately apparent...until you stop to wonder why you keep stubbing your toe on the coffee table.

"Kenji," you pant, pulling away. This is how your movie nights tend to end as of late, your hands in his hair and you situated on his lap. "What-" He's not in the mood to talk tonight, it seems, instead peppering kisses along the junction between your shoulder and collarbone. "What are we doing?”

For a minute, you think he hasn't heard you. "What do you want it to be?" He's leaning back on your shitty couch, eyes hooded and hazy. His face is framed by the low light of the action movie behind you, his chest rising and falling. You know that if you pull him back in now, you can safely bury the topic, cover it completely with your lips on his. 

They say ignorance is bliss, after all.

But your toe's been stubbed to the point of bleeding; there's no ignoring that.

You've spent countless nights examining your feelings. You've held them up to the light, ghosted your fingers along the hairline cracks that run down the sides. And despite all your introspection, the best you can come up with is "I don't know." Even as the words come out of your mouth, they feel like the wrong answer.

The three words hang in the air between you, cruel fingers of guilt and indecision digging into your skin, kissing invisible bruises that bloom purple. For once, Kenji is at a loss for words. The clarity's returning to him, you think, bloodflow returning to his brain. He goes through several emotions you can't place nor process in a matter of seconds.

It's then that you ask yourself the question: What is this to him? Some part, selfish as selfish can be, hopes that you're just as much of a distraction to him as he is to you. It's much better than the alternative; better to set each other alight instead of stoking a fire for someone else.

"Right." The word comes out in a single, stunned breath. "Well," he says, moving enough to force you onto the couch, "call me when you think you've figured it out."

You don't get a chance to reply before he's out the door. The movie you hadn't been watching seems louder now, brought to the foreground of your misery.

You tune it out.

If Three-Eyes is put off by the look in your eyes, the anger that's taken root, he doesn't show it. A tactful move on his part, really; you're just about ready to tear someone's head off if they so much as breathe the wrong way 

He has no reason to stick around. "You know what to do. Good luck." he says, waving a hand around in noncommittance before vanishing.

He's here. Of course he'd be; Three-Eyes had told you as much. Under the darkness of the new moon, you set out to strike a decisive blow to Seijoh's throat.

Tonight, you're aiming for Seijoh's headquarters, where their current leader—a man known only as the Grand King—happens to be holding a very important meeting.

Security here is no joke, and you find yourself creeping around above the shadows rather than within them. The Grand King's spared no expense, his bloodhounds roaming the halls. If you slip up, even a little, you're sure to meet your untimely demise.

The Grand King himself is younger than you expected. He's maybe a year or two older than you; much too young to be running a business conglomerate rife with seedy dealings and the law enforcement on its payroll. (He's also kind of cute, but this is neither the time nor place to dwell on that thought. You shiver when you remember Three-Eyes will no doubt catch this remark when he reviews your performance.)

Standing to his right is another man you've only heard about: the Grand King's most faithful Knight, at his side at all times. Nobody that's ever learned his power has come out alive. Not even Three-Eyes had any clue. His file wasn't with the others when you'd been sent to their archives, leaving you completely in the dark.

To the Grand King's left is Ace; you guess even the mightiest king needs a trick or two up his sleeve. You’re slinking at the doorway, body pressed against the wall, when a voice calls out.

"Welcome, Harbinger," the Grand King greets, a cheerful smile on his face. "We've been expecting you."

Shit. How did he know? You're about to make a break for it, to cut your losses, when strong arms hold yours in place. When you wriggle around enough to see who's got you pinned, you see the same bloodhound from last time, white hair and all.

"You're here to kill me, aren't you?" the Grand King asks, though there's no question about it. You grit your teeth, reach out for his shadow with your own. Your shadow wraps its fingers around his throat without remorse.

Then the Grand King snaps his fingers, and you're forced to squeeze your eyes shut.

It's bright, like he's turned the intensity of the sun itself on you and then some. You barely have anything to work with, light at all angles doing well to chase away the darkness. The Grand King walks toward you, and your mouth curls in a snarl.

He takes two fingers and tips your chin up to meet his gaze. "You're all they sent?" His brow furrows. "I was expecting more of a fight." Whatever he sees in your eyes causes him to lose interest rather quickly, his fingers dropping. He wipes them on the fabric of his pants as though you were a speck of dirt. "You're just a rookie. I was hoping Karasuno would send their biggest and baddest after me," he sighs, palm pressed to his forehead in woe. 

The Grand King has mastered the art of dramatic timing, whether he knows it or not.

There's a deafening boom that rattles your being at an atomic level. It's from the ground floor, but you can feel it shake the furniture at the penthouse all the same. You exhale, shaky and suppressing a grin.

The plan is going off without a hitch.

You've never worked with the other Gifted in Karasuno, so when Three-Eyes told you you'd be joined by two familiar faces, you knew you couldn't pass up the opportunity.

Hinata bounds in, a smile on his face. Between the taller, more intimidating men in the room, he doesn't look like much—until he bends the white-haired bloodhound to his will. The larger man's grip loosens until he lets you go, eyes unable to leave Hinata's.

The temperature drops, goosebumps snaking up your skin. Not far behind Hinata is Kageyama, eyes dark with purpose as he walks towards the Grand King. A swirling storm of snow and hail orbits him, and you feel your fingers go numb when he passes you by.

"Oikawa," he says. The Grand King's Knight moves to stop the Karasuno operative, but Oikawa holds up a hand, orders him to stand down. Despite the fact that the Grand King isn't much taller than Kageyama, he manages to look down on him nonetheless.

"Tobio." Wait, what? 

You don't get to see what happens next, your attention stolen away by Ace right as Kageyama attacks. His hailstorm takes out much of the lights with it, giving you the opening you need.

"Remember me?" he asks, smile mirthless. "I was wondering where you went. So much for getting drinks together, huh?" His jaw is clenched as he dodges the spears of shadow you fling his way. You try to catch him, to lock him in place, but he evades you every time.

"Bastard," you spit, growing more frenzied with each second that passes.

“Oh, I just got lucky," he says with a thin smile, taking off. You know he's trying to distract you, to stop you from joining the fray. You know that he knows you're drawn to him, even now.

He's running out onto the roof of the building, but you finally get a hold of his shadow. Yanking it harshly in your direction, you force him to the ground.

Your feet hit the concrete, each step inching closer and closer to the decisive ending. Ace has done nothing but hopelessly entangle you in an impossible knot; the only way out, you think, elongating your fingers into sharp points, is to cut through.

Fact: When Ace makes contact with the ground, his mask clatters, having fallen from his face.

Fact: Your eyes are wide, so wide they feel like they might fall out of their sockets.

"Well?" Ace asks, only it's not Ace.

Fact: Ace is Kenji.

It's Kenji, and he's spitting blood, rubbing the spot where his jaw connected with the floor.

It's Kenji, with nothing but malice in his glare.

"What are you waiting for, Harbinger?"

It would be so easy. One move, performed with surgical precision. You've done it countless times before. You know how to make it quick. You know how to make it painless.

But Kenji is the one behind the mask. And slowly, all the pieces begin to fall into place.

("Read it and weep," he teased, showing off his grades. "How does it feel, knowing that you're talking to the future Albert Einstein?" You knew he was baiting you into either a battle you wouldn’t win or compliments he’d refuse to let you live down. You played into it all the same.

"What the fuck," you exhaled. "Have you ever gotten a borderline grade?"

"Nope." He pops the p sound, grin on his face growing wider. "Guess I'm just that lucky.")

("Tell me about yourself," you told him, yawning with the late hour. Classes had been taking their toll on you, so you’d flown up to the clock tower to take a break. What you hadn’t expected was to see Ace there, wind displacing his hair ever so slightly. 

"What, so you can rat me out to your murder of crows? No, thank you."

"What's your favorite color?" you asked, as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He’d given you a look, but responded anyway, seeing no harm in such an innocent question. At the time, you hadn’t, either. "...Believe it or not, it's actually pine green.”

"Really?" You turned your head to look at him. You were expecting maybe black or navy blue, but green? "Why?"

"I don't know. They were my high school's colors. I guess I saw enough of it around and on me all the time that I ended up liking it.")

(Sometimes, in the right light, you always thought Kenji looked like Ace. You dismissed it whenever it came up. You thought you just had a type. In a way, you suppose you do.)

You swallow in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the lump in your throat. Your mouth opens to respond, but no words come out. What is there to say? There's no way you can unmask yourself right now, reveal to him that his enemy and almost-lover (two different times, to boot) are one and the same.

So you don't.

Your mouth closes, sets itself into a hard line.

And you run.

Your hold on his shadow fades before vanishing entirely once you get far enough, but you don't care. You take a leap of faith off the roof, relying on your wings to come together before you hit the ground.

You're at the clock tower for the first time in what feels like forever. It hasn't changed. You’d flown here on instinct after fleeing Seijoh’s HQ. That’s not surprising, of course; you’ve been longing to feel the wind from up here for almost two months now.

"Why did you let me go?" Ace—Kenji—asks. You don't turn around, and you don't run away. In retrospect, you're not surprised to see him here, either. He must have known that this would be the first place you'd go. "You've never been the type to hold back. Why now?" You turn your head just enough to see his folded arms, his sharp glare.

"I'm just returning the favor from last time. We're even now."

"Last time, I wasn't the one trying to kill you."

"Does it matter?" You can't do this right now. Knowing who's behind the mask is too much for you to take, and you haven't even thought about the implications yet. "Leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" Kenji's raising his voice, but you can't look at him. You watch the hands of the clock above move instead, counting the seconds in your head. "Like you left me alone the second things got too real for you? Was this all just some twisted game you tried to play to get in my head?" He's accusatory, poison dripping from each word. Beneath it, the question he's too scared to ask: You threw me away so easily. Did I mean nothing to you?

"I did what I had to do." He's about to lash out with some scathing retort, but you cut him off. "It wasn't my choice.

"Oh, like Karasuno wasn't your choice? It's always about what you have to do," he growls, coming so close that you berate yourself for never knowing that Kenji and Ace were one and the same. "Maybe you should start living based on what you want instead." It’s a cruel echo of the advice you’d given to Kenji, your own words twisted and thrown back into your face.

But that's the thing, isn't it? "I don't know what I want." You’re lying.

You’re lying, and he knows it.

He's reaching out for you, meaning to come closer as you aim to pull away, his hand colliding with the edge of your mask. The momentum of two opposing forces end with your mask caught between his fingers as it lifts off your face.

(You know what they say: an eye for an eye makes the world go blind.)

Kenji—Ace—goes still. His shoulders slump, anger leaving him instantly. Behind you, the clock ticks and tocks, steady despite the metaphorical rug being pulled from underneath you both. He's incredulous, whispering your name as he struggles to process the same realization you'd only come to hours before.

The fire in his eyes has gone ice cold. You barely catch your mask when he tosses it to you.

And then he's gone.

>> (12:08 AM) you: kenji i'm sorry

>> (12:08 AM) you: ididn't know i swear

>> (12:11 AM) you: can we please talk about this

>> (12:12 AM) you: please say something

>> (1:29 AM) you: i'll be here

>> (2:17 AM) you: good night

The next few nights are sleepless. You've (once again) done a bang-up job cutting both (can you call it that?) Ace and Kenji from your life. The first thing you do when you wake up in the morning is roll over, unlock your phone in the hopes that the ache that's settled in your chest can find relief.

It never does. What greets you each morning, after each good night sent, is a one-sided conversation with two little words tucked at the bottom: Read yesterday.

After almost a full week of this, of mornings on your phone and midnights hanging around the tower, your phone vibrates.

>> (2:32 PM) kenji: meet me at the clock tower tonight

He's already there when you touch down, wings disappearing as soon as your feet kiss solid ground. He's staring up at the clock: ten minutes til midnight. "How long did you know? 

"I didn't. Not until your mask came off."

"I see." Then: "Did you like Ace more?"

"No." He scoffs, but you barrel on. You might as well show your hand, lay the cards on the table. "You remember back in our second semester, when we had that project? Believe it or not, I..." It’s hard to admit, even if it had been years ago. “I liked you, back then. Kenji you, not-” you’re fumbling with your words, but he gets the hint. The truth of it is enough to bring him to face you.

This isn’t a conversation between Ace and the Harbinger, this is a conversation between you and Kenji, masks nowhere in sight. The sight of Kenji set against the clock tower makes your stomach flip, his eyes boring into your own.

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Took me a while to get over it. But then Ace came, and I liked him too. I guess I have a type." You're trying for humor, a shot in the dark. To your surprise, it works, drawing a chuckle from him. "And uh," you add, "sorry for...ghosting you." Kenji quirks an eyebrow. "They threatened to wipe my memories if I didn't stop. Maybe worse. I didn't wanna find out. Sorry," you tack on.

"Yeah. I get it. You did what you have to do," he says, and this time, there is no malice to be found.

There's one thing left to apologize for, but your attempts at it layer over each other.

"What are you apologizing for?" you ask.

"What are you apologizing for?" he fires back.

"I, uh." You're at your most eloquent tonight, it seems. "About the past couple of months..."

"Yeah. I have to ask...were you using me to get over," he pauses, realizes how absurd the question sounds, "me?"

"Will you be mad if I say yes?"

"No. I was," he gestures with both palms, "doing the same thing. Trying to get over getting ghosted...with the person who dropped me in the first place. Just my luck, huh?" You snort. 

"Sounds like the plot of a bad romcom."

It all connects then, ridiculousness and all. When two sets of unhidden eyes meet, they crinkle into crescents, you and Kenji breaking into laughter. When your stomach hurts and you wipe tears from your eyes, you ask, "Do you...want to start over?" It's hesitant. You two aren't perfect. There's a good chance you're going to fuck up somehow.

But you know what you want, and it's Kenji—with the mask and without.

Kenji holds out his hand. "Hi. I'm Kenji. When I need to pay for tuition, I'm Ace. What's your name?"

The clock chimes then, twelve times with the coming of midnight. You take his hand.

The nights are better with Kenji at your side, leaned against his shoulder. The clock tower's pleasant as always, city alight below. It's been a long time since you've felt the need to wear a mask up here. You find that you see more of the view nowadays, anyway. "Whatever happened to getting drinks and coming up here?"

"We're both still broke," Kenji replies. "We could go and get some, but..." he wraps an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer, "I'm not in the mood to move."

"You and me both."

"Next time?"

"Next time."

("I hate to say it," you mused, "but I guess you can be kinda charming when you want to be." Before his ego got too swollen, you added, "Sometimes."

"You're not so bad yourself," he murmured. There was a smile playing at your lips as you drew closer and closer to him, now a breath away. "Tell me, Harbinger," and this time, when your name came from his lips, there was no trace of anger or pain underneath, "am I going to get lucky tonight?"

"Why don't we find out?")

Three-Eyes stops your memory of that night rather early, and you're not sure if you're imagining it, but the tips of his ears are distinctly red. "All's well that ends well, right?" you ask with a cheerful clap of your hands. The corners of your mouth are curved in a smirk that your informant only responds to with a stern glare.

"I'll let it slide, but in the future, I'd recommend not...fraternizing with the enemy." His tone is clipped, which only serves to widen your grin.

"Oh, but he's not the enemy anymore, is he?"

Your informant—you've since learned that his name is Tsukishima, but you’ve grown fond of the moniker—can only sigh. "I guess not."

(After you'd left to pursue Ace, you'd only narrowly managed to avoid the wrath of Tsukishima and Karasuno's admins. Kageyama and Hinata had done such a good job without you that it didn't even matter, and for that you were grateful, even if it had meant acting as a decoy. With Oikawa under Karasuno's thumb, Kenji had come to work under Karasuno, drawn to the money—and you.

And so, you'd gained a partner—in both senses of the word—in Kenji. The once treacherous seed of infatuation had been nurtured with the soil of communication, watered with care until it blossomed into what you might even be ready to call love.)

Kenji’s waiting for you, hands in his pockets and a look that mirrors your own in his eyes. “Did he get mad again?”

“No,” you reply, holding your hand out until he interlaces his fingers with yours, “just embarrassed. It’s kinda cute.”

“First, you try to kill me, and now you’re calling other guys cute?” he asks, shaking his head. “I think it’s high time I get back on Tinder.” Your shadow, lingering behind you both, yanks at the collar of Kenji’s button-up. He chokes, a strangled noise as you grip his hand a bit tighter in response. “And you’re trying to kill me again.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Your question is answered as you trip over your own feet, almost landing face first on the pavement. When you right your balance, Kenji is laughing openly. It’s contagious, pure joy blooming in your chest.

(Out of a million outcomes, you've found yourself in one of the best ones; maybe, you think, this is what they call the luck of the draw.)

dedicated, ultimately, to @wackatoshi​: winter, i know at the time this goes up, you’re currently ia but it was your kenji fics that really kickstarted the love i have for him........

[getaroomyouheck]

Album Analysis #15: Linkin Park, The Hunting Party (2014)

(ayyy sorry for taking so long, we’re finally back with the album analysis’! thank you all for being patient with me, i hope this meets your expectations)

Linkin Park was a band that had always been a piece of my childhood. Yet for the longest time, I only knew of Hybrid Theory (2002), Meteora (2003), and Minutes to Midnight (2007). Despite the memes and such regarding the group, I held them up in high regard, with Minutes to Midnight standing as one of my favorite albums ever made.

It wasn’t until the passing of frontman Chester Bennington that I really begun giving attention back to this band, and began to survey releases I hadn’t listened to, like A Thousand Suns (2010). And while that album is fine for what it is, what drew me to The Hunting Party was its heavy rock sound, reminiscent of their earliest works.

So going into this album, I want to hear that heaviness really come to life. I wanna hear Chester’s screams and those chugging guitars and that aggressive beauty. Let’s begin, shall we?

Keys to the Kingdom: Instant attention grabber of an intro, a really great way to begin the record. Chester’s pained screams diluted with an audio effect over them, sounding glitched out and demolished. Only for the roaring guitars and heavy drums to kickstart and fire off into the song. Just hyper aggression and energy, throttling drums and soaring vocals and guitars atop it. Hell, even this structure feels like classic Linkin Park, Mike rapping or singing over the verses, with Chester coming in and screaming his way through the chorus. What changes it is that instead of the nu-metal sound of Hybrid Theory or Meteora, this is full heavy hardcore rock and metal, and I adore it. It’s aggressive, it’s punchy, and above all else it sounds wonderful. I especially love the instrumental bridge, the sound cuts out abruptly and begins to build back into itself, with a buildup of layering guitars and drum patterns. Eventually it just builds into this absolute explosion of grimy guitars and crashing cymbals and snare hits, an overwhelming cacophony of sound, which leads us right back to the refrain of the chorus to end it off. 

Lyrics are not as huge a highlight here, which might be my only criticism to it. What stands out, stands out very much, like the chorus where Chester screams out “No control. No surprise. Throw the keys to the kingdom down that hole in my eyes.” and the verses are rich with shit talking and imagery paralleling war. Linkin Park is, in a sense, committing war and fighting back against all their naysayers. With the 2nd verse from Mike being a direct callout, with the line “Careful what you shoot because you might hit what you aim for”. Some bars from Mike do get kinda swarmed in the sound of the instruments, which while sounding good does take away from his words. Other than that, this is an amazing song which kicks off THP near perfectly. Fantastic, a favorite for sure. 9.5/10

All for Nothing (ft. Page Hamilton): A slower more methodical track after the punchy opening Keys to the Kingdom was, and a little bit worse in my opinion. Definitely not bad, I think the verses from Mike are some of the best on the project, and the instrumentation and production is crisp and fantastic. I especially love the grimy fuzzy guitars on this one, they really underscore the verses incredibly well. Mike’s bars themselves are charged and full of anger. It’s egotistical, but in an entertaining way, like how he states “And no, I'm not your soldier, I'm not taking any orders. I'm a five-star general infantry controller”. It shows that even years on down as an MC he still has that anger and energy that made his bars work. What holds the rest of the song back is I think the pre-chorus and chorus kinda kill the momentum and anger of Mike’s verses. It doesn’t link together well, and instead of feeling like a nice natural link between verse to pre-chorus, it feels like the song hesitates and stutters a bit. It’s a shame, because everything else is still great. I just wish the chorus and how it linked to the verses was better. 8/10

Guilty All the Same (ft. Rakim): In sharp contrast to the last track, this one is bursting with energy and passion. I ADORE the minute long instrumental opening. Beginning with lo-fi crashing cymbals and guitars to loop into a super crisp version of it. Then cutting off to an instrumental buildup from guitar into the main riff utilized in the chorus. Just in general the instrumentation and production of this song is perfect. They know when to make the guitars sharp or fuzzy, exactly how to make the cymbals crash and smash in the right way, how to make each hit of the snare sound like a gun going off. It sounds wonderful, especially underneath the vocals. Unlike most of the songs on THP, this is mostly just a song with Chester. He handles most of the songs vocals besides the guest verse by Rakim, and as always his vocals are infectious and commanding. His utter power as a vocalist in both singing and screaming was always what drew me and others to Linkin Park, and that’s in full effect here. The guest verse from Rakim is also incredibly good, he finds an interesting way to find all these pockets and flows overtop these fuzzy guitars and bass-filled drums, it’s like rap-metal almost. This then breaks back into one more repeat of the chorus and the final explosion that breaks into silence.

Both Chester and Rakim’s lyrics stand out wonderfully and match the angry aggressive sound of the song. Calling out the industry as a whole, caught in their guilt whilst trying to set blame, attaching that grander message and applying it to record labels and their ever present lust for money over genuine talent or strong music. Where Chester’s verse is more basic and has larger more broader strokes in its narrative, Rakim’s verse is clearcut, and the message is sharpened and jagged in its bladed diatribes. Mentioning “corporate hands is filthy” and “All they think about is bank accounts, assets, and realty.” as direct stabs at the grander corporations iron grip on the media we consume. Passion is snuffed out in favor of what sells. It’s a message stated wonderfully through both vocalists, mixed with the crisp instrumentation and energetic fervor, this is definitely one of the favorites. 10/10

The Summoning: Probably the weakest piece here, there isn’t especially much to say. It’s just a 70 second interlude piece between Guilty All the Same and the next song, War. While the sonic landscape it builds is nice, it’s cut far too short to really build up to anything worthwhile or impactful. In the grand scheme of the album and with so many other far more impactful cuts, including a far more atmospheric instrumental piece later in the record, this one just falls to the side. Inoffensive and nice on the ears for the time being, but not anything close to standout or memorable in a way most other songs here are. The one song that being cut from the record would not detriment it in any real way. 6.5/10

War: Easily the track with the most blistering punk energy here, at just over 2 minutes it’s an incredibly scorching speeding track filled with fast energetic guitar riffs and a frenetic blood pumping drum performance layered in with Chester’s screams and strong vocal performance. There’s barely any breaks, from the opening lo-fi guitar scratches and riffs to the looped audience laughter at the end, it’s a pummeling track that has you headbanging and screaming the whole way through. Like most of the albums songs, the lyrics feature a heavy war motif, this time speaking of the general chaos found in war. As Chester states, “It needs to sides to justify, laying down your life”. War does not care about the sides you fight on, if it’s right or not. It will render you null and slaughter you all the same, no matter whom is ostensibly correct. Really the only issues I have with the piece is that like The Summoning, I feel it doesn’t have enough time to really flesh out to be a super standout track. It’s incredibly fun and powerful for the time it’s active, but it doesn’t have too long to be something I can truly say wowed me. Still awesome though. 8.5/10

Wastelands: A nice cooldown from the blistering heat of the last track. It feels more in the Linkin Park wheelhouse, Mike rapping the verses and Chester handling the chorus. It has a very nice production crunch to it, amplifying the drums during Mike’s verses only to have the guitars explode out with energy in the chorus. There’s a nice push and pull dynamic in the song that’s created by this choice, creating a nice duo between the poetry being rapped and the poetry being sung. It once again features pieces of war imagery, but it’s more direct in its commentary.  Rather than being a conceptual musing on war or some metaphorical drive, it’s a very angry critique at the direction of rock, or rather it’s misdirection. Referring to the grand landscape as a metaphorical wasteland, where all true musiciosos who once made rock have abandoned. Mike’s verses are lined with braggadocio, stating his verses rise above all and that what he’s spitting is far above the drivel his contemporaries spit. For the most part, it works, but there are a couple issues I have with the piece. Some of Mike’s rapping can feel stilted and a fair amount of the lines don’t seem to particularly connect to the topic of the song, and feel more like the people he is supposedly stating are trash. It’s still a very well done song, and one I would easily return too, but it feels kind of weak in that department. 8/10

Until It’s Gone: This piece is one of the more emotionally resonant and impactful tracks on the entire record, taking a more lamenting and heartfelt passionate performance in both instrumentals and vocal performance from Chester. There’s a definite boom in each smash of the snare, a bassy overwhelming crunch in the guitar, the instruments layer and unite with the vocals to create this almost marching feeling. It strangely reminds me of the booming repetition found in a couple songs on Swans LP To Be Kind (2014), particularly the cut Nathalie Neal. It creates a feeling of marching to war, that you and the insurmountable masses are all marching towards another goal, a brighter future perhaps. It’s one of the more triumphant songs Linkin park have crafted in terms on the progression and feel from the piece. In that strength I feel it resonates and booms with impact as one of the strongest cuts here. The only real weakness is that the ending with the small beat with skittering hi-hats and explosive snare hits feels a bit tacked on; but it doesn’t take away from the core song and experience found here.

 Speaking of which, the lyrics and poetry Cjester sings here are what make the song whole and piece everything together. Rather than building on the anger and prevalent war imagery found all over the record, it stands out with a muse and waxing poetic on the concept of what you have and what you lose. Specifically, the famous saying of “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone”. It’s that exactly mantra Chester passionately sings in the chorus of this song, verses taking on a similar tone and message. Lines like “I can finally see your light when you let go” refer to this idea, that sometimes you can only recognize the true benefit and reason for why you have something or someone only when they’re gone. It’s a message to cherish the things you have and never let them go. Which, given what’s happened to Chester, is simply heart wrenching. One of my favorite cuts here, amazing in most every way. 9.5/10

Rebellion (ft. Daron Malakian): In a very sharp contrast to the prior cut here, Rebellion is one of the most blistering and energetic throttling cuts here on the entire record. In no short part to the guest guitarist Daron Malakian, of System of a Down fame. This feature immediately excited me, as SOAD was one of the most creative and very incredible metal acts to sprout up in the late 90’s/early 2000’s. Blending alt-metal with elements of polka, Russian folk music, Armenian hymns, and much more. The instrumental performance here is nothing short of excellent, fast and powerful guitar riffs and chugs connect wondrously with the tumultuously churning drum beat. Overwhelming with it’s instrumental power, barely any breaks to be held here. Akin to a cut like War, but even more filled out and more standout in the way the piece progresses and the vocal cuts found from both Chester and Mike. It almost feels like a SOAD track, just featuring vocals from Linkin Park. With how creative the chord progression is and the multi-faceted structure and switching tempo’s found all over the cut, very reminiscent of a piece like B.Y.O.B or Radio/Video in that sense.

Lyrically I feel it stands out prominently as well. It’s a piece focused on the political instability found all across the world, more specifically calling out the whinging and whining from those in first-class worlds. The message is best exemplified by the chorus’ repeating of the line “We are the fortunate ones, who never faced oppressions gun”. In comparison to places where people's rights are violated almost every singular moment, us in First World countries have no right to complain. While I feel that it’s a bit too broadly painted, the core message of “There are people who suffer far worse than us, so sit down and shut the fuck up” I agree with. And even discounting that, it’s still a wondrously put together piece. Arguably my favorite song on the entire record, def one of the best songs Linkin Park ever put together. 10/10

Mark the Graves: Much like the prior track, Mark the Graves is a very instrumentally-oriented track, driven most heavily by the ever present guitarwork lining the record. An incredibly creatively structured and segmented piece, not following the standard song structure found in other pieces here. Alongside this chopped abstract structure, there are constantly changing rhythms and tempos, cutouts of silence that lead into explosive colossuses of sound, smashing drums and overblown bass layer in alongside the guitars. Buildups and blistering walls of flame give way to a repetitious marching drumbeat, echoing and bridging towards another beast of sound. Chester’s screamed delivery following a softly delivered refrain into the outro. The entire piece oozes creativity and uniquity in structure and delivery, sound and presentation, and it hits aces in essentially every aspect. Even lyrics, while not the prominent quality, still fuse and work with the soundscape quite well.

This is a song about memory and mistakes, more so the mistakes of your past and trying to reconcile and atone or make peace with what you have wrongly done. Each line in the verse makes references to the past and seeking to atone, specifically within the line “If we can’t let go, we’ll never say goodbye”. Chester is telling us that to truly say goodbye and forget the past, you have to let go and make do with your mistakes. All you do by holding on is chasing yesterday’s ghosts, and ignoring tomorrow’s premonition. You have to live and let go, otherwise you’ll forever be trapped in the sin of your own failures. A sin of your own machinations, manifest by the mistakes never once rectified or forgiven. It’s a beautiful piece, firing on each cylinder and making no mistakes in idea, or execution. An absolute favorite for sure, no problems whatsoever. 10/10

Drawbar (ft. Tom Morello): This cut was actually one that took me a long while to really get into. Like The Summoning, it’s another instrumental track that serves as an interlude between Mark the Graves to Final Masquerade. Featuring the acclaimed guitarwork of Tom Morello, of Rage Against the Machine fame. Arguably one of the most talented and creative guitarists in the entire scene. Yet, for the longest time I thought this was the weakest cut here. It felt far too plodding, not nearly as throttling or memorable as most other cuts here were. But one day, it clicked, and what I once saw as plodding, was slowly creeping and building suspension and tension in the piece. Each swirling synth, each sangling piano hit, each small snare hit or hi-hat tap, they all add to this creeping feeling of the piece. It’s a languorous and dreading piece, that builds to a climax within this sonic landscape. While I still feel the production sounds cheap at times or that the guitar work can sound somewhat flat for someone as skilled as Morello, it serves its purpose well, and is a track I can easily see myself coming back to. 8.5/10

Final Masquerade: Unlike both Rebellion and Mark the Graves, this is a heart-bleeding cut in which the power comes from the lyrics and Chester’s incredible vocal prowess, almost ballad-esque in the sonic ideas found here. Slower than virtually every other song on this record, it holds a heartbreaking resonance to it that rings true through the entire piece. Instead of blistering and energetic, this penultimate piece has hollow, lamenting guitar tones and a slow, pounding, consistent drumbeat, as if a heartbeat to the final moments of life breathed. Of course, the main focus here is Bennington’s vocal performance, and this is one of his most emotionally powerful and sorrowful pieces he’s ever delivered. Barely any screams to be found here, simply powerful delivery in sung vocal passages, tugging at the heartstrings and making his words manifest in their consonance and passion. Lyrics here are the other main standout besides Chester’s ever beautiful singing, and they’re some of the most powerful in the entire bands career.

This song dictates the falling out of some sort of relationship. Words never said, thoughts never expressed, slowly creating a gap and filling both members hearts with despair and mistrust towards one another. Each day becomes darker, light ebbing away into the darkness of both their locked hearts, apathy rendering what was once there null. As said in the song, “All I ever wanted, the secrets that you keep. All you ever wanted, the truth I couldn't speak”. One refuses to tell them their secrets, the other refused to tell them their truth. It’s the natural way fallings out tend to happen. Both partners simply feel nothing, and refuse to just open their hearts and just speak what they need to speak. Only speaking when it’s too late, when there’s no longer a red string of fate tying them both to the same destiny. No flaws about this piece, beyond gorgeous. Absolutely top 10 Linkin Park song, favorite song here next to Rebellion. Perfection. 10/10

A Line in the Sand: This isn’t the first time LP have concluded a record with a 6+ minute long epic, their album Minutes to Midnight ended in much the same fashion with the piece The Little Things Give You Away. Though whereas that was lamenting, heartfelt ballad about Hurricane Katrina and the horrific damage and fear it brewed in millions, this is a blood pumping, throttling cut packed with screams, slowdowns and swift tempo changes, adrenaline pumping rap sections, and much more. Powerful vocal performances from both Mike and Chester, as per usual I suppose. Long instrumental bridges that lead into charged, anger intensified pieces of energy and flame, into quiet leading passages once more. Genuinely, this feels almost like the bands quintessential song. It feels like Linkin Park’s message and ethos of how and why they make music distilled into a singular piece. Hell, I’m pretty sure Shinoda has said something to that effect in some interview a while back somewhere. Lyrically, this is no different as well.

Lyrics are essentially an encapsulation of the lyrical themes and ideas found present within the rest of the record prior to this. Anger against the ineptitude and growing complacence in the rock scene and music industry. Rage against the critics and those who lambasted LP when they dropped their nu-metal sound post-Meteora, calling them out on their hypocrisy against them. Shinoda puts it best with his lines the 2nd verse, stating “I'd never been a coward, I'd never seen blood. You'd sold me an ocean and I was lost in the flood”. He put trust into these critics and faith in this industry, as he was inexperienced and didn’t know what to think about these things. Like he said, he was sold an ocean but was lost in the flood. From his inexperience came anger, and now he’s here to pay his dues and collect his repentance for what these critics gave done. While not a perfect encapsulation and send off like Final Masquerade probably would have been, it’s essentially who Linkin Park is, or was, distilled into a singular song. Fantastic, a favorite for sure. 9.5/10

Final thoughts + rating: After the relative disappointment of Living Thing’s (2012), this was an incredible return to form for the group. That heavy, aggressive sound I was searching for was found in aces all across this record, plus the wonderful bonus of some more slower melodic pieces as well. And alongside with some incredible instrumental features really making the whole thing come together. Just front to back, nonstop aggression, adrenaline and excitement. All around, this album is a 9/10 for me. Easily one of my favorite releases in the Linkin Park discography, second only to Meteora and Minutes to Midnight. An album I have returned to several times prior to writing this, and one I will continue to return to several times afterwards

Favorite songs: Keys to the Kingdom, Guilty All the Same, Until It’s Gone, Rebellion, Mark the Graves, Final Masquerade, A Line in the Sand

Least favorite song: The Summoning

[rubberduckyrye]

List of Items Kokichi Ouma Likes and Loves and Their Item Descriptions

Time for an update on my analyzing the heck out of Kokichi

I decided to be a madman and use the Danganronpa V3 Wiki to gather up what items Kokichi likes and loves as gifts and put their item descriptions all in one place. I figure I’d make this for others to reference too, in case you wanna do head canons or theories revolving around the list. Let me know if I missed any! Also let me know if I got anything wrong because I can’t fact check these items for myself.

Edit: Categorizing them by food, clothes, and that sort of thing!

Food Items:

Boba Tea: A popular drink with a bunch of tapioca balls at the bottom. The chewy tapioca balls are made from the root of the cassava plant.

Non-Alcoholic Drink of Immortality: A non-alcoholic drink based on a legendary alcoholic beverage said to make the drinker immortal. It neither grants immorality, nor does it taste good.

Bubble Gum Bomb: A gum that makes an explosive sound when it's fully blown and popped. Weak-hearted people should not chew it.

Rock Hard Ice Cream: A cup of ice cream engineered to never melt. It can be carried around for a long time, even in summer. But it's so hard, ordinary spoons cant penetrate it.

Sukiyaki Caramel: Sukiyaki-flavored caramels that combine the flavors of meat, soy sauce, eggs, and caramel. The flavors are all really strong and don't mix well.

Gyoza In the Shape of a Face: A dumpling that's modeled after someone you swear you've seen somewhere before. The skin is thick and it's a little tough.

Astro Cake: A freeze-dried slice of cake sold to the public as space food. It's both healthy and vegetarian-friendly.

Fully-Automated Shaved Ice Machine: A shaved ice machine that automatically crushes up ice and pours strawberry syrup on top.

Clothes/wearable items:

Autumn-Colored Scarf: A chic autumn-colored scarf that can be used by men, women, and robots. It is very trendy and a fashionable accent to any outfit.

Wearable Blanket: A blanket that will completely defend you from the cold by closing off any gaps around you hands, neck, and feet. Moving around in it is near impossible.

Ladybug Brooch: A cute and fashionable brooch that resembles a seven-spotted ladybug. Despite how realistic it looks, it is not alive.

Cufflinks: An accessory that is attached to the cuffs of a shirt. The black onyx design makes it look good on both men and women.

Dog Tag: A dog tag used to identity soldiers. The same profile is engraved on two plates so that if the owner is killed, one is collected to report death.

Fashionable Glasses: A fashionable accessory that appears to be a pair of glasses, but does not actually correct its wearer's vision.

Dark Belt: A black-ish belt worn with karate clothes. It can only be worn by those with justice in their hearts. You can give it away, but something good might happen if you keep it

Books/readable items:

Book of the Blackened: A book of criminal offenses that contains records of the cruelest, most atrocious murders committed by humans. Many of these cases weren't released to the public.

Feelings of Ham: How to raise hamsters...is not what this book is about. It's a book about raising domestic animals for meat. For those who are interested in the farming industry.

Travel Journal: A thick journal packed with record of trips. However, it was actually written using vague knowledge and the rich imagination of someone looking at a world map.

Music/Sound Related Items:

High-End Headphones: Top-grade, high-end headphones. Use these if you truly want to hear the nuances in classical and jazz music.

Tattered Music Score: A tattered handwritten music score. Rumor has it that it's unpublished music from a certain famous composer.

Proxilingual Device: A tool that can translate any language, even animal sounds. It can pick up a dog's bark and eloquently describe the emotions in it with an electronic bark.

Puzzles, Toys/Models, and Games:

Milk Puzzle: A plain puzzle with one side as white as milk. It's said to be good for concentration training and is used for astronaut selection exams.

Clock-Shaped Gaming Console: A pocket watch-shaped game console with monochrome LCD and several buttons. Play a game called "Factory" and mash buttons to create more bears!

46 Moves of the Killing Game: A card game with Japanese characters relating to killing games. Some cards are, "A metal bat to kill demons," "Blacked are soaked in blood," and "Certain evidence over arguments."

Rock-Paper-Scissors Cards: A set of cards containing four rocks, four papers, and four scissors. If you bet your life on this game, it can be a thrilling psychological battle.

Dangan Werewolf: A party game of hope and despair. Draw cards and become the characters to start deducing and debating! Now on sale!

Electric Tempest (Loves this item): A cool high-powered water gun. The water shoots over 10 yards and it can be fired continuously for a whole minute. Fun for kids and adults!

Perfect Laser Gun: A replica of a laser gun used by upstanding citizens to punish rebellious or unhappy people. When carrying it around, be sure to watch your coefficient.

Gun of Man's Passion: A model of an imaginary weapon. It's powerful, but only the worthy may fire it. Embrace it to feel a man's fantasy. You can give it away, but something good might happen if you keep it.

Items that Mention Spirits, Paranormal or Supernatural:

Monkey's Paw: The mummified hand of a monkey said to grant three wishes. However, none of the wishes it grants have happy endings.

Cleansing Air Freshener: A spray air freshener. It has holy water mixed in, and is said to repel ghosts and paranormal entities.

Potted Banyan Tree: A potted banyan tree with spirits living inside it. It is said to be good luck. It grows aerial roots from the middle of its trunk.

Space-related Items:

Plastic Moon Buggy Model: A plastic model of an actual buggy used by astronauts on the moon. It looks plain, but it's actually filled with a burning passion.

Home Planet: A mini planetarium machine that can project the cosmos onto your bedroom walls when it's time for bed. Comes with a narration by a popular voice actor.that should be everything

Uncategorized Items:

Flame Thunder: A broom that lets mages fly at high speeds when they sit on it. It's a little bent, but it can also be used for cleaning.

Dancing Haniwa: A ceramic figure from the Japanese Kofun period. It is said to resemble a person dancing very intensely.

Work Chair Of Doom: The ultimate work station with a comfy chair and so much technology that you will never want to get up. Those who sit here will be in danger of becoming obese.

3-Hit KO Sandbag: Regardless of whether it's hit by a kick from a sickly child or a punch from a superhuman adult, this punching bag will always break on the third hit.

Weathercock of Barcelous: A weathercock that imitates the Portuguese "Rooster of Barcelous," A symbol of the truth, this is a popular souvenir from Portugal.

Pillow of Admiration: A pillow that helps you sleep well and gives you wonderful dreams. However, the dreams will show an entire lifetime making you feel intensely empty after you wake up.

Death Flag: The blackened might be one of us, so I refuse to stay with you guys! I'm gonna go hide in my room!

Survival Flag: The chance of this succeeding is only 5%. No one has ever made it out alive before...but this is my last chance to survive.

Hammock (Loves this Item): Bedding created by hanging a net between two poles or trees. Lounging in one of these is something everyone has dreamed of at least once.

Tentacle Machine: An extremely handy reacher grabber. Once you use it, you can't live without it.

Commemorative Medal Set (Loves this item): A medal set Monokuma made of himself and the Monokubs. You can feel the care he put into making it. You can give it away, but something good might happen if you keep it.

Key of Love: A key to certain places filled with greed and lust. You can give it away, but something good might happen if you keep it. (Loves this Item but all of the characters love this item for some reason)

[therappundit]

The Best Rap Albums of 2017 are...

And here we are...last day of 2017 folks. I announced my top 10 rap albums of the year last night, but here’s a more thorough breakdown. And if you think that I’m not keeping these great projects in heavy rotation for 2018 and beyond, then you are dead wrong. There’s a lot of fine wine material below and a few potential classics, so if you have not treated your ears to any of these yet, make sure you make it a New Years resolution to do so! Salute to all of these great artists, and many others below...

10. DUE RENT - Swarvy & Lojii

Highlights: “due rent”, “Free4who”, “northern organix”

A raw yet surprisingly polished underground hip-hop album that represents the best elements of dusty 90′s rap, but with the self-awareness of young black artists exploring what it means to be successful in America today, Due Rent is a head-nodder from start to finish. I still know relatively little about this MC and producer duo, but I certainly hope to be hearing a lot more from them in the future.

9. Laila’s Wisdom - Rapsody

Highlights: “Power”, “Chrome (Like Ooh)”, “Black & Ugly”, “Jesus Coming”

Rapsody has been one of the dopest MCs in the game for a long time, but now with enough commercial backing, great guest features, and strong production choices, this album is not only one of the most soulful and interesting works of her career, but her most personal triumph as a force in hip-hop.

8. No Dope On Sundays - CyHi The Prynce

Highlights: “God Bless Your Heart”, “Free”, “No Dope On Sunday”, “Nu Africa”

I didn’t see this coming, and my guess is YOU didn’t either. The forever-delayed major debut from G.O.O.D Music’s least famous veteran, CyHi finally treated us to what he has been crafting for all of the years, confirming that he is far from just a great bar-dropper, he’s also a gifted song writer. A spiritual album that never teeters into being preachy, it’s just thoughtful and an enjoyable listen throughout. 

7. DUMP GAWD: HOMMY EDITION - Mach-Hommy

Highlights: “Longtime”, “Rale Bulgarian”, “Social Media”, So Much More”, “Nothin But Net”, “Allen Iverson”

(Mach-Hommy and ThaGodFahim, the self-proclaimed DUMP GAWDS of rap music, certainly lived up to their name in 2017, as they dumped a seemingly unlimited supply of dope records on the rap world. Apart from 2016′s H.B.O., I think this tape was Mach’s strongest, most focused project. The production is great, and the song composition is much more polished than most other “DUMP” projects. Hommy remains a mysterious musician and one of the most unpredictable artists in hip-hop, which is pretty exciting for Mach fans like me.)

6. The Never Story - J.I.D

Highlights: “Never Been”, “D/vision”, “LAUDER”, “EdEddNEddy”, “Somebody”

The Kendrick comparisons are not outrageous. Atlanta has a special talent in J.I.D, and he proved how special he can be as a lyrical assassin, story teller, and song writer. The Spillage Village crew may very well be the Dungeon Family for a new generation, a true musical force to be reckoned with for years to come.

5. Panama Plus - Fly Anakin, Koncept Jack$on & Tuamie (Mutant Academy)

Highlights: “Bulletproof Gucci Windshield”, “Promise”, “Bioche Bun”, “Double Bicycle Kick”

The union of VA’s Fly Anakin and Koncept Jack$on may be potent enough on any record, but add in the brilliant production of Tuamie, and you have a real attention grabber of an album. Where Lootpack, D.I.T.C., C-n-N and A Tribe Called Quest musically meet, you can find the Mutant Academy. Panama Plus is a feast of bars and the greatest production elements of underground hip-hop. Tuamie may be the true superstar here, as he manages to keep fresh samples woven throughout the project. Richmond, VA has a lot to be proud of with the Mutant Academy collective.

4. Being You Is Great, I Wish I Could Be You More Often - Quelle Chris

Highlights: “Calm Before”, “BS Vibes”, “In Case I Lose Myself In The Crowd”, “Fascinating Grass”, “The Prestige”, “Learn To Love Hate”

Quelle dropped a great piece of work with this one. The mega-talented Detroit MC/producer may never be the loudest voice in the room, but his music continues to speak volumes. This is a great album that addresses anxiety, stress, depression, as well as joy and triumph, there is something for everyone on Being You Is Great..., and sonically it has all the elements of an underground hip-hop classic.

3. Rosebudd’s Revenge - Roc Marciano

Highlights: “Marksmen”, “Gun Sense”, “Herringbone”, “Killing Time”, “Burkina Faso”, “No Smoke”, “Pray 4 Me”, “Already”, “Pimp Arrest”

Perhaps the underground icon’s finest work. He stays in his lane in the right places, experiments in the right places - without rockin’ the boat to much, and most impressively, Rosebudd’s Revenge manages to feature some of his finest production choices (a bold statement, considering Roc’s always stellar ear for beats). A true throwback to pimp-exultation rap music and 90′s NYC street tales without sounding dated for even a second, the whole project is overflowing with quotables and exceptional production from Roc, Knxwledge and the most noteworthy contributions of Arch Druids’ career, who now warrant recognition for being the most underrated awesome production team.

2. 4:44 - JAY-Z

Highlights: “The Story of O.J.”, “Smile”, “Marcy Me”, “Bam”, “Family Feud”, “Caught Their Eyes”, “4:44″, “MaNyfaCedGod”, “Adnis”

As a huge Jay-Z fan, I cannot tell you how exciting it is to be hearing a great Hov album in 2017. This is the thrill of being a teenager tearing the packaging off of the Hard Knock Life album all over again, but even more impressive given the (now VERY distant) claims of Jay-Z being a dated artist well past his prime. 4:44 is a testament to Sean Carter’s musical growth as a lyricist, but more importantly, his growth as a man. This is great open-diary music right here. A classic Jay-Z album that doesn’t re-do any of his previous works, Jigga and No I.D. joined forces to make a special album that will remain the new bar for all “grown folk” rap music moving forward.

1. DAMN - Kendrick Lamar

Highlights: “FEAR”, “DNA”,“FEEL”, “HUMBLE”, “ELEMENT”, “DUCKWORTH”, “GOD”, “LOVE”, “GOD”. “PRIDE”

After To Pimp A Butterfly, an eager industry of skeptics and ‘stans’ wondered what Kendrick Lamar would drop on the world next. Would it be another musical treat that bucks the trends of what everyone else was doing with rap music? Would it be another personal record? Would it be all about race relations in America today? Or would it be a reach for more radio play? OR, would it be as many early rumors suggested, a more religious album, his most spiritual project to date? The answer to all of the above is YES. The closest thing to hearing Illmatic for the first time, I can honestly say that by the time I finished listening to DAMN. I already knew that the game would be shaped further by this album than any of his previous work. While the first single, “HUMBLE”, reminded folks that he can drop L.A. gangsta funk that lives up to the west coast’s best examples of that style of hip-hop, songs like “FEAR”, “DNA”, “DUCKWORTH” and “PRIDE” make it clear that Kendrick is an irreplaceable artist that isn’t reaching for the top of the charts anymore, he’s aiming for rap’s Mt. Rushmore. DAMN. is a damn near perfect rap album.

Honorable Mention: YEN by Nolan The Ninja,  4eva Is A Mighty Long Time by Big K.R.I.T., No Mountains In Manhattan by Wiki, Humble Beast by G Herbo, Painting Pictures by Kodak Black, Culture by Migos, Pretty Girls Like Trap Music Too by 2 Chainz, More Life by Drake, Rather You Than Me by Rick Ross, Hitler On Steroids by Westside Gunn, More Steroids by Conway, The Butcher On Steroids by Benny

[ICYMI: The Rap Pundit’s best rap albums of 2016...]

https://therappundit.tumblr.com/post/154720831146/and-the-top-5-rap-projects-of-2016-are

[oldguardaudio]

Hot take: Nobody needs a gun, unless you live in the projects (or pump gas in Alabama)

Hot take: Nobody needs a gun, unless you live in the projects (or pump gas in Alabama)

Who really “needs” a gun is a question that the gun grabbers are always asking, and sometimes you don’t know you need a gun until you need a gun — take the case of the pregnant Florida mother who killed a home intruder and drove off another with her AR-15.

Pregnant Florida mom uses AR-15 to kill home intruder

This is why people “need” AR-15s.

Multiple armed home invaders. Husband and 11 yr old…

[itsworn]

For a GM Guy, He Owns Some Incredible Hemi-Powered Mopars

John Wingle grew up in a loyal GM household and was raised with the dream of one day owning his own GM-branded big-block hot rod. The New Jersey native was surrounded by Chevys and other GM products from as far back as he can remember, with family members flaunting their high-caliber rides in front of him, a young, impressionable car guy in training. So it was only natural that when John grew old enough to drive, a Chevy would occupy his spot in the family driveway.

John was in good company for sure. His dad and brother Rich were big influences on the youngster. The father-son combo owned an assortment of muscle cars, including 409 Impalas, 442s, big-block Vettes, and even some cool GTOs. His sister was fond of Corvettes, driving them since getting her license. And Mom was lucky for sure; she got to drive them all! This all-encompassing environment of GM muscle no doubt had a lasting effect on what John would drive for years to come.

Once out of school and earning a steady living, John started to run through a bevy of Bowties, mostly with big-block power. Over the years he has held title on more than a half-dozen Chevelles, a quartet of C2 Corvettes, and even a Nova and Camaro. If it was fast and brash and built by GM, this guy wanted it. But strangely enough, soon a car would grab John’s attention and change his thinking on what the ultimate muscle car could possibly be.

Pentastar Search

John started to have mixed feelings when he spotted an interesting ride peeking out of a garage on his way to school one day. It was a 1970 Plymouth ’Cuda. He was instantly taken by the aggressive stance and menacing grille of the potent fish. That Plymouth was a model that John rarely came in contact with over the years, growing up behind a wall of GM muscle cars he could hardly see past. It definitely piqued his interest in the Chrysler brand, and was a precursor for what was about to happen.

Over the years, John started straying from Chevy products and seeing what the other brands had to offer. During this time he met Craig Ostertag, a local hot rodder who had recently purchased a 1970 Challenger. Craig was in the throes of a complete resto of the E-Body when they met, and often purchased bead-blasting material from John’s business. He became a major influence in John’s impending muscle car diversification.

Soon after they met, the guys decided to hit the Mopars at E-Town show at nearby Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. That’s where the barriers were officially broken down for good. You see, an intoxicating green-hued tractor beam grabbed John’s attention at the show and almost instantaneously erased more than 30-odd years of GM loyalty. The new object of desire: a 440-motivated 1970 Dodge Coronet, basted in Chrysler’s alluring Sublime green. That was it. He was hooked.

From that moment on, John was on the hunt for top-of-the-line offerings from Mother Mopar. He was after the models with the biggest and baddest motors Mopar offered, rides that also possessed the typical muscle car add-ons that make them all the more interesting, and thus more collectible.

It’s a Runner

John hit the ground sprinting, and soon found a contact that knew of several Mopars for sale. One was a very low-mileage 1969 Hemi Road Runner. With about 10,000 miles showing on the odometer, it was particularly enticing to John. It didn’t have its original Hemi, but the rest of the car was there.

The Scorch Red Plymouth was sold new in Philadelphia and lived a year with its first owner before being sold off. It bounced around and then sat comatose for almost 30 years on a lift in the back of a truck mechanic’s shop. It was sold to another individual who was ready to pass it on after starting a restoration. New owner John decided to have the current shop finish the work before bringing it home. The car was finally shipped to New Jersey four years later unfinished. It was then that John sent it to Steve’s Garage in Stillwater, New Jersey, where it became the head-turner you see here.

John tracked down several of the previous owners, one of whom (the second owner) told him how the Road Runner lost its original engine. His name is Earl Fennell, and he cared for the car deeply and always told his wife that whenever she filled up the car with gas, she should have the oil checked as well. One night while she was behind the wheel, she stopped for gas and had the oil level checked. Unknowingly, the attendant pulled the dipstick tube out of the motor while checking the oil level. Big mistake!

Oil poured from the engine while she drove down the highway, until the Road Runner’s Hemi went bone dry. The Road Runner ended up blowing the engine a few miles down the road. After that incident, the owner decided to get a replacement block, which seemed like the easiest thing to do at the time. Repairing the damage just seemed out of the question. Wow, how times have changed!

Now, 45 years later, the red Road Runner is a beauty to behold. It is driven sparingly, but whenever it’s out and about it’s a definite head twister. And to top it off, the title John received with the car was from the second owner, Earl Fennell, as the car was flipped several times without anyone registering the car since 1970. Bee Real John’s 1970 Hemi Super Bee came about by accident. Turns out the same previous owner of the Road Runner called John and said he had a really nice restored and rare 1970 Hemi Super Bee for sale. John was definitely interested after he found out it had a Pistol Grip between the buckets. With only 21 Hemi four-speed Bees made that year, this was already looking like one rare ride.

Add in the color options—B5 blue exterior with white guts and top—and you’re looking at possibly the only one in existence. John worked out a deal, trading a few Brand X cars he had for the stunning ride. And luckily this one was a turnkey car, ready to hit the road with just 14,000 original miles.

There is some history on the car. The Super Bee came out of a dealership in Rhode Island, and the first owner traded in a 1967 Camaro for the B-Body. Another interesting fact is this car came pretty loaded with cool options, an interesting diversion from the typical stripped-down Super Bees you usually see out there. It gives this beautiful Dodge another helping of collectability, to say the least.

Mopar or No Car

These two stunning examples of Ma Mopar’s greatest work now sit in a collection of topnotch Dodge and Plymouth rides, including a cool 1969 Mod-Top Barracuda that lived not far from his house. It is still a project, but it isn’t far from being roadworthy.

Looking to the future, John sees possible change on the horizon. “I might start off fresh again, maybe build me a Pro Touring car,” he says. But for now these two Elephant-powered B-Body beauties will be the cornerstone of a bevy of hot rides in his collection, two of the biggest guns from the Mopar Kingdom!

At a Glance

1969 Road Runner Owned by: John Wingle Restored by: Owner Engine: 426ci/425hp Hemi V-8 Transmission: A833 4-speed manual Rearend: Dana 60 with 4.10 gears and Sure Grip Interior: Black vinyl bucket seats Wheels: 15×6 steel Tires: F70-15 Firestone Wide Oval reproduction Special parts: Woodgrain shift knob, chrome exhaust tips, power front disc brakes, N96 Air Grabber hood

John Wingle traded several Brand-X cars to pick up this blazing Scorch Red 1969 Hemi Road Runner. He doesn’t regret it one bit.

A true 10,000-mile car, the Road Runner lost the original Hemi in its first year of life, but everything else survived. The car recently underwent an extensive four-year restoration.

As a budget street brawler, the Road Runner’s interior is basic: bucket seats, Hurst shifter, and a woodgrain steering wheel.

John really loves painted steel wheels. Luckily, both of these Hemi B-Bodies came with them as original equipment. Each now runs on correct repop rubber.

At a Glance

1970 Super Bee Owned by: John Wingle Restored by: Previous owner Engine: 426ci/425hp Hemi V-8 Transmission: A833 4-speed manual Rearend: Dana 60 with 4.10 gears and Sure Grip Interior: White vinyl bucket seat with buddy seat Wheels: 15×7 steel Tires: F60-15 Goodyear Polyglas reproduction Special parts: White vinyl top, power disc brakes, power steering, wood steering wheel, AM/FM stereo, N96 Ramcharger hood

John’s stunning 1970 Hemi Super Bee not only shows only 15,000 original miles on the odometer but also sports a Hemi/four-speed combo (1 of 21 made) and a super-rare white vinyl top with matching interior to contrast with the vibrant B5 blue paint. This combination of engine, trans, and color makes it possibly the only one in existence.

Unlike its Road Runner stable mate, the Super Bee still has the original Hemi drivetrain. Both cars have the N96 fresh air package to feed their respective Elephant motors cool fresh air from outside the engine bay.

The Super Bee has a higher level of appointments than the Road Runner, boasting an AM/FM stereo, white vinyl buckets with a buddy seat, a wood-rimmed wheel, a Tic-Toc-Tac, and a cool-as-heck Pistol Grip shifter.

Some find the 1970 Super Bee’s grille a little bizarre, while others say it’s the best-looking front end Chrysler designed during the muscle car years.

The post For a GM Guy, He Owns Some Incredible Hemi-Powered Mopars appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/gm-guy-owns-incredible-hemi-powered-mopars/ via IFTTT

[yes-dal456]

Gun Advocates Keep Repeating The Same Lies. Sound Familiar?

Six years ago the state of Florida decided that doctors could not talk to their patients about guns. The state of Florida has become the legislative sandbox for every attempt by Gun-nut Nation to rid the country of any and all protections against the violence caused by guns. Stand Your Ground, Concealed Carry – both of these harebrained schemes came out of the Gunshine State. But the law known as FOPA (Firearm Owners Protection Act) was the craziest of them all.

What made the law so crazy wasn’t the fact that it criminalized doctors who talked to their patients about guns; it was that in a state of 18 million people, the law was based on six unsubstantiated anecdotes which, as the 11th Circuit Court noted, didn’t even address the same concerns. Which was one, but not the only reason why that Court just ruled 10 – 1 that the law was unconstitutional and couldn’t stand.

Throwing doctors out of the discussion about gun violence has been a major and ongoing NRA project since the medical profession first started warning about the risks of guns. Which is exactly how the Hippocratic Oath defines the role of physicians, namely, to reduce risk.  But I can’t blame the gun industry and its noisemakers like the NRA from taking an anti-doctor stand; after all, if you manufactured a consumer product which was considered by physicians to be too risky to own, you���d be up in arms (no pun intended) against those physicians too.

But what the Court said in this regard effectively stood the NRA’s argument on its head, because 10 out of 11 justices found that “there was no evidence whatsoever before the Florida Legislature that any doctors or medical professionals have taken away patients’ firearms or otherwise infringed on patients’ Second Amendment rights.” And this is what the argument is all about, namely, whether any attempt to regulate gun violence or even talk about gun violence is somehow always construed as an ‘attack’ on 2nd Amendment ‘rights.’

Right now a bill is being debated in the State of Washington Legislature which would make a failure to secure guns in the home a reckless endangerment felony if an individual who, under law, cannot have possession of a firearm gets his hands on the gun and discharges it or uses it in a criminal or threatening way.  The NRA is opposed to this bill, calling it “an intrusive government legislation [which] invades people’s homes and forces them to render their firearms useless in a self-defense situation by locking them up.” 

The bill does no such thing. Nor does a doctor talking to a patient about guns threaten the patient’s ownership of that gun. But if we now have a president who stands up in front of the entire nation and after he��s corrected about the size of his electoral victory repeats the same falsehood again, should we be surprised when the representatives of Gun-nut Nation continue to promote their own false claims again and again?

No doubt that when the dust settles and the smoke clears, Gun-nut Nation will come up with their own, self-fulfilling narrative about the ‘Docs versus Glocks’ case. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the first thing they say is that the 11th Circuit is tainted because 9 of the 10 judges who supported the majority decision were appointed by gun-grabber numero uno, Barack Hussein.  But that’s nothing more than another riff on Trump-o’s attack on the ‘politicized’ judiciary, which seems to be the latest in a dwindling list of options available to the Chief Executive before he’s forced to resign.

The decision by the 11th Circuit not only puts an end to a six-year battle that erupted when the FOPA law was first announced.  It also puts a big dent in the 30-year campaign waged by the NRA and others to keep evidence-based information about gun risk and gun violence on the margins of the public domain. This just isn’t a victory for the medical community, it’s a victory for the value of reasoned, public debate.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from http://ift.tt/2kLQJ1S from Blogger http://ift.tt/2l8bBN1

[imreviewblog]

Gun Advocates Keep Repeating The Same Lies. Sound Familiar?

Six years ago the state of Florida decided that doctors could not talk to their patients about guns. The state of Florida has become the legislative sandbox for every attempt by Gun-nut Nation to rid the country of any and all protections against the violence caused by guns. Stand Your Ground, Concealed Carry – both of these harebrained schemes came out of the Gunshine State. But the law known as FOPA (Firearm Owners Protection Act) was the craziest of them all.

What made the law so crazy wasn’t the fact that it criminalized doctors who talked to their patients about guns; it was that in a state of 18 million people, the law was based on six unsubstantiated anecdotes which, as the 11th Circuit Court noted, didn’t even address the same concerns. Which was one, but not the only reason why that Court just ruled 10 – 1 that the law was unconstitutional and couldn’t stand.

Throwing doctors out of the discussion about gun violence has been a major and ongoing NRA project since the medical profession first started warning about the risks of guns. Which is exactly how the Hippocratic Oath defines the role of physicians, namely, to reduce risk.  But I can’t blame the gun industry and its noisemakers like the NRA from taking an anti-doctor stand; after all, if you manufactured a consumer product which was considered by physicians to be too risky to own, you’d be up in arms (no pun intended) against those physicians too.

But what the Court said in this regard effectively stood the NRA’s argument on its head, because 10 out of 11 justices found that “there was no evidence whatsoever before the Florida Legislature that any doctors or medical professionals have taken away patients’ firearms or otherwise infringed on patients’ Second Amendment rights.” And this is what the argument is all about, namely, whether any attempt to regulate gun violence or even talk about gun violence is somehow always construed as an ‘attack’ on 2nd Amendment ‘rights.’

Right now a bill is being debated in the State of Washington Legislature which would make a failure to secure guns in the home a reckless endangerment felony if an individual who, under law, cannot have possession of a firearm gets his hands on the gun and discharges it or uses it in a criminal or threatening way.  The NRA is opposed to this bill, calling it “an intrusive government legislation [which] invades people’s homes and forces them to render their firearms useless in a self-defense situation by locking them up.” 

The bill does no such thing. Nor does a doctor talking to a patient about guns threaten the patient’s ownership of that gun. But if we now have a president who stands up in front of the entire nation and after he’s corrected about the size of his electoral victory repeats the same falsehood again, should we be surprised when the representatives of Gun-nut Nation continue to promote their own false claims again and again?

No doubt that when the dust settles and the smoke clears, Gun-nut Nation will come up with their own, self-fulfilling narrative about the ‘Docs versus Glocks’ case. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the first thing they say is that the 11th Circuit is tainted because 9 of the 10 judges who supported the majority decision were appointed by gun-grabber numero uno, Barack Hussein.  But that’s nothing more than another riff on Trump-o’s attack on the ‘politicized’ judiciary, which seems to be the latest in a dwindling list of options available to the Chief Executive before he’s forced to resign.

The decision by the 11th Circuit not only puts an end to a six-year battle that erupted when the FOPA law was first announced.  It also puts a big dent in the 30-year campaign waged by the NRA and others to keep evidence-based information about gun risk and gun violence on the margins of the public domain. This just isn’t a victory for the medical community, it’s a victory for the value of reasoned, public debate.

-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://huff.to/2mbTWox