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lovelylogans · 4 years ago

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the warmest hello (to the coldest goodbye)

once a spy, always a spy forever, forever the warmest hello to the coldest goodbye remember, remember -spies are forever, the tin can bros

warnings: undercover spy work, mention of weapons, drugging someone into unconsciousness/giving someone a roofie, essentially the start of an enemies to lovers fanfiction

pairings: virgil/logan, offscreen roman/patton

words: 4,465

notes: this is for day 7 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “free day” and i have decided to write a combination soulmates and rival spies au! please enjoy!

⁂

Not that Virgil would admit it, but, like literally every other marked person, he's tried to imagine how he might meet his soulmate. He just didn't ever spare any thought on what he'd do if it happened on the job.

His official cover to his friends (which was mostly his cousin Roman and Roman’s husband Patton) was that he was an analyst—he was always vague about what exactly it was he analyzed, but since neither of them were particularly mathematically inclined, and both were maybe a bit too trusting for their own good, they took him at his word.

Even when he was sent off on various unusual "business trips.”

It’s not like Virgil’s mark is very specific about when and where it’ll happen. Virgil knows that variations of "sorry about that” make for a large percentage of common soulmarks.

There’s protocols in place, of course, but Virgil had never really paid attention to those classes while training to be a spy. The Lewis clause is the kind of thing Virgil didn’t pay as much attention to, because it didn’t seem as useful as understanding the technology or how to make a cover. The Lewis clause is what to do when someone meets a soulmate on the job—there are specifications for if the soulmate is a target, a team member, or an enemy.

Virgil hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d kick himself for that later.

Any number of meetings occurred accidentally—knocking something over, bumping into someone, or, like his cousin Roman's soulmate did, take Roman's coffee thinking it was his own hot chocolate. They got married two winters ago, just so they could serve hot beverages in cold weather.

He thinks the iteration stamped in black along his left inner arm, "I'm very sorry about this," with the addition of "oh no, it's you” tacked on at the end of his makes it likely that whatever he says will, A, likely be first, B, be somewhat unique, or unique enough to be immediately recognizable, and C, be in the aftermath of some kind of accident.

He ends up being partially right. What he says is first and it is somewhat unique. What his soulmate apologizes for is no accident, though.

Virgil does undercover work, sure, but it's very rare for him to enter the James Bond style locale he's at today, and that he’s been working for the past couple months; the marble ballroom he's circling is dripping with gold chandeliers and matching heavy, velvet curtains that accent the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a string quartet in the corner, barely audible over the chatter of rich socialites. Virgil, deeply uncomfortable in his white-tie attire, is circling the room in an attempt at looking like he attends charity balls all the time.

He sucks at it.

As if on cue, his earpiece crackles to life.

"How the fuck did you ever qualify to be a spy?" Janus, his tech man and eye in the sky, snickers into his ear. "Your acting skills are horrendous. If you auditioned for The Room right now, they wouldn't let you into the cast.”

"Fuck off,” Virgil fake-coughs into his shoulder.

"Christ, at least try to look like you're mingling, not like you've stalked the target here."

Unable to stop himself, he glances toward the target he's meant to be watching.

The target, who is so staggeringly wealthy it could make Virgil, who is trying to pay off his student debt on a spy's salary (not as high as one might think) burst into tears. Or, much more likely, start ranting about the myriad flaws of capitalism. If so inclined, he could honestly probably steal the amount of money necessary from one of her offshore accounts, and it would be as unnoticeable as someone taking a penny from him.

Mary Lee Truman is standing amidst a flock of suited men, like a dove amidst a flock of dour crows; her dress is slinky silk, a shade of champagne that glimmers rose-gold in the right shade of light. She’s standing leaned to one side, her hip popped out and an arm crossed over her stomach, a crystal-cut champagne flute dangling in her fingers as if she was born to hold one.

Her husband, Lee Truman (fuck if that wasn’t confusing, it was really easier to think of them by their codenames) is off by the bar, seemingly getting himself another drink.

His eyes stray to Mary Lee again; he can tell a couple of the suits are hired muscle, bodyguards, which makes sense, as the Trumans are allegedly a massive crime family, doing their dirty dealings in plain sight. A couple of the suits he recognizes from dossiers; one is a business partner of Lee’s father, who might not even know what the Truman family really gets up to; one absolutely knows what the Truman family gets up to, as Virgil’s read his rap sheet and knows he’s been in and out of jail due to his assignments from the mob.

There’s one suit there that really doesn’t seem to fit the mold of either category.

For one thing, he’s around Virgil’s age; for another, he isn’t rippling with muscle. Not that he doesn’t look fit; his well-tailored suit shows off his broad shoulders, his biceps, his lean waist. He’s dark-haired, and pale, and blue-eyed, and he’s standing next to Mary Lee with a look that Virgil would think of as dour, but now that he’s looking closely, the blue-eyed man looks almost... calculating.

This man wasn’t in the dossier.

Almost everyone at this ball was in the dossier.

Virgil looks away from Mary Lee and the handsome man, and instead decides to start taking up Janus’ advice; he slowly moves through the room.

Well. He's doing it to get closer to Mary Lee, but sure, he can attempt to mingle.

He traverses through the room, his fancy shoes clicking on the marble floor, mindful to not step on any dress hems—he has it easy, as his directive was simply to wear his white tie with his hidden weapons, his ear piece, and his lapel pin that records everything he's seeing. The women in the room provide the only splashes of color outside of the black suits and white shirts of the men, the gleaming marble, the gold- accented glasses and dishware. Even what little art he's seen follows that color theme -- white marble busts, abstract black and white paintings in their gilded frames, a gold statue outside the front steps, as if to greet the partygoers.

But the women of the party aren't beholden to this strict color scheme. Gowns of pink chiffon, red lace, blue taffeta, deep violet velvet, Virgil passes them all, keeping one eye out for rose gold silk.

He ends up instituting himself in a ring of people listening intently to an art history professor talking about the architectural significance of his building—he introduces himself with his cover name, James Walker, to the man next to him, who Virgil already knows is a Truman cousin. He gives a fake first name too—he says his name is Alex, when Virgil knows it’s really Bruce. Okay. Something to take note of.

He listens to the art history professor talk about art deco with just one ear, the other straining to eavesdrop on Mary Lee and her suits.

“Do you think our beneficiary approaches?” Mary Lee murmurs to the blue-eyed one, the one that wasn’t in the dossier.

“Oh, I know he does,” the blue-eyed man says to her. He has a pleasant British accent, the kind of voice that would be right at home on a nature documentary calmly narrating the eating habits of wolverines, or something like that. “According to all my research, our previous beneficiary is no longer within our purview. A new one will have been instilled in hasty time. As a matter of fact, I believe I would be able to point him out to you right now.”

Mary Lee sighs, a little, and the man continues talking about their charity. Virgil’s mind races. He knows the Truman’s “charity work” almost always acts as a sieve to run dirty money through, so what would it mean, that they got a new beneficiary? A new target, maybe? A new directive?

Either way, this is almost definitely some kind of code they’re talking in. He tunes a bit more into the art history professor’s impromptu lecture—he’s taking a brief tangent into talking about Tamara de Lempicka—as he ruminates on that particular conversation between the blue-eyed Brit and Mary Lee.

Then he ends up in conversation with an elderly woman beside him, who wants to know who he is—James Walker, I run a business a state or two over, I’m interested in diversifying my assets—and if he’s been to any art museums in town. Both he and the man he is meant to be have not, but it turns out she’s a curator and has numerous suggestions for him.

He also knows this woman, Ida Kelly, has been paying into the Truman business for quite some time, and has potentially ordered hits using the Truman’s muscle.

“Madam,” a suited waiter shows up at her side, as if on cue, and hands her a small glass full of what looks like a gin-and-tonic.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she says, taking her drink immediately.

The waiter turns to him. There is a singular champagne flute on the tray. “Sir.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Virgil says stupidly, before he realizes that almost everyone here is taking champagne flutes off of trays, and he supposes this waiter just wants to clear his before he has to double back and get more. “Oh, all right.”

He takes it. It’s a delicate, crystal-cut glass. He’s almost a little afraid that if he holds it wrong, it’ll break.

“Really, we’re doing an Impressionism exhibit, and it is positively divine,” she says.

Very suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, emanating warmth through his suit and Virgil jumps, a little—he hopes whoever it is didn’t feel one his knives. Or, God forbid, his gun.

He turns to see no one, when a hand touches his opposite arm, and he turns again. It turns out to be the blue-eyed Brit, who is staring only at Ida, brushing past him, allowing his hand to trail down Virgil’s arm, touching his hand as if to say, please stay there, I do not want to bump into you.

At such a close range, Virgil can smell his absolutely incredible cologne, see his defined jawline, the way his blue eyes gleam.

Ida brightens. “Darling!”

“Ida,” the Brit says warmly. “I visited that display myself, it was simply wonderful.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” she says, clearly drinking up the praise. Virgil looks between them, feeling even more awkward than he has all night.

“Wait a goddamned minute,” Janus murmurs in his ear, after such a long stretch of silence that it makes Virgil jump again. There’s the sound of rapid typing.

“A victory!” The man says, lifting his glass—it looks to be full of whiskey. “A toast, to your latest triumph.”

“Oh, now,” she says, but when the other surrounding suits start lifting their glasses, Virgil lifts his, as well.

“To Ida Kelly,” the Brit says. “One of the finest artistic minds to walk the earth at our time!”

Virgil takes a sip of his champagne at the same time as everyone else; another woman in a deep green gown with a shawl edged in feathers takes Ida’s arm, rhapsodizing about the Impressionism movement and the latest event that her art gallery had put on.

It takes about a minute for Virgil to notice his vision going blurry in the corners.

It takes him about ten seconds of blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, hoping to clear it, to stumble over his own two feet.

It takes five seconds for Janus’ voice to buzz to life in his earpiece, urgent, “Virgil, get out of there, get away from that man, that’s Lo—”

It takes him about two seconds after that to notice that the blue-eyed Brit is looking at him with an expression clearly lacking remorse.

It takes him about half a second to realize the finger tapping one shoulder, his hand at his hand—the same hand that had been holding his champagne flute. He hadn’t been looking at his drink. The Brit had made him turn away from his drink.

The Brit put something in his drink.

Virgil’s been made.

“Good God, man,” another suited man says, when Virgil stumbles over his own two feet, “had enough of the bubbly, have you?”

Virgil ignores him; even as his vision is growing blurrier and blurrier, his eyes are intent on the Brit, staggering towards him, and he doesn’t even really know why. He’s been made, he should be running, but—

"Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?" Virgil slurs, and his sudden lack of physical control resoundingly answers the question before the Brit can; the arms that catch him before he can full flat on his face are muscular and warm. He’s distantly aware of the crystal-cut grass slipping from his hand and shattering on the marble.

The warm, muscular arms are more pressing than that. And, for a dirty rotten criminal who has probably killed people, the man is quite handsome. His bespectacled face swims in Virgil's vision.

"'I'm very sorry about this," he says smoothly, before his eyes widen in alarm. "Oh no.”

As Virgil is on the verge of unconsciousness, he hears, "It's you."

His last three thoughts before he slips under: did he just fucking say what he thought he said, then, good God his eyes are so blue, then, fuck, I should have paid way more attention to the Lewis clause.

⁂

Virgil is aware of three things as he wakes up: one, he feels like he has a dreadful hangover. Two, he’s pretty sure he’s in a plane or train or car or something moving, which makes him feel motion sick.

Three, he’s been stripped of his earpiece and his weapons.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, squinting; it’s night time, but even the low light is making Virgil’s eyes hurt.

This is a limousine, he can tell that much off the bat; the partition is closed, the glass tinted as dark as it legally can be, the interior leather light-colored, the bar fully stocked with different sodas and crystal-cut decanters full of various liquors, which makes him wince in memory of the champagne.

He feels like shit, but when he looks over and sees the blue-eyed Brit—his soulmate—his soulmate who had fucking drugged him and was working with the mob—it makes him feel even shittier.

“Ah,” his soulmate says. He’s sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, a squat glass of whiskey in hand. He has glasses on now that he hadn’t had on before. Also, his accent is no longer British; he’s got a nice Italian lilt to his voice, now. “Good. You’re awake.”

Virgil stares at him. He doesn’t say a word.

“I’ll admit this,” he gestures between them, “rather put a cinch in my plan on how to deal with you.”

“Would you have killed me?” Virgil asks. His voice comes out a croak. “If we weren’t...”

He trails off.

The man’s eyebrow arches, before he shrugs, and rolls up his sleeve. His soulmark is in the same place as Virgil’s—stamped across his left inner arm, in the spiky handwriting Virgil only uses in his personal notes, not the more uniform one he writes reports with.

Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?!

Undeniably a matching soulmark to his.

“My parents were quite bemused by it, when it showed up,” the Brit—or American?—the blue-eyed—his soulmate says. “I suppose we have our answers now.”

“Do we?” he says.

The man takes a sip of whiskey. Then, he says, “Your predecessor was FBI. Are you the same?”

Virgil tenses. The man rolls his eyes again.

“Please,” he murmurs. “For an organization meant to be secretive, your lot are quite obvious when you trade moles in and out. One comes in, goes out, and coincidentally someone new is knocking on the door within the week. It’s absurdly simple to pinpoint who’s reporting back to your government. So. FBI, CIA, military...?”

“Who gives a fuck,” Virgil says.

“One should know what one’s soulmate does for a living, shouldn’t they?” he says. “This is a very unique situation. I’m simply trying to find out—”

“What do you do for a living, then?” Virgil snarls. His head is pounding, his mouth is dry and it tastes dreadful, his soulmate is an asshole working for the other side, and he’s being carted off to God knows where. This day is one of the worst of his life. Why couldn’t he have had a nice little café meet-cute, like Roman had had?

The man smiles at him, not particularly kindly. “I diversify.”

Virgil pulls a face, because he knows that’s poking fun at his cover.

“What,” Virgil says, “poison people on Monday, go to Ida Kelly’s resort on Tuesday, with a fun little Friday jaunt of killing people who cross the Trumans?”

“I’ve never actually been to the museum Ida Kelly curates,” the man admits. “It was an easy way to insert myself near you, to put it in your drink. And for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t poison.”

“Roofie. Drug. Whatever.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together, in a rather petulant expression. “I designed that myself, you know.”

“Well, it’s shit,” Virgil snaps. “I feel like I have the worst hangover of my goddamn life.”

“Yes, that was part of the design,” the man says, and offers him a glass of water.

Virgil stares at him. “Seriously.”

“No trust between soulmates?” He says.

“Yeah, well. Fool me once.”

The man shrugs, putting down the glass of water into a cupholder, before digging out a sealed water bottle. Virgil takes it and places it into a cupholder near him. No fucking way he’s accepting any food or drink from this man.

His lips quirk up into a smile.

“Where are you taking me?” Virgil says, ignoring the way that smile makes his heart pound.

“That rather depends,” he admits.

“On?”

“Well.” He says. He uncrosses his legs, planting both feet on the floor. “I’m assuming that now the man in your little earpiece—he was rather rude—is aware that you have been, what is it you say? Made?”

Virgil nods.

“Well. Now that he, and therefore your employer, knows that you are made, you won’t be poking your nose into Truman business anymore, will you?”

Virgil grits his teeth. “Not undercover.”

The man ignores that. “And I know that no matter which you work for, the Lewis clause has been adopted across every arm of that government, and as such you’ll be prohibited from any mission that might bring you into contact with me.”

God damn it. How does he know the spy lessons better than Virgil does?

And then it occurs to him: Janus knew that man. He warned Virgil to get away from him, to get away from Lo—

He rolls this information around in his head. The Lewis clause isn’t exactly a widely advertised part of being a spy; there was a whole trilogy of novels that got adapted into secret agent movies, years ago, that concerned opposing agent spies coming to face each other again and again, and the secondary soulmate agents teamed up together. Which the Lewis clause would prevent, but the public who went and read those novels or saw those movies wouldn’t know that.

So either this man—Lo? Lo what?—either knows a lot about spies, because he’s one of those know your enemy types, or...

Or he sat down and learned about the Lewis clause the same way that Virgil did, except he actually sat down and listened. Maybe he defected, maybe he’s dirty? Or maybe Virgil’s just overthinking it.

Look. Virgil’s got a lot of questions here. Chief among which:

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” the man says vaguely, looking at him. “Are you gay?”

Virgil gapes at him.

“I’d be perfectly fine with a platonic soulmate, but for the sake of disclosure, I am gay.”

“For the sake of disclosure,” Virgil repeats disbelievingly, and pinches the bridge of her nose, rubbing it. God, his head hurts terribly.

“Bisexual, or pansexual, perhaps?” He prompts. “Asexual? Or... you could be straight, I suppose.”

“Ugh,” Virgil says reflexively, then shakes himself. “I’m not—okay. Fine. Yeah, I’m gay too.”

“All right,” the man says, as if noting it. “What’s your name?”

Virgil snorts.

“What?”

“Okay, I don’t—” he gestures to the limousine around them. “Again, you just drugged me. I don’t know where you’re taking me. You probably would have killed me if I hadn’t said those words.”

The man makes a moue of distaste.

“Or had someone kill me, I don’t know,” Virgil amends. “Either way, you’re working with that family, who I’m assuming aren’t pleased at having a spy getting caught trying to work himself into your ranks, so I’d rather you not know all that much about my life, thanks.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for your,” an infinitesimal pause, as if he’s wracking his brain, trying to remember something, “social security number or anything. A name.”

Virgil stares at this man. Lo—. Lo something. Lochlan? Loyd? Or was it a codename?

“Yours first.”

The man pauses.

“You drugged me,” Virgil says.

He smiles at Virgil. “Will you hold this over my head for the rest of our lives?”

The rest of our lives. Yes, that’s meant to be the fairytale ending for soulmates, isn’t it? A nice little meeting, the swell of overdramatic violins in the background, falling into each other’s arms and forming a life together. That’s the popular answer.

More and more recently, though, people have been advocating for choice; that soulmates are not always the best person for you.

Virgil doesn’t know which camp he and this man will fall into, just now.

“Yes,” Virgil says quietly. “Yes, I think I will.”

The man sets aside his whiskey.

“Logan.” He says at last, and his accent has changed again; it’s vague, almost indecipherable, but if Virgil had to guess he’d say Midwestern American. Virgil wonders if it’s his real one. “My name is Logan.”

Logan.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Since discovering you’re my soulmate? I haven’t lied to you at all. Not a word.”

“Except for the accent.”

Logan laughs.

“Habit, sorry. It’s a long story that perhaps the man screaming in your earpiece will be able to tell you one day.”

Virgil jolts with surprise. “You know—?”

He cuts himself off before he can say Janus’ name.

“Reputationally,” Logan says, and, as strange as it is, Virgil believes him. In this, at least.

His soulmate’s name is Logan.

“Virgil.”

Logan smiles, his blue eyes glittering. “It’s nice to meet you, Virgil.”

There’s the sound of a soft knock on the partition, and it lowers; Virgil can’t see the driver.

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Right,” Logan murmurs, shaking himself. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an envelope, offering it for Virgil.

Virgil hesitates.

Logan rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve laced it with anything. I’m holding it with my bare hands.”

Virgil huffs, but he takes it, opening it and pulling out a thin piece of paper.

It’s a commercial flight ticket to Washington, D.C.

“Why D.C.?” Virgil says quietly.

“Most of those organizations are based there,” Logan says. “Is it too far a jump to assume that you are, as well?”

It is actually too far a jump; it’s not even remotely close, he lives in an entirely different part of the states. But. To be fully honest, he doesn’t want Logan to know the state he lives in, and therefore the state that Patton and Roman live in, until Virgil knows if he can be trusted or not.

Logan opens the limousine door from inside, revealing they’ve pulled up to the local airport.

“What, no private plane?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t trust that,” Logan says with a shrug. “The Trumans may be powerful, but you know as well as I that manipulating a flight of this nature is well outside their purview.”

Logan’s right, he absolutely wouldn’t have trusted that, but. This limo’s pretty swanky. For the time he wouldn’t have been obsessively running over every crack and seam in a private jet and interrogating the pilot, he probably would have had a pretty swell time.

Virgil swallows, looking up at Logan. “There are programs, you know? If you wanted to be a witness. Be in service to—”

Logan smiles at him in a way that’s almost pitying. “I left that life behind a long time ago.”

Virgil looks to the airport, then back at Logan.

“Will I see you again?”

Logan shrugs again, almost delicately. “Who’s to say?”

Virgil nods, once, and he says firmly, “I’ll see you later.”

Logan grins at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Virgil slips out of the limo, slams the door shut, and, with what feels like Herculean effort, manages to get into the airport without looking back to see if he can see Logan through the tinted glass.

He does exchange the ticket for another that’s an hour and a half later, though. He’s not a total idiot.

He gets through security pretty quick, and sits in one of the incredibly uncomfortable chairs, his brain pounding with his headache, the questions swirling around in his head making it even worse. Virgil puts his head in his hands.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is working for a mob family.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is apparently smart enough to specifically engineer a roofie.

His soulmate, though!

Janus knows his soulmate. Janus recognized his soulmate.

His soulmate knew about the fucking Lewis clause.

Was his soulmate a spy too? Was his soulmate in deep cover? Had he betrayed his organization? Was he a good person, or had the universe seen fit to hitch Virgil to someone awful?

How had Logan gotten entangled with the Trumans in the first place? Why wasn’t he in the dossier?

Where was Logan even from? Did he like coffee? Hot chocolate? What had he studied in school? What was his favorite food? If they were normal people, would he have asked him on a date and not drugged him and dragged him off in a limo?

Who was Logan?

Whatever the answers to his questions are, though. Virgil knows himself enough to know that he isn’t about to let this case go. Not the Trumans. Not him.

Lewis clause be damned.

#my post #text #my fic #analogical #analogicalweek #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides fanfic #virgil sanders #logan sanders

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dinua · 4 years ago

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TAG2 really happened, huh?

it has been about less than a day since I beat it, and I'm still reeling from it. but now that I've got a good night's sleep and stuff like that, I'll have to say,

everything was fantastic except for the writing.

this is all my opinion of course.

spoilers under the cut, you have been warned.

where the fuck do I even begin? it felt like all of the plot points were thrown at you at breakneck speeds. I know we're in a pandemic and all and that id's on a deadline (the Year One Pass), but they really should've saved the Davoth fight for a full game. on the topic of the Dark Lord,

- Davoth, Ruler of Everything

so apparently id thought it would be a good idea to shamelessly retcon The Father being God, by instead having Davoth being God with The Father being his creation. it just seems like a twist put in there just to seem surprising.

nevermind the fact that this contradicts everything back in the main campaign and TAG1. the fact that TAG2 handwaves the Book of the Seraphs as "lies" only puts salt in the wound.

and also, it mentions that absolutely everything was just a part of Davoth's plan to get revenge on the Maykrs, from Doomguy’s existence, to the deal with Khan Maykr, and Samur rebelling.

not only does this mean that none of the characters really have any agency of their own in the story (which sucks because I liked Doomguy being the human-turned-demigod wildcard that messes up everyone's plans), but this once again contradicts previous lore, for after you kill the Khan Maykr back in Urdak, the Dark Lord can be clearly seen shouting "No!" at her demise.

oh yeah, speaking of the maykrs,

- where the fuck is Sam? (and other loose ends)

seriously, after The Father teleported him away after the fight with him in TAG1, he's never to be seen again. no closure, just nothing. despite the fact that, y'know, he has played a massive role in the story since 2016 and that he's still alive.

also, what even happened to the Fortress of Doom and the Demonic Crucible? are they just floating in Earth's orbit for eternity? and will no one even question it? (well considering no one's questioning the literal portal to Hell's capital, they probably won't.)

- Valen and the Intern should've gotten more screen time

exactly what it says on the tin. I say that the Intern should've gotten more screentime because I'm heavily biased towards him (he's adorable, what can I say) but Valen should've also gotten screen time considering that he, along with the rest of the Loyalist Night Sentinels, are participating in the siege of Immora. even a cutscene of Valen hatching up a plan with the Sentinels to assist the Slayer would've been nice, considering that he's a commander for crying out loud!

and finally, we reach the ending.

- Doomguy fucking dies

yes, before anyone asks, I am aware that Doomguy may not be dead and is instead sleeping like he was before 2016, but still.

what. why?

Doomguy deserves better, and being forced into a sarcophagus after finally killing off the dude who's been responsible for all of his suffering up to that point is just... unfair. and if the powers that be decide only to let him out when he is needed, that's basically them viewing him as a weapon, which greatly insults his character and what he's been through. my man deserves a happy ending.

I have more grievances with Doom's new lore and stuff, expanding beyond TAG2, like how with each and every game + DLC starting from 2016, things keep on getting more wackier and insane, Samuel Hayden being Samur Maykr all along (even though it clashes with his 2016 characterization), and the unsolved mystery of the family photo, but that's for another time. that doesn't mean I hated it as a whole though.

+ Environments

dear god, the world looks absolutely amazing in the DLC. the high tech city of Immora, the Argenta countryside + the World Spear, and the abandoned yet stunning in Reclaimed Earth.. credits to the artists for crafting such landscapes.

+ Gameplay

it's almost as if TAG2 had struck a balance between the decently hard main campaign and the tough-as-platinum-nails difficulty of TAG1. combat flows well, and the game gives you a challenge while not reaching the levels of pain TAG1 gave you. though I've heard that they nerfed a lot of difficult things in Eternal as a whole, much to the chargin of speedrunners.

that hammer tho;;

it's like pure adrenaline condensed into a weapon. It lends itself well to the combat of the game, considering that late-DLC and the Davoth fight was built around it. I reckon that it would be overpowered to hell and back if you were able to use it outside TAG2 though.

so yeah, that was my rant/review of The Ancient Gods Part 2. some may have liked the writing better than I did, who knows. but, lemme just say one more thing:

intern’s best boy, fight me

#doom #doom eternal #doom eternal the ancient gods #doom dlc spoilers #doomguy #davoth #vega #the father #valen #the intern #long post #oh yeah #what ever happened to the wretch who gave doomguy his armor?#that's for another day #i guess

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thebibliomancer · 3 years ago

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Tides of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 25

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because some fire just proclaimed Tavra the true All-Maudra, the Vapra have joined the loosely affiliated resistance, and skekSa has our heroes back against a cliff. Two chapters left, tensions high!

Last times on book: Amri and co are on a quest to unify the Gelfling clans against the Skeksis. They’ve succeeded with the Sifa, the Dousan, and now the Vapra. But they’re cornered by skekSa the Mariner who is feeling a bit sore about the Sifa ditching her and wants to take Naia to use as political capital with the other Skeksis.

Chapter 25

Amri and the others fight to escape the clutches of skekSa, they don’t get out unscathed

skekSa stared, wide-eye, rage saturating her dark eyes and making her look more Skeksis than ever. Amri tried not to let it frighten him. Not now that they’d had their victory lighting the Vapra flame. All that was left was to escape the Mariner’s clutches. Survive, like Tavra had said.

Win condition: get the heck away.

Similar to the first book conclusion, having to escape the Hunter. Different from the second book where they planned to trap the Satirist to keep knowledge of the resistance secret longer.

Beating skekSa in a fight, not even a viable outcome.

For one, her sword is longer than Amri is tall. That’s a bit of a discouraging thing.

skekSa tries being ‘reasonable’ one last time, offering Naia a chance to surrender for the safety of the others but Naia refuses.

[skekSa] charged at Tae, swinging her sword. Even if its edge were not sharp, the sheer power and weight of it would crush a Gelfling if it struck. Tae leaped, wings taking her up so her toes touched the gleaming metal of the blade. She ran along the sword, leaping again and slashing with her dagger.

That’s some more choreography that I’d love to see in puppets.

It’d look silly if not execute well but maybe good silly.

There’s only so many ways you can portray a small individual fighting a much larger one and its not like Yoda’s method of jumping around everywhere like a grasshopper doesn’t look silly if you’re not in the moment.

Naia runs to help Tae hold off the Mariner and Amri runs to take care of Kylan.

Kylan being Kylan, his first concern is to stop skekSa from destroying any more trees after the trees helped send the message but Tavra chides him they have to save themselves first.

Problem being they’re backed up against the cliff, they don’t see Onica’s lantern down in the ocean, and all the fliers are trying to knife fight a behemoth.

skekSa doesn’t give them space to think about it either, she dashes in and tries to split Amri in half. He tries to block with Tavra’s sword but the Skeksis wrenches it from his hand with the hook on her sword.

Not ideal.

Naia and Tae attack her again and do some damage but she just jumps away from Tae and throws Naia off of her. Fighting Skeksis is hard.

Tae tells Tavra to protect the others and keep lighting the fires no matter what happens and then dives against skekSa from the air.

Tae’s dagger bit. skekSa’s sword flipped into the air, and Amri caught his heart in his teeth when he saw that the Skeksis’ severed hand still clutched the hilt as it flew.

skekSa screamed. She grasped the stump where her hand had been.

“How dare you!” she cried, over and over. “HOW DARE YOU!”

Well, uh, plus side is that now she can get a hook hand to add to her piratey aesthetic?

Minus side is the Swimmer just lost a hand too.

Other minus side, Skeksis have four arms. Two usually vestigial but like the Hunter, the Mariner engages in vigorous exercise in the brisk outdoors and hasn’t had arm atrophy.

Amri tries to warn Tae when he sees the movement but is too late.

One of skekSa’s smaller arms slipped out from the Skeksis’ coat. Something flashed, and a BOOM rang through the mountain air. A cloud of smoke exploded from skekSa’s hip, blasting Tae off her feet. She crashed into one of the Waystar trees, leaving a red mark on its glowing white bark where she struck. Then she fell into the snow and did not rise.

The smoke cleared. skekSa coughed and reached into the depths of her coat again, drawing out a leathery, egg-shaped device and holding it in her tiny palm. Her breath rasped in anger and pain, her blood still falling on the white snow. She stumbled to one knee.

“I can’t believe this,” she panted. “Can’t believe it one bit.”

Holy crap! Guns exist? Skeksis have guns??

This is even weirder than the Emperor doing force lightning.

Guns!

And here I was joking about her improving her piratey aesthetic when she had a gun up her sleeve!

A weird, egg-shaped gun.

The tech level of this world sure is unusual.

-rereading- Oh! Its a grenade!

Yeah, that’s more in keeping with what we have/will see. But geez, she hit Tae with a grenade. Poor Tae.

Also, sure she got blown up for it, but props to Tae for taking off an entire hand in one go.

Down below in the bay, Onica’s lantern has finally arrived and Naia says that their best chance is to fly down. Except now they’re down one flier and have two non fliers to convey.

skekSa throws another egg-shaped grenade, which Amri blocks by throwing a branch in its path. The explosion still knocks him on his ass because that’s what explosions DO.

And by the time he recovers, skekSa reaches them.

She had found her sword, held it in the hand that was intact, carelessly bleeding from the other as if it meant nothing.

“I don’t want to do this,” she said slowly, her blade tasting the snow at her feet. Her voice turned hard at the end, wicked as her sword. “I told you we had a deal -- you ungrateful fool.”

Huh.

I can almost believe she means it.

The Mariner takes a swing but she’s blocked by someone with a Vapra sword and then has her sword knocked off the cliff.

skekSa is having a really bad day.

[Amri’s] eyes were still hazy, trying desperately to focus. But even so, he could see how stood between them and skekSa: a Sifa with hair gold as the sun, holding Tavra’s sword. Shining on her neck was a crystal spider, silver and blue as the moon.

The ringing dulled enough that Amri could hear Tavra’s words, stern and commanding in Tae’s voice.

“Get out of here, to the cliff,” she said. “Run! Fly!”

Tavra spidered Tae!

I guess Tae is alive from being exploded? If her body is still capable of being spidered and fighting?

skekSa tries to lunge past TavraTae to get Naia but without weapons and against someone with a sword who knows how to use it, she’s stymied.

The Mariner even grabs a tree branch and tries to use that to swat TavraTae, without success.

Naia follows TavraTae’s advice and grabs Kylan and jumps off the cliff.

And after breaking from the fight with superior mobility, TavraTae grabs Amri and jumps too.

Amri having a lot of trouble reconciling in his mind Tavra and Tae because its Tavra but looks like Tae and plus he might have a concussion.

Naia still is the Drenchen whose wings have only just come in and haven’t been strenuously tested much so she’s having trouble doing more than slowing down her and Kylan’s fall. Its a nice touch that that’s remembered two books later.

But TavraTae glides close so Amri can take Naia’s hand and they can all glide down together.

As soon as they land on the boat, Tae crumples, probably Tavra abandoning controlling her as soon as its not a life or death situation. Because of ethics. And because moving her around when she’s been exploded can’t be good for her explosion wound.

Naia immediately starts trying to heal her, only pausing so they can all move inside the cabin where its warm.

In the end, the glowing eased and Naia put her hand on Tae’s forehead.

“I’ve healed her body,” she said, brow creased with pain. “But she was deeply injured by that explosion. Even though I’ve mended her cuts and broken bones, her mind still sleeps. I cannot even sense her dreams. I don’t know when she will wake... if ever.”

It was hard to imagine. The Sifa merely looked as if she were sleeping.

“I didn’t mean to...,” Tavra began. She rested on Tae’s cheek, glistening like a tiny moon in a cloud of sun-gold hair. Amri sighed and shook his head. The moon had eclipsed the sun during a storm in Ha’rar, after all.

What a weird prophecy.

In the end, it turns out it wasn’t a prophecy of a sweet, sweet romance. But a premonition that Tae would eventually be body-jacked by a spider that was really a cool Vapra.

Goes to show, prophecies aren’t straightforward. Unless they’re incredibly straightforward. Like the one from the movie.

But sometimes they’re poetic because fate doesn’t like you screwing with it.

Amri tells Tavra that this isn’t her fault because she did all the right things and saved the group which is what Tae would have wanted and which she’ll definitely confirm when she wakes up.

Buuuuuut, the plot hasn’t stopped happening just because there’s like four pages left in the book.

You’d think it would and we’d be winding down and figuring out what to do next. But no.

A familiar metallic whistle shrills through the air. A whistle that Amri knows exactly what it foretells.

Amri ran out onto the deck, followed by the others. The ship trembled as the sea shook. He grabbed hold of the rigging on the ship as waves rolled out from the ocean and crashed across the back of an enormous black shell. A deafening moan trembled through the water and echoed against the steep cliff. Terror shot through Amri’s body as a behemoth mouth rose from the depths, water gushing from its enormous hooked-beaked maw.

It gaped, spreading its jaws. The ocean churned, sucked into the black abyss of the creature’s throat. Onica’s ship was caught in a vortex of inescapable currents, and Amri watched the slowly brightening sky disappear as the monster ship closed its jaws, swallowing them into a sea of darkness.

COME ON!

This is where the denouement is supposed to go! And you go and release the kraken on them?

You’re persistent, skekSa! You’re very persistent!

#dark crystal #the dark crystal #Tides of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Amri #Naia #Kylan #Tavra #Tae #Onica #skekSa #the Mariner #one chapter left

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shakespeareanwannabe · 4 years ago

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Drowning

Santiago Pope Garcia x F!OC/Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Rebecca Cooke

Summary: Santiago follows through with his escape plan, only to find that his freedom comes with a heavy price.

Warnings: Drinking/Alcohol Consumption, Swearing, Benny being Benny, references to war time injuries, references to Anxiety if you squint, ghosting, nightmares, crying

A/N: Hey y’all. Sorry it’s been a while. Some stuff came up, but I was inspired to write this chapter anyway! Here’s chapter 6. Please enjoy!

**********

Santiago Garcia was one of the best of the best. One of the top ranked soldiers in the US Military. Delta Force, Special Operations…his team was the one you called when things got bad. And things often got bad.

Tom ‘Redfly’ Davis oversaw the team. Laser focused in the field and a brilliant tactician who always seemed to be able to get his team out of tight spots, Redfly saw Delta Force through multiple missions, as well as two tours of Afghanistan and Iraq.

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia was his right-hand man, his second in command. Where Redfly focused on the minor details, Pope was able to see the big picture. Combined, their abilities to plan and execute earned them the respect and admiration of their team.

William ‘Ironhead’ Miller was third in command. His cool head and philosophical manner ensured cohesion in the group of macho men. While the team was busy fighting the enemy, Will was busy making sure there was no fighting amongst the team.

Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales was the pilot. The most intelligent of the bunch, he was often overlooked when it came to lauding praises, even if Pope would always claim that it was because of Frankie’s skillful maneuvering and calculating nature that they made it back in one piece.

Benjamin ‘Benny’ Miller was the youngest of the team, the most hotheaded, and the most emotionally vulnerable. Added to the team after their original fifth member was killed in action, Ironhead automatically took it upon himself to protect his baby brother, while the rest of the team protected Ironhead.

Together, they were the most successful, most ruthless, most cunning team to ever wear the United States flag on their shoulder. Ironhead, Catfish, and Benny trusted their fearless leaders to see them through any mission, no matter how bleak. Where they led, the team followed, no questions asked. Well, on the battlefield, that is…

“You fucking what!?!” Frankie exclaimed angrily while Benny and Will stared at him in astonishment.

Santi felt himself shrink. While he knew that his plan of action wasn’t the best, he didn’t know what else to do.

“I can’t drag her into all my bullshit, ‘Fish,” Santi sighed, dragging a hand down his face before chugging from his nearly-empty beer bottle.

“So, you thought that ghosting her was the best thing to do?” Benny exclaimed, leaning around his brother to get a good view of his former lieutenant. “Are you fucking stupid, Pope?”

“Ay, watch it, kid!” Santi grumbled. “You’ve seen her! She’s fucking perfect. I’m not ruining her. No way, man.” Santi chose to ignore Frankie’s mumbling in their shared mother tongue and cast his fishing line out into the lake once more.

It had been two weeks since the wedding, 13 days since the last time he saw Rebecca, and it was killing him, even if he knew it was for the best. So, when Will had offered up his fishing cabin in the woods for a boys weekend, he had jumped at the chance to get out of that big empty house, away from the clinic that he was slinking around under Charlie’s hateful glare, and far enough away from Bex’s building that he wasn’t tempted to just get up and drive there and beg for her forgiveness. It would be good for him. Clear his head. Get her out of his system, even if he was waking up every morning hard as a rock with thoughts of her smile and her softness and her heart at the forefront of his mind.

“Well, that fucking explains why Charlie went from crying over your speech at the wedding to asking me if I’d be okay burying your body in the backyard,” Frankie finally spoke in English.

Santi winced. After a week of actively ignoring his phone whenever it lit up with Rebecca’s name and smiling face, he supposed that Bex had asked Charlie what was up. And, since Charlie knew him well enough to know what nothing was actively wrong, he’d spent the last several of his physio appointments having to shield himself from his friend’s icy glare.

“What are you doing, man?” Will sat back with a sigh. “She’s the best you’re ever gonna get. You know that right?”

Santi clenched his fist around his fishing rod. “You think I don’t know that? She’s fucking perfect! Sweet and kind and unselfish and loving and sexy as all fuck! Who wouldn’t want that?”

“So, you’re either really fucking stupid or really fucking scared…” Benny muttered, leaning back to fetch another beer.

Santi felt something inside him burst. He was doing what was best for her, even if nobody in his life seemed to agree.

“Fuck this.” He threw his fishing rod to the ground and stood up. “I don’t have to deal with this shit. I’m going home.”

Frankie slowly stood up next to him with a few crackles and pops of his joints. “I drove you, dipshit. And you drank an entire six pack on your own. I’ll take you home.”

Frankie ambled over to give his goodbyes to Will and Benny while Santi stood with his arms crossed, staring out into the distance. He had thought Frankie and Will would understand. Frankie, who had to fight tooth and nail to keep the woman he loved after getting his license suspended. And Will, whose fiancée had left him six weeks before the wedding day, claiming the war had changed him and that he wasn’t the same man she fell in love with. Benny, who had loved more people than he could count, had never experienced that kind of love and loss before, and Santi hoped he never did. Everyone around them got sucked into their bullshit, and he wouldn’t let that happen to the most wonderful woman he had ever met.

“Hey,” Santi startled when a warm, gentle hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to meet Will’s warm gaze and placating smile. “We just want you to be happy, man.”

Santi sighed and nodded slowly. “Yeah, Will…I know, but—”

“But nothing, man,” Will interrupted gently, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “She makes you happier than I’ve ever seen you, Santi. Don’t lose that, or you’ll spend your life regretting it.”

Santi watched him walk away as Frankie came up beside him and started ushering him towards the truck.

**********

The two-hour drive home was longer than expected due to traffic on the highway, but the length was exasperated by the silence that was dragging out between the two men. Unlike the drive, the silence was atypical. Santi, who had grown accustomed to Frankie’s quiet calmness, usually filled the silence with stories to get Frankie talking or laughing. Now, the tension between the two was palpable, and Santi wasn’t about to try to break it when he had so much on his mind.

After almost three hours in the car together, Frankie pulled into Santi’s driveway and killed the engine.

Santi sighed, both in sadness and relief, and went to open the door. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hand resting on the handle and the door partially open.

“Listen, man…” Santi turned slightly to see Frankie had removed his cap and was rubbing at his forehead. “If she doesn’t make you happy, that’s fine. No point in making yourself miserable trying to drag out a relationship that just ain’t gonna work. But if that’s why you’re doing this, or if you’re doing it because of some bullshit protector instinct, then why are you so miserable? If she makes you happy but you’re worried about infecting her with your shit, then protect her from that by staying close and working hard.”

“I…” Santi swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt her, man.” He got out of the truck and stood next to the open door. “I won’t hurt her.”

Frankie fixed him with a glare, and Santi saw a flash of the old Frankie for a moment. “And what exactly are you doing right now, cabrón?”

Santi let the door swing closed as Frankie peeled out of his driveway and down the road.

**********

It took another week for Santiago to get his act together. The day Frankie dropped him off, he spent in his backyard, grilling and listening to music. If things were normal, it would be the day the whole gang got together at Frankie’s for food and fun and laughs, but things weren’t normal, so he settled in for some solo grilled chicken and some alone time. He woke up with nightmares around midnight, and when he woke up again around 2 a.m., he moved into the living room and resigned himself to crappy early morning TV until the sun came up.

The next day, on a whim, he started drafting a proposal for a private security company. He still had enough money from selling his weapons collection in Colombia to put together a decent business proposal, and it was better than sitting on his ass drinking all day, so he put his famed planning skills to work. Got Your Six Security would provide state of the art security systems as well as armed guards for those who desired them. The fees would be reasonable, they would cater to both private homes and public settings, and, best of all, they would only employ military or former military personnel. Luckily, Santi had kept in contact with a couple of the surveillance techs from his time overseas, and he knew that a small crew of them had been working on a state-of-the-art closed circuit security system and were looking to market it to high end customers. They had already agreed to work with him, he only needed to get a business plan and a small loan to get it up and running.

The day after that, he had a meeting with the bank, who had met his proposal with enthusiasm. (It helped that it was a company employing veterans, run by a veteran, who already had some capital to put up upfront.) All they asked was that he find his first customer before they signed off on the loan.

So, the following Monday, he straightened his suit and tie and headed into the last place he wanted to be: the art museum where Rebecca worked. It was the only business that had availability as soon as possible, they were willing to pay top dollar, and they seemed fairly desperate.

He met with two of the higher ups of the museum, Douchebag Derek’s mom and the owner of the building, and soon found out why they were so desperate.

“One of our paintings got stolen two nights ago,” Derek’s mom sighed. “We don’t know how, or why, but somebody got in, stole one of the Blair’s, and walked out with it. Our security guard claims that he didn’t hear anything, but the police are looking into it.”

“The point is,” Mr. Carlisle butted in. “We need something more high-tech than a retiree aged security guard. We need something that can send an alarm to the police if someone does get in, but also a few highly trained guards to watch the museum at night, in case someone does get in and the police are too slow. It seems to me that a military grade security system and some highly trained former soldiers are the perfect thing to protect the priceless works of art we house here at this institution.”

“Was anyone in the building when the painting was stolen?” The words escaped his mouth before he could even think. “I mean, besides the security guard.”

“No, thank god,” Mr. Carlisle replied. “Jerry, the security guard, says he saw out the last employee in the building before locking the door.”

“I’m just happy that nobody got hurt,” Derek’s mom simpered, and Santi caught a glimpse of her son’s douchebaggery in her voice.

“We’d be happy to help,” Santi smiled once he regained control of his voice, his shoulders relaxing at the news that Jerry had been alone in the building. “We’ll just need 50% of the cost of the alarm system up front before installation, then we can discuss how many guards you want on premises during the day and at night. Once we’ve got a number, we can go through the applicants together and we can find the ones who best suit your needs.”

It was after they dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and Santi had received a firm handshake from Mr. Carlisle that it happened.

He was exiting Mr. Carlisle��s office, still facing the occupants of the room as he thanked them for their patronage, when he turned and bumped into something hard but soft and comforting and, even worse, familiar.

“Oof!”

A chill ran down his spine at the sound, the same sound she had made when he spanked her ass that morning.

“Shit, I’m…I’m, uh, I’m sorry.” Rebecca stilled in her crouched position, one hand on one of the loose sheets of paper he had knocked out of her arms. “Uh…here, let me help.”

He started to lower to the ground, wincing at his knees crackling, when she snatched up the paper he was reaching for and stood up. “Don’t bother.”

Already crouching, he let his head hang. He didn’t know how he expected their first encounter to go, but it certainly wasn’t that.

**********

A flash…a painful scream…his legs caught in quicksand…red pooling on the pristine white marble floors…the dull thud of her body dropping…the faceless thief escaping into the edges of his vision…cradling her lifeless body…

Santiago sat bolt up in bed, his heart racing and his chest heaving, his curls drooping onto his forehead with accumulated sweat.

Three nights of the same dream. Three nights of not being able to save her from the art thief. Three nights of sitting in bed, trembling while staring at her picture on his phone, his thumb hovering over the ‘Call’ button but always unable to take that final step.

First, she had bewitched him. Now, she was haunting him. One short, angry interaction was enough to bring her to the forefront of his mind (not that she was ever far from there), and now he couldn’t sleep.

Maybe Frankie was right. Doing the right thing shouldn’t make him this miserable. His heart shouldn’t ache when he thinks of her, he shouldn’t be so depressed when he sees couples together, and he really shouldn’t be dreaming about her death and waking up in tears.

He didn’t think. About any of it. Instead, he acted on instinct, throwing on a pair of threadbare sweatpants and a white vest and collecting his wallet and keys before hopping into his truck and driving the path he knew by heart.

**********

Bang Bang Bang!

Rebecca’s first instinct was to shout at whoever was knocking on her door at three a.m. to fuck off or she would call the cops. Her second instinct was to grab the baseball bat in her front closet and scare the intruder off herself.

She blamed the pint of Cherry Garcia (flavor chosen ironically, of course) and the three glasses of red wine she had drank before falling asleep on the couch for her poor decision-making skills as she stumbled off the couch and grabbed the bat.

“What the fu—”

“Holy shi—”

Santiago ducked away from the door, hands out in front of him as if to calm a wild animal.

“Bex! It’s me, Jesus Christ!”

She huffed. “Yeah, and? After the shit you’ve pulled, being met with a bat is the least of your concerns.” She rubbed her eyes. “What the hell do you want, Santiago?”

He winced at the full name. “C…Can we talk?”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, bat hanging loosely between her fingers. “You’ve had three weeks to talk to me, asshole. What the fuck could you possibly have to say to me?”

Santi turned to look down the hall, wincing and apologizing as one of her neighbours shot him a dirty look. “Can we talk inside? Please? If you don’t like what I have to say, you can kick me out or call the cops. I really wouldn’t blame you. Just…please?”

Rebecca rolled her eyes, poking her head out. “Sorry, Mr. Chen. Tell Cindy that it’s the asshole boyfriend come to grovel.”

The man nodded knowingly and retreated into his apartment.

“I deserve that,” he mumbled, looking at her pleadingly.

Rebecca considered him for a moment. “You look like shit.”

“And I feel even worse. Baby, I…”

Rebecca cut him off. “If you seriously want to do this right now, I’m gonna need more wine.”

She turned her back on him and retreated into the apartment, leaving the door wide open. Santiago followed her after a beat, making sure the door was locked tight behind him.

“Baby, I—”

Bex held up a finger, pouring herself a large glass of red wine and sitting as far away from him as possible, draping a grey throw blanket over her lap before fixing him with a glare.

He met her eyes and felt himself deflate. “Fuck,” he groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. “I had it all planned out, every word I was going to say to you, and now I’m lookin’ at you and it’s all…” He made an exploding motion with his hands. “Poof. Gone.”

Rebecca burrowed further into her blanket. “Well, try. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the one who needs to do the talking here. I’ve done my talking. On the half-dozen voicemails I left on your phone, in the dozens of texts I sent you, and in the email I wrote because I was panicking at the thought that you had gotten into some terrible accident and that was why you weren’t responding anymore. Because that is the only reason I could think of that you would suddenly stop talking to me.”

“I know. I know, you’re absolutely right. I fucked up in a major way, and I am so sorry. I know I messed up, but I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you.” Rebecca scoffed. “I’m serious, honey. In my own backwards as fuck way, I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what?” she asked angrily.

Santi felt something snap inside of him. “From me! From this forty-year-old fuck up sitting in front of you! Because I’m not a good man! Because I was shooting people and detonating bombs when you were still in grade school! Because I’ve killed people, good people…innocent people. Because my life is a mile-wide shit stain, and you don’t deserve to deal with that. Because…” Santi took a raggedy breath. “Because when I look at you, I see everything good about the world. And I know I’ve got blood and death on my hands, and I couldn’t live with myself if I let any of that effect you in any way.”

“Don’t you think that’s my choice?” she countered in a cold voice. “Don’t you think I should get to decide who deserves to be in my life? I might be a hell of a lot younger than you, Santiago, but my life hasn’t been all rainbows and unicorns. I know my worth. I know who belongs in my life. Not my narcissistic mother, who used my accident for sympathy from whoever she could get it from. Not my best friend from high school, who managed to turn everything into a fucking competition and only got bitchy when she ‘lost’. Not Douchebag Derek or fucking College Boyfriend Ben. And like it or not, I chose you. You with the bad knees and the greying hair and the blood and shit on your hands. God help me, but I chose you.” She chugged the rest of her wine, placing the glass harshly down on the coffee table.

“I know, sweetheart. God, you’re so fucking amazing, you know that?” he blinked back tears in his eyes. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t get emotional, that he would lay the facts out for her, but just being in her presence screamed safety to him and he could feel everything he had pushed down rising to the surface. “Y…you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, okay? And I know that’s a shitty, corny line, but it’s the truth. When I met you…I was in a bad place. My life had been one shit storm after another, and I thought coming home would fix that. Being around Frankie and Charlie, getting to bond with Mateo, having a home of my own for the first time…I was doing better. And then you crashed into my life, and all of a sudden everything felt good again. Like…the sun was shining on me but all of a sudden I could actually feel it and, for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of getting burned. You turned my whole plan upside down, and I was actually okay with it.” He chuckled, swiping at his cheeks as the first few tears started to fall. “I thought I could live in your orbit and just circle around you, not hurting you or effecting you in any way. But then…” he smiled softly. “Christ, that morning…Fuck, I realized that I was in so deep. Way deeper than I ever thought I would get. I was honestly, genuinely happy for the first time in years, and it was all because of you. And you were smiling at me all soft, and I realized something. I realized that living with you, spending the rest of my life with you, was something I could easily do and desperately wanted. And that scared the shit out of me. Because guys like me don’t get the happy ending. The credits start to roll just as we start dealing with the aftermath of whatever shitshow we just lived through, so that the audience doesn’t have to watch everything fall apart again. I…I couldn’t put you through that. Not when you’ve already got all your own stuff to deal with. Adding my own just felt selfish. And I know that’s a cop out, but it’s the truth. I honest to god just wanted to protect you.”

Rebecca’s gaze softened as her voice enveloped him. “So, why now? Why come to me now, if you’re so set on protecting me?”

He met her gaze. “The break in. At the museum. I-if you had been there, if you had gotten hurt…I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle it. That, plus some of Frankie’s patented wise wisdom, woke me up to what an idiot I’ve been. If I want to protect you, I’ve got to do it by being with you, and god baby, that’s all I want. And I know I fucked up. I basically did the same jackass thing that your college boyfriend did, only ten times worse because I promised I wouldn’t. I know I don’t deserve you, but I swear to god, baby, if you let me back into your life, I will work with you. I won’t keep anything from you, and I’ll always be honest with you, and when I try to protect you, I’ll do it by standing by your side and letting you know that I’m here. Even…” he gulped painfully. “Even if it’s just as a friend.”

Rebecca considered him carefully as Santi waited on bated breath. Finally, she spoke. “You really hurt me, Santi.”

He nodded, clenching his eyes shut. “I know. I know, baby, and I am so, so sorry.”

“Everything I was scared of, happened. I let you in, and you made me fall in love with you, then you left. You fucked me then fucked off. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me why. I agonized for weeks over what I could have possibly done wrong.”

“No, baby,” he took a chance and shifted to sit next to her, gently cradling her hand in his. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is all on me, okay?”

She played with his fingers, rough and callused from his time handling firearms. “It is,” she nodded. “It is all on you…but when I ran into you at the museum, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks. I wanted to be angry at you, but I just felt sad because…because I wanted you to do some stupid, corny, romcom level bullshit like fall to your knees and beg for my forgiveness or sweep me up into your arms and say that you would never let me go again.”

Santiago cupped her cheek, carefully brushing away the stray tear meandering over her cheekbone. “What are you saying?” he asked, trying desperately to keep the hope from his voice.

She sighed. “It means…that I’m too tired to deal with this right now.” She stood, not releasing his hand. “C’mon. You can sleep here tonight, and we can figure this out in the morning.”

He stood hesitantly. “Are you sure? I can sleep here on the couch?” He eyed the leather distastefully. “Or I can go sleep in my truck. I…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She was already shaking her head. “No, then I’ll just feel guilty. That couch is not comfortable and your truck with play hell with your neck. You can stay in my bed. Just…don’t worry about it.”

She padded silently into her room, tugging him behind her. Swiftly, she tugged down the meticulously straightened sheets and slid into her side of the bed, Santiago following after a short pause.

He laid there for what felt like hours, staring up at the ceiling, thanking god that he was there with the woman he loved and praying for a chance to make things right.

For the first time in forever, his prayers seemed to be answered quickly.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rebecca mumbled as she rolled over and placed her head on his chest. “Stop thinking, Santi. We can figure out everything in the morning.”

He carefully wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair, eyes drifting closed to send him into the deepest sleep he’d had in a month.

**********

He awoke the same way he’d fallen asleep, wrapped around Rebecca like he was afraid that, should he let go even an inch, she’d disappear.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch to gaze at her peaceful face before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

She released a soft, sleepy mewl before her eyes blinked open.

She smiled softly at him. “Hey…”

The words poured out of him before he could even think. “Move in with me.”

She crinkled her brow. “What?”

He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing her palm. “I love you. And I want to prove to you that I’m in this for the long haul. You’re it for me, Rebecca. So, move in with me.”

Her sleepy eyes took him in for a moment, and Santi’s breath caught in his chest. But before he could backtrack or explain further, he felt his heart stop.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

**********

Tags list (open): @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @rae-rae-patcha, @himbopoes, @sophoclese, @phoenixhalliwell, @buckstaposition, @who-talks-first, @hkmultifandom, @youhavereachedtheendofpie

#santiago pope garcia x oc #santiago pope garcia x rebecca cooke #triple frontier fanfic #not another fairytale ending fic #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales #Oscar Issac #Pedro Pascal

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xtruss · 5 years ago

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How Suddenly-precious Cobalt that Powers ‘Teslas and iPhones’ also Fuels ‘Child Labor’ in Africa & Armed Heists in Europe

An artisanal miner carries raw ore at Tilwizembe, a former industrial copper-cobalt mine, outside of Kolwezi, the capital city of Lualaba Province in the south of the Democratic Republic of the Congo

It’s an unwanted side-effect of the world’s growing desire for environmentally friendly vehicles: rare metals that are key components of electric cars are becoming prime targets for criminals, as demand sends their values soaring.

How to steal $10 million

On a sunny July weekend in Rotterdam last year, a gang of men pull up in trucks at an unremarkable bonded warehouse situated among an industrial landscape of cranes, shipping containers and depots that sprawls 25 miles along the banks of Europe’s biggest port.

Having purloined the secure codes that give them access through the warehouse’s main gates, they make their way inside and head first to the building’s security unit, punch in the number that disables the alarms and quickly remove the recording unit for the cameras that are aimed at the doors and windows.

Satisfied they are no longer being spied on, they head to a section towards the back of the warehouse and cut the padlock on its sliding door to reveal hundreds of orange and blue drums piled four-high on pallets. All are stuffed full with the prize the men are after: cobalt, a formerly obscure, unwanted metal that, thanks to the electric vehicle revolution, has become a highly desirable commodity nicknamed “blue gold”.

Five or six hours later, the last of the pallets stowed on board their trucks, the gang drives away with 112 tonnes of cobalt, worth around US$10 million. The Dutch police who will investigate when the heist is discovered on the Monday morning spend months failing to catch anyone for the crime or recover any of the stolen goods.

A conveyor belt carries chunks of Raw cobalt after a first transformation at a plant in Lubumbash

Electrifying demand

Cobalt has become of particular interest to organised crime since its price rocketed by 250 percent between 2016 and 2018 (from about US$26,000 a tonne to more than US$90,000) thanks to demand from electric car manufacturers such as Tesla, Volvo, Ford and Volkswagen, and smartphone makers like Apple.

Its unique qualities prevent lithium-ion batteries in mobiles and electric cars from overheating and going up in flames. More than 50 percent of all cobalt demand is now for battery use, and the EU and the US both class it as a critical raw material.

As electric vehicle production gears up - manufacturers worldwide are investing US$300 billion over the next few years so as to build 35 million electric cars and trucks annually by 2030 - experts believe that the price of cobalt will rise again and make it even more attractive to criminals. According to the prediction of one American cobalt investor: “A wave of demand for copper, nickel, lithium and cobalt is coming that almost no one - miner, investor or banker alike - has anticipated or planned for.”

‘The new gasoline’ fuels abuse

The value of cobalt, which takes its name from the German kobold, or “goblin”, derives from its novel properties and relatively short supply. It is an element that does not occur in a "free" form, but is gathered during the mining of copper or nickel and needs to be chemically prised from them using acids and heat.

For hundreds of years, it was used to impart a distinctive blue tint to glass or ceramics, but in the 20th century scientists discovered it to have qualities crucial to our most advanced technologies. Combined with other metals, it produces alloys that are extremely strong, stable under high temperatures and anti-corrosive for use in aircraft engines, rockets, nuclear power stations, turbines and cutting tools.

However, it is the demand created by its critical role in batteries for electric cars that is not only producing the unwanted attention of criminals, but is also fuelling a human rights crisis involving exploited child labour in one of the world’s poorest countries in Africa.

Around 70 percent of the world’s supplies come from the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), which has been beset by decades of war, corruption and unrest. The country is described as being to cobalt what Saudia Arabia is to oil - Goldman Sachs, the merchant bank, has called cobalt “the new gasoline".

Every day, tens of thousands of desperate Congolese, including children as young as four, illegally mine cobalt by hand in horrendous conditions. Unicef estimates that there are 40,000 children working in mines across southern DRC, earning as little as 8p a day to crawl through discarded mines, some more than 100 meters deep, to scavenge for rocks containing cobalt in the discarded by-products.

Reports from Amnesty International and others catalogue frequent injuries and deaths, prompting television and newspaper reports detailing the dreadful human cost. One headline in a British newspaper states: “Child miners aged four living a hell on Earth so you can drive an electric car.”

Campaigners estimate that hundreds of miners die every year or have their health seriously damaged. The hazards include mine collapses such as the one in June this year that killed more than 40 miners working illegally on a site in Lualaba province in south-east DR; asphyxiation due to inadequate ventilation; and illnesses such as the respiratory disease cobalt lung, a pneumonia which can cause permanent incapacity or death.

A man digs through some mine waste searching for left over cobalt in a mine between Lubumbashi and Kolwezi

It’s feared that thousands more children will be sucked into the hellish trade, particularly now that many countries have pledged to ban the sale of new petrol and diesel cars between 2025 and 2040.

Such damaging reports and headlines have forced companies like Apple, Tesla, Volkswagen and Volvo to try to find ways to ensure that the metal they buy is not “conflict cobalt” produced using child labour. One avenue being explored is the use of blockchain technology, the cryptographic tech behind digital currencies like Bitcoin, to ensure traceability.

Thriving black market

It may be difficult to enforce. The rocks that the children find are sold on cheaply to traders, mostly Chinese middle-men who, in turn, ship the cobalt back to their country to be made untraceable; it is smelted down before joining the supply chain that feeds the needs of giant multinationals, and whets the appetite of organised crime gangs in Europe.

Another cobalt heist occurred in 2012 down the coast in Antwerp. Three containers of cobalt had been shipped to a warehouse at the Belgian port. When truckers arrived to pick them up, they discovered that two had already been “collected”; thieves had once again somehow obtained the access codes used for deliveries.

Experts believe that the robberies are being carried out by organised crime gangs who not only know the docks well, but have extensive knowledge of the metal and understand the market for it. “Cobalt is not as fungible a commodity as many believe – this makes it a difficult product to ‘fence’ without a knowledgeable middleman with routes to market,” says George Heppel, a senior cobalt analyst at London-based CRU group, which offers business intelligence on the metals and mining industries.

So what happens to the stolen cobalt? “It is highly unlikely to have made its way into the battery supply chain,” Heppel says. “My best guess is that it was probably sold into the alloy scrap and revert sector to be used in superalloys, speciality steels or diamond tools. It’s more likely to be in a jet engine than a smartphone.”

But whatever the use the black market that exists for scarce and valuable metals like cobalt is thriving. Jan Struijs, the chairman of the Dutch police union and the former head of a criminal investigation squad in Rotterdam, told the business channel Bloomberg that the warehouse robbery there was simply “the tip of the iceberg".

David Weight, the president of the UK-based Cobalt Institute, says: “If something is valuable then it becomes a target. You saw it with copper: when its price was high, people were stealing manhole covers and pulling up electrical cables from the ground - and some were killing themselves doing it. When the price is high, people do the most extraordinary things.”

— By Richard Ellis, freelance journalist in the UK, December 9, 2019

The statements, views and opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of RT.

— RT

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kas-e · 6 years ago

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Cyclones & the Road

Vanity won't stop this new school vagabond from shamelessly admitting acts of vagrancy in coffee shops across America while either writing, working on my photography, or just getting a hot cup of coffee and a meal while speaking with strangers and introducing them to the man behind the green & wild bloodshot eyes. I've become an expert at stealing moments of their time to share some skunky smoke, give them some wide smiles, tell them a few bad jokes, and remind them that there is indeed still soul out there in this plastic & tragic country. The corporations can flood the world with tech of all sorts, phones, laptops, computers, etc, but after this past year I've realized that there are still some people out there like myself that are unable to be pacified by the plastic.

The road is still the home of the true individual... the hyper-inspired, so-called insane ones. Though a dying breed it seems and some may say, I beg to differ as there are still souls out there like me who live truly free, who are working on perfecting the art of a pure and true underground life, the subterranean version of the American dream created by the anarchists and travelers and artists and poets who found themselves in the soul sucking period in time of America in the 40's & 50's. The similarities are striking to me... the current version being reinvented in a strange, sleek, and subliminal strain easily adapted to our current age in time. Over the past few years I believe it is now safe to say that the times have undoubtedly mirrored the old days of a bland, restless, post-war America - the very scene that initially caused the underworld to bubble with activity, originality, drive, and creativity and later spawn the subculture which still remains the root of every movement towards pushing the the boundaries of intellectual progress, creative expression, and a free-form style of living absent of requirement save the unspoken law which is absolute freedom and originality - of which all in the tribe silently abide. Such a law is quite difficult to articulate, but I'll take a crack at it regardless. The mantra is to Go, with a capital G, but Go in a direction never gone before, pave the path instead of tracing another, stay true to your sister and your brother when you meet them along the way, live by the laws of karma and understand that the only catalyst is the Dharma and that God lives in the eyes of every person you meet, give without the phrase "on the arm" and expect nothing in return & receive with great gratitude and grace, and leave the rest up to the wind, the world, and the driving force behind this strange thing called life that we are all so lucky to be a part of. Be Here Now & practice the art of living without expectation while keeping the body healthy, the mind active and innovative, the soul open and transparent, all while remaining conscious of just how detrimental the energy we put out into the world actually is to those who we come in contact with... to be mindful and free simultaneously is a feat in itself, it is a challenge to even the most weathered veterans of our fringe underworld.

While on the road, driving clear across America for the second time within 2 years, I found myself entranced by the painted lines which naturally set my mind spinning in a manner that only extremely long stretches on the road can cause. I thought a great deal about the cycles of this life, and about how similar moments become during a persons phases while in times of transition. Today as I write this, marks my 38th year on this planet, and at this time in a man's life if you don't start to not only notice - but also brood on these things - then you are not paying attention, or of the type who simply never makes it to the deep end of the pool. The fact that this was going to be one of the big mountains I'll have to climb during my time on earth both terrified me and inspired me at the same time. I was as alone as a man can be, as troubled as a man can be, yet at the same time I realized I was as free as a man could be. It was an interesting dichotomy, a confusing thought to think on, but instead of switching gears and avoiding such a complexity the road allowed me to continuously peel back the layers of this onion and really go deep. It is this realization, it is the fact of facing the fear of such thoughts that has since been my anchor in the face extreme desperation, intense struggle, and pestering suicidal thought patterns that would strike during times of weakness. If you are reading this, and you ever find yourself in such a headspace, always remember these very personal cycles that we go through as humans... and if you find yourself fighting with these things, if you find yourself fighting a battle that feels impossible to ever win, I beg of you to focus on the reality of these cycles. Meditate on this reality. Know that if you have reached a low of this magnitude, it either means you are at the tail end of a high of equal magnitude - or how I like to believe, that you are currently paying your dues for the next high which will peak sometime in the near future after fighting your way back up to the top. Hindsight allowed me to visualize this, and I feel the greatest thing about getting older is the ability to view the past through a clear and concise lens, and rest assured that this too will pass as it has in the past. Don't lose faith. If the world has it's foot on your throat and your back pressed upon the pavement, understand that it is because you are not just another humdrum monotonous drone of a human - it is because you are one of the few that pushes the limits of progress and strives for greatness, and if you want to achieve greatness in this life, well then it is only right that you will also have to endure great struggle in order to do so.

The same idea can easily be applied to society, our existence as a society is also unarguably cyclonic. As the wheel turns we now find ourselves at a very pivotal moment in human existence. The incorporation of technology has genuinely thrown a monkey wrench into the rusty gears of the Great American Experiment. Birthed at the turn of the century with the prominence of the PC, it is now almost 20 years later and we are all essentially cyborgs with perpetual connectivity in our pockets, super heightened intelligence thanks to our good friend Google, and eagerly watching as the once enigmatic Artificial Intelligence gets it's footing in the world of reality. I subscribe to the theory that we are on the brink of truly strange times to come, and that during this age in time we could possibly undergo a total revolution of our everyday life as human beings due the arrival of a new, synthetic consciousness that we are in the process of creating.

If this age in time were a human, the human would be taking their first steps on their own as I type this... and the fear among those following this strange progression naturally lies in the unknown. The question is, what will this human do when it is not only able to walk on its own - but when the human no longer needs us to survive? The latter question, in my opinion, is a non-issue, but with the smartest people walking the planet, for example Sam Harris and Elon Musk both harboring such a fear, I think it's only right that any intellectual worth their salt entertain the theory and follow the progression of this very strange matter.

All of that said, I think it is very important to note that as creative individuals the addition of technology must be delicately balanced and incorporated in our work. I find it essential to resist the misuse of these machines, and always remember, they are simply tools to us - use them as such. The very worst thing that you can do is resist the technology entirely, because the sad fact is that if you do, well, you will be left in the dust as the rest of the creative community masters these tools and marches forward. Take them for what they are, a means to create, a means to communicate, a means to make your work more polished, and a tool which allows your methods to be more fluid and your process to become more seamless. Most people are either consumed by the technology, or work so hard at resisting it that it really does hinder their quality of life. An artist must not subscribe to either of these camps, and instead do what artists do... take control of what's in front of you, and manipulate it to work for you thus enhancing the final product of which you create. At one point in time, artists across the world sat with canvas and charcoal, today we sit with laptops and photoshop, and I honestly believe that the difference between them is near non-existent.

#writing #prose #creative writing #writers on tumblr #freedom #ontheroad #travel #wanderlust #thought #philosophy #intellectual #wordlovers

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peaches-of-1 · 6 years ago

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Trivia: Holiday Dance

J-Hope x Black!Youtuber

You came to Korea with high hopes that had been met. They are now surpassed as you get the chance to make a youtube video with several BTS members. The recording goes much better than expected, just in time for Christmas.

I walked around the town taking my time as I were getting the last needed things to stay inside for Christmas. My family wasn’t in Korea, but I was. I had moved there...here because of my chance at getting famous. It’s true I had many talents and I wasn’t spectacularly gorgeous, but it was Korea. I had been hoping to take the Sam Okyere route and be famous for being black. And before you say some dumb shit about using my race as an advantage, chill. There aren’t many places where my dark skin is a good thing. We’re usually crooks and rapists and filling up jail cells on dumbass charges, but here.

Here in Korea I was praised for being myself. My self confidence has blossomed and I’m less depressed. Yeah, there are times when I’m told to go back to where I came from or something like that but more people tell that person to shut up no matter if they’re older or not. I feel respected here which is why I’ve stayed in Korea for three years now.

And have I gotten famous? Yes. I’ve gotten famous for my unique style which is apparently still unique in Korea. I run a YouTube channel but I have also become a TV personality and equality advocate. It’s really fun. I get to meet a lot of celebs and get to travel a lot.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Someone called. They approached me wearing a green padded jacket and western styled makeup on. Their body looked like a caterpillar and the face a butterfly.

I stopped, “Yes. Hello?”

We bowed to each other.

“I’m Kim Gertrude. I work for some very important people. Here’s my card.”

She handed the card to me and I saw she was one of BTS’s managers. Married by the looks of it. I had met several before, but schedules man. You think idols are busy? I just got my own editor for my videos and I still had a lot of legwork to do.

“Hi, Gertrude. Nice to meet you.”

She smiled, “I know we’ve tried to set up something before, but a lot of staff has been fired in the recent...event. I just wanted to make sure we still had some connection with you and heard you were headed to Megan’s place today.”

I nodded, “Oh, I am. We’re shooting a video today. That’s very kind of you to go out of your way to confirm that. Uh, quick question. I have a mostly clear schedule for the next two weeks since I’m doing things in advanced and this is the last video I’m shooting for my channel event. Anyways, um, is there a chance I could have one day with at least one of the guys anywhere in that time?”

Gertrude tapped her lip, “Maybe. I’ll have to double check and let you know. I left my work phone somewhere. I promise to let you know as soon as possible. I have to get going now. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for the card and I hope to hear you from you soon.”

After bowing to each other, she went to a car that was waiting and I continued to my friend Megan’s place. We were recording for my 25 days of videos. It was two months until December and the holiday season, so I had a lot of events to go to. I’d do vlogs too, but for YouTube content I’d be doing as many collabs as possible.

“(Y/N)!” Megan said with a big smile when I got to her door. Her cats meowed all around as we hugged each other.

I made sure to give them pets and scratches too.

[Thirty minutes later]

The first video for her channel was recorded, and I legit smelled like cat food. Feathers were everywhere. We tested to see what the cats would do with certain toys, which they liked the best, which they didn’t really like. They destroyed three feathered ones, so it was time for clean up and a quick break before we started recording mine.

With the feathers in the trash, I decided to check my phone while she ordered take out. I had sent Gertrude a confirmation text and she said she was glad to know I was actually interested and that she had heard good things from the former employees and really liked me work, all that jazz.

Then this exchange happened once I checked my phone. I nearly screamed.

I lied. I had no ideas that hadn’t already been used up for the 25 days thing. My face must’ve looked very stressed because Megan gave me a confused look.

“You good?”

“If I show you this, you can’t tell anyone until it’s over.”

She nodded, “I swear on my life, girl.”

I showed her the text messages and her eyes lit up. She grabbed my phone to scream and then looked at me. Looking at the phone, she screamed again.

“NOoooo”

“Yesss!”

“Girl, I’ve been doing this for 10 years and I couldn’t even get ten seconds with…” She handed my phone back, “What’s the idea?”

“I don’t have one! I came up with so many ideas for my channel for the 25 days things and the only things I didn’t do was because they are impossible or they suck ass!”

Megan shook her head and held out her hand, “List.”

I scrolled on my phone to show her the list. She looked through it and we stood in awkward but excited silence for a good few seconds as she saw what wasn’t crossed out.

“Potato sack race? In the winter?”

“Anyways!” I waved my hand.

Then she held out her phone while her fluffiest cat jumped onto the counter and into my arms, “What about this one? Random dance play? They’re dancers, or even guess the song! You both love music!”

“But the copyrights! I’m broke, sis!” I whined.

“Make it BTS. They can’t strike you if they’re listening to their own music.”

I wanted to facepalm so hard, “You’re right! OMG thank you so much!”

The doorbell buzzed. Probably food. I started texting back.

The food was set up in the living room when I returned. Megan asked how it went, and I told her I was just waiting to see if any of the guys wanted to do it. She said she was so glad for me but I owed her a name drop for helping. Of course! I’d make sure it was kept in the video intro. She laughed and we recorded my video which just us doing each other’s makeup with children’s makeup kits that one would get from like the toy section.

It was just a fun thing, but I had to remember to wash it off because it was also done blindfolded and we looked like wrecks with a capital R.

When next week arrived, I had become that girl who was trying to impress guys but “not too much” Not like I bought a whole new outfit to wear or started preparing my hair ahead of time or anything. I didn’t make a video vlog of my shopping or upload my selfie to my insta account. Nothing...like...that.

Ok, fine. Maybe I did, but don’t I look damn fine?

The plan was to do one all BTS dances and then one full of iconic hits. Mostly TWICE, Hyuna, and Super Junior from the sounds of it. I told Gertrude the guys could just show up in whatever they usually do their dance practices in, something comfortable.

I was wearing leggings, a tank top, and a sheer mesh dress with some white tennis shoes. Clean, but not like I was trying too hard. I just did some lip tint and foundation for a confidence booster and cameras. Waterproof or not, nothing was going on my eyes. I even put on extra strength deodorant cuz I’d be stanky and I didn’t wanna be stanky around BTS. My hair was in two cute buns. Basically a stylish workout.

Taking a deep breath, I went inside and Gertrude greeted me. She said the boys were wrapping up a project and were running a bit late. I was escorted to the practice room while given some rules of what could and could not go into the videos final cut, if it should happen. I told them I followed most of the KBS TV show guidelines when interacting with idols.

“Trust me. Me and my editor take our utmost care to show honest celebrities without tarnishing their records.”

Then they left me in the room to set up with a bodyguard who also had some tech knowledge in case I needed help. I set up my own camera and tripod and tested the speakers. I made sure my earrings were still in and that I wasn’t sweating too much. Then I turned on my phone camera.

“Hey, guys. It’s ya girl PeachesNoCream hear recording yet another video for you. I am not sure when this is going up, I’m thinking sometime during Kwanzaa since you guys need to catch up on my 25 Collabs of Christmas. If you haven’t go see those now.” I smiled and giggled, getting into YouTuber mode.

I messed with a puff making sure it stayed lively, “Anywhoosies, if you’ll notice, I am not in any of my usual spots today. You’ll see, I’ve been blessed by the k-pop gods themselves to do a video with some idols from my favorite group. They’re running a bit late, but it just give me more time to set up...and work on my intro several times until they show up.”

Which I did until the fifth take wasn’t too fake, wasn’t too squeaky or could be perceived as fake. Then I answered some emails while pacing around talking to my editor and confirming or rejecting certain events. I was going to be called in last minute to do this Winterview, I just knew it. Just as I was checking my teeth in the front facing camera, they walked in.

Three of the seven gods belonging to BTS. Damn, how were they all so attractive? I forgot how to breath for a solid five seconds before bowing and greeting them, shaking their hands and such.

“Wow, you guys were so late, I started to wonder if I had been pranked.” Why the fuck did I say that?

They chuckled, “Sorry, Hobi took forever deciding which shorts to wear.”

“I watch your videos sometimes and saw that you made a video about your favorite body parts on idols. Number 1 was my legs and my abs, but you gotta earn those.” He laughed.

I smiled back, “Wow thanks. So you know what we’re gonna do today, right?”

“We gonna dance!” Jimin exclaimed!

“Yep. The first one is all your songs and then the second is just from all over kpop. Do you guys wanna do an intro with me?”

The three boys nodded, and so I came up with an idea on the spot. They in on the other side of my camera and I introduced myself with the basic script I had liked the most from earlier.

“...I’ve been blessed by the k-pop gods themselves. Would you like to meet them?” I turned my body to stand in front of them and they waved and smiled. “It’s BTS!”

Hoseok was laughing, “K-pop gods.”

I smiled at him, making eye contact and then cut off the camera. “That was good, guys. Now, part two of the intro is me explaining what we’re doing for a few seconds.”

Testing the speakers once more, I turned on the camera and had the guys stand on either side of me. They were all taller than I was by at least two inches, but I was pretty sure Jimin was wearing lifts.

“So what am I doing with the deities of dance? Dancing, of course. The four of us will be doing a random dance challenge with BTS songs and some iconic ones afterwards. The songs may be new or old, but either way the chorus will play and we have to do our best at doing the correct choreography. Got it, guys?” I looked at each of them.

“Got it!”

“Sounds fun!”

“Let’s get it!”

I smiled, “Alright, let’s clear the floor. I’ve mostly followed J-Hope and Suga when learning dances, so I’ll be doing their stuff most of the time.” I looked over to the assigned helper. “Yoosung, start the video please. Video links will be in the description.”

The intro music played. Then the countdown began. | “I need you girl, wheh…” started playing, and the guys began doing their thing. I joined in the body rolls and steps. I really liked doing this one. I think there was even an “in heels” cover somewhere on my channel.

Thirty minutes later, the list ended and the boys said that there were some they needed to practice again. They were smiling and laughing which was a good sign. I really just wanted them to have some fun even if I was chugging down a whole TaTa water bottle. They had stamina for the gods, and I barely had it for myself.

Hoseok laughed at my huge sigh after water spilled down my chin, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Good thing I brought a towel.” I got the small towel out of my bag and wiped my sweat on the way to the small puddle, but the assistant was already mopping it up. “Oh, thanks.”

“No problem.” He smiled and then set up the next round of songs.

I spoke to the camera again, so glad I wouldn’t have to edit this myself or I’d probably die of embarrassment.

“So, how was that, Jimin?”

“It was fun! I wanna do more!”

Taehyung laughed, “Even though you went the wrong way during--”

Jimin became a giggly mochi as he hit Tae’s arm, “Shut up!”

“Well, we have time for one more video. It’s iconic dances of all time. Do you still want to do it?”

They all said yes, of course, so we went into the second round of dances. I had learned so much more ever since coming to Korea, and we got excited when our favorites came on or ones that brought nostalgia. Hobi was a bit shy to join some even though he was shaking his hips or moving his arms from the side.

And then fifteen minutes in, “Troublemaker” came on. Taehyung was Jimin’s Hyuna, and I did the Queen’s part by myself. I knew they probably wouldn’t dance with me to this type of song, and I understood. It was just the chorus, but as it went on, I couldn’t help but feel kinda left out? That’s the best way to describe it. Even though I was doing well, I was about to go back to the sidelines until I felt a presence behind me and arms under mine.

Hobi danced the rest of the short section with me, letting me put my palms on top of his. The song launched into the slow part, and let me tell you. Time literally slowed down. It felt really natural to be doing this with him. Our bodies moved in sync like they were one and he kept his manner hands as much as he could. But damn. Our chemistry.

I smiled and he grinned back. Then the snippet ended and the next song came on. My heart was going fast, so I took a break from a few songs to get a drink of water. He continued to dance with his members. A girl was shook and that girl was me.

Chung Ha’s “Love You” came on near the end and J-Hope grabbed my hand to pull me to the dance floor. He was adorkable as he placed me in front of him. This time, Jimin got to be the main girl and Taehyung did backup. I did my best not to be extra, but this dance probably wasn’t going to get into the final cut anyways. When it was time for the full body roll and hand over waist moment, I took my chance to grab the back of his hand for just a moment.

Five more choruses, and it was done. The boys said how much fun they had on camera while I forced my attention to anywhere but J-Hope. We were all breathing hard and then off. We all high fived each other and used our sweat towels to wipe off our perspiration. I did a quick pit sniff as slyly as I could, and Jimin smiled at me. We giggled at each other.

They all helped me pack up even though Hoseok helped me the most. Tae and Jimin went into the hall to talk about something and said they’d be back soon.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but why were you late? It couldn’t have taken that long for just some shorts.”

“Oh, uh. They wanted help with a Christmas song. We really wanted to make an album for it this year. That’s what they’re probably talking about right now. We’re gonna record some more once we get back to the dorms.”

A vague memory popped in my head, “Is it that one Taehyung…”

Hoseok nodded, and I smiled. So they were gonna end up singing it together after all. That made me happy.

“I’m glad. They deserve to sing together.” I said as I zipped up the last bag.

That’s when the boys came back in. Taehyung apologized for taking so long. Hobi said that she knew about the song, and they smiled at her. Jimin looked like he wanted to say something but decided not to and told us to ignore him.

I giggled, “I guess that’s it then. It was an honor to work with you guys. I hope we can do some more videos again some time.”

“Nooo, don’t gooo. Come to dinner with us?”

“I thought we were just gonna get takeout and watch movies before hitting the studio. Y’know, back at the dorms.” J-Hope said, confused.

Not gonna lie, I was confused too, “Well, if you’re gonna do all that. I don’t wanna intrude. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Taehyung wasn’t having it as he grabbed my arm and pulled me along, “No, no, no. We’re going out to eat together. There’s a place nearby that I haven’t gotten to try when not in a rush. It’ll be fun. Jimin, carry her stuff.”

The pink haired man grabbed the duffle in my right hand while Hobi followed behind, holding my other bag. The excited puppy-like Taehyung went on and on about how good the cold noodles were at this restaurant and how they’d have one of their managers drive me home instead of me having to take a cab or the train. I thought Why not? Free food! And ordered a few sushi rolls and we shared a huge bowl of cold noodles. It was really fun.

They asked me about videos and who I had gotten to interact with over the years. Hobi and Tae seemed the most interested while Jimin’s attention was more on the bottle of soju that a fan at another table ordered for them. It was even better that I could also ask them questions that I had been wondering about for years! Most importantly, which ARMY got the Bangtan Universe timeline correct? I know they had watched videos to see if anyone had. They were curious like that especially when it came to their fans and their content.

J-Hope replied that no one had gotten it 100% right, but a certain youtuber had gotten about 86% right but switched several key events. I asked who.

“That’s for us to know, and for you to find out.” Jimin winked at me and then got shy, hitting Joon’s arm. “Ah, that’s so cheesy.”

We had gotten a booth, but the boy with the boxy smile was the one sitting next to me while the two others sat across from us. About three hours had passed by with us just talking. Then it was time for me to upload the footage to my computer and send it to my editor. I wondered if she was up. I needed to fangirl to someone who would keep it a secret until it was uploaded.

I laughed and called her, “Hiya.”

“Oh my god, girl!” She squeaked. “Are you serious? You really shot this video today? Like, today today?”

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “I told you what I was gonna be doing.”

“Yeah, but you never said who it was gonna be with. BTS? I am so proud of you, but also. Mama can’t edit this without some notes. Some tea worthy notes.”

I had just gotten out of the shower, so I was doing my face mask and night routine in my oversized jumper and ankle socks. We usually talked like this while she did the first round of editing and then she’d would text me for anything else she needed info on. Like always, she ran the conversation just because that’s how our relationship worked.

“It wasn’t much. We just danced. They were late because of work stuff, so I was able to record some solo intros for you to choose from. Should I have gotten some more intros with them it it? I felt like the first one was good enough.”

Her deep voice laughed, “If you think it’s good enough, it probably is. But stop being so shy. What was is like? Who’s hottest in person?”

“You say that as if Hobi doesn’t own my heart and soul. Do you expect another answer?” I replied, remembering the dances we did...and his hands on my waist. His hands in my hands. His front pressed up against my back. How in sync our moments were.

“Y/N!!!!” My editor yelled.

I nearly dropped my phone as I dropped, “Yea?”

“Where did you go and why did your breathing get heavier? No wait...” She gasped. “Gurl. He did not. He. Did. NOT!!!”

She had gotten to that one. You knew it. The music played from her computer, and you could hear it through the phone. She was screaming at the top of her lungs from excitement. Her words were incomprehensible until her neighbor yelled at her. After apologizing, she was back.

“Hyuna! He danced behind you like that? TaeTae and Chim even left the stage because y’all were getting it on. This isn’t going in the video is it?”

“No! No way. I’d get fucking murdered if any sasaengs or worse, hardcore ARMY, saw that. I might put that in a blooper reel. Might, in like two million years. Also, we do Chung Ha’s song together too, so cut that out please. I quite enjoy living.”

She squealed quietly again, “Please tell me you got his number!”

I scoffed, “Nah, but he did help me pack up afterwards. Also, Tae made sure I ate dinner with them. A manager drove me back home, so that was fun.”

She was probably gonna ask what we talked about over dinner, but there was a loud crash and the sound of a dog whining. She had to go. I ended up falling asleep to the latest episode of Hello Counselor and waking up to my phone going absolutely insane. I woke up with drool on my face and the mask barely hanging on.

Luckily, it had been charging nearby. So I grabbed it and I couldn’t believe it. Apparently I had uploaded a video last night that had now reached 1 million views already. So many comments were pouring in. I had to turn off notifications before my phone literally exploded. It was already very hot.

“Wh-what the fuck?” My tired brain tried to understand what was going on.

Underneath the YouTube notifs was a text from my editor.

> Hey, I edited the video while my dog had to go the hospital last night and decided to uploaded it since I finished. Hope you don’t mind! ^_^

> OMG, girl. Check the video. You’re trending already!

I am gonna kill you <

> Love you too! Call me when you can! ^3^

I refreshed the page and it was almost at 3 million. I wanted to look at the comments, I really did. But I also was fucking terrified. There were so many missed calls and my Twitter and my Insta were also blowing up. I had to turn off every notification ever and make my own posts to maybe quell the flames.

Twitter: Holy shit, guys! My editor uploaded that for me as a surprise...to me. Thanks to @bts_twt for all the working with me, but I’m scared to look at the comments *scared face*

Instagram Story: Appreciate the support but stop blowing me up, thx!

Even though it was a lot of good news that I was seeing at first glance, it took me way too long to get rid of all my notifications. Also, I knew that was getting hate. Yeah, I had been doing this for years but I had a soft heart especially for things I cared about a lot. It’s not like I had time to prepare myself for any of this. | Deep breaths. I had to take deep breaths and made an instagram poll.

Read the comments on my YT vid or no?

Of course most of them said yes with the hope of their comment being seen and liked by me. Fine, I would, but D had to be on the phone with me as I did from my laptop just as moral support and to make me feel better about any mean ones. I probably had on more comment filters than necessary anyways, but just in case.

I scrolled down and there was a lot of good. A lot of people laughed at the forgotten bits of choreo and how exaggerated they were when doing the other’s solo dances. There were a lot of comments that had a timestamp around 38:22.

“D?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“What’s at 38 minutes and 22 seconds?”

Her voice went high, “Nothing?”

I smacked my lips and whispered, “Girl, I swear to god, if that’s what I think it is…”

“No, don’t--”

I clicked and there on my screen was J-Hope and I dancing to “Troublemaker” together. The other time stamp was 56:04. Guess what that was? You guessed it. “Love You” which I didn’t mind as much, but I was gonna die. My face got so warm.

“Oh my gahd. Oh my fucking god. I’m dead. I’m gonna die.” I took a deep breath and contemplated letting it out. Eventually, I did. “I can’t go outside today or tomorrow or ever again!”

D scoffed, “Gurl, it’s not like they know this was recorded yesterday or whatever. It could’ve been done a long time ago.”

I paced around my apartment, phone pressed to my ear and voice rising, “Denessa, Jimin’s hair was blonde until a week ago until it became pink which it is in my video. They’re gonna know it’s hella recent. Also, also, Taehyung posted a selca yesterday about having a good time dancing. They’re gonna connect the dots and murder me for messing with their oppas!”

“If I was there, I’d slap you. Get a hold of yourself, girly. So what if it’s recent? They aren’t gonna kill you. As if you hadn’t gotten death threats before. Did anything happen then?”

“Nothing dramatic, just the letters.”

“Exactly. You can throw those out. You’ll be fine. Anyways, if you really do feel unsafe, then you can call the police. They’ll actually help you here.”

I breathed, “You’re right. You’re right. I do feel bad because I feel as though they’ll get mad at me for adding those moments. Also, I just don’t want any rumors.”

“I feel bad for putting them in. They just looked so cute! I’ll edit it out and reupload.”

“Just keep them in unless we get in trouble. It’s out there now. People have saved the clips already.” I chuckled and heard a text come through. After checking I wanted to die again. “Hey, it’s the manager. I’ll text you later.”

“Good luck, girly.”

Gertrude sent me a number and said to call it asap. I did even though my stomach felt like it was a hole or emptiness. I decided to make a bowl of cereal as I waited for the other side to pick up and also prayed that it wasn’t Bang PD or the legal team of some corporation wanting to sue me for the content.

A deep and chipper voice answered, “Hello, (Y/N)?”

“Hi...yeah, it’s me.”

“Good. It’s Hoseok.”

J-Hope! I nearly choked on a Cheerio, “Um. Hi, Hoseok. What-uh, what made you need me to call you? Before you say anything, it was my editor who did everything. I had no idea she uploaded it until last night. It’s not the first time she’s done this but I didn’t mean for anything to happen like--”

“Hey, hey, calm down. I watched it with the guys. I was staring a lot, huh?”

I nodded but then realized he couldn’t see me, “Y-yeah...I noticed that too. We’ve got good chemistry though.” What was I saying? That’s probably not what he wanted. “I can tell her to edit it out or the parts where we danced together. It’s no biggie.”

He chuckled, “No, it isn’t that. I’m actually glad she kept them in, actually. We’ve been wanting a new image lately, and I think this’ll help move it in the right direction.”

“Really?” Said I who was quite shook.

“Really.” He shifted the phone before speaking again. “The fans aren’t giving you a hard time, are they?”

“No. They’re actually being really nice. Just the usual hate that I deal with on a much grander scale because you know, it’s trending and all.”

“Congrats!” He said, a smile in his voice.

I didn’t want him to hang up, and I didn’t have anything to do today. Still, I felt like we should be saying something even though this was the most comfortable silence I had ever experienced.

“What are you--?” Hobi said the same time as I said, “Is that--” We laughed at the cross over and told the other to go first. He was older, so he spoke.

He asked what I was doing for Christmas since there was a ball he wanted to invite me to as his date. All of BTS would be escorting someone, mostly friend, family, or ARMY. Basically, he saw you as a friend and wanted to spend more time with me. I was not shook. I was not shaken nor stirred.

I was shooketh.

“So, we’re going as friends?” I asked just to make sure my heart could calm down a bit.

He hesitated, “Yes. Does that mean you’re coming?”

“Yeah. Sounds fun. What’s the dress code?”

“I’ll send you something. We’ll match!” The smile in his voice was evident.

I blinked, “What do you mean you’ll send me something. Hoseok, you don’t even know my--”

“Uh, sorry. Hyung needs me for something. See you soon. Bye!”

Beep. He hung up. I looked at myself in the mirror, making my pajamas as tight as possible. Just looking at my body trying to see what he saw. It wasn’t anything too special. Then again, he did like black girls. I smirked and then broke out into a full out smile and held my cheeks. My chest felt like it was a ball of light. Jung Hoseok was my friend. I was so lucky! Thank goodness I stayed in Korea.

I just stayed low for a while after the video came out. Yeah, the death threats and racial slurs increased in my inboxes and messages of all sorts, but that just meant my block button was getting used a lot more too. About a week had passed and most of them had gone away to the latest scandal and relationship drama or whatever.

No one told me to edit out the moments of me and J-Hope dancing together. I guess it was because it was seen through a logical lense for the most part. The dances required two people to dance together, and it wasn’t extremely sexual. Manner hands were obvious and made even more obvious by D’s editing skills. I thanked her for that. To be completely honest, I was sorta really glad that it was kept there and that a certain channel called KMusicAndBlackWomen asked if she could include it in her next video.

With Hoseok’s permission, I was able to say yes. The two of us eventually met up again and he asked once more if the comments were bad. He was really worried because he knew there were some real asshats who claimed to be their fans even though they’d never want someone so hateful in their fandom. We even grabbed lunch where I told him about the awful Winterview that would be happening two days before the ball.

“Why’s it so awful? I mean, I don’t really watch it but everyone seems to enjoy watching it every year.”

I sighed, “One of the hosts is always saying slightly racist, well completely racist things and people laugh it off. I just smile too because I’m not one for confrontation.” I stirred my hot cocoa and watched the mini marshmallows melt.

“If they’re saying dumb shit, then call them out.” Hoseok gave me an unexpected answer. “At least let them know it’s not ok, or they’re gonna keep doing it. Online comments can only do so much. I’m sure they’ll stop or at least watch what they say if you do it during the interview.”

“No promises. It’s just they’re so much popular than I am.” I didn’t say the name since I knew Hobi worked closely with her.

He held your hand on the table for a moment, “Listen. There’s only one of them and there are millions of black fans who hate to hear that person say racist stuff. If you won’t do it for you, do it for the fans. Yours and theirs who usually have to keep quiet.”

I hoped Hoseok was right. Putting on basic foundation before I left, I made sure I had everything I needed since I’d be out all day. I also took migraine medicines because I had been dreading this day. This time would be my fourth time doing this.

More importantly, I hoped I had the guts to say something when she said some dumb shit. I had to laugh at myself. Not “if” but “when” because I knew she was gonna spew some bull from that useless mouth of hers.

Like every year prior, we shared the same dressing room. I was to wear a simple red and cream colored Gucci dress with a long sleeve shirt under which was the same creamy tone along with green stockings and a small Christmas hat pinned into my hair. Later on a red and green suit would be my outfit because we had a 15 minute intermission for the hour long livestream.

“I’ll be watching! You’ll do great. Fighting!” Hobi texted me, and I smiled at my phone.

“What, did you get a notification for a discount on dashikis?” It was her. Winnie.

I set my jaw, “Nope. Just a friend of mine wishing me luck.” I turned my phone on silent and slid it into my pocket.

Before she could say something else, we were called to our seats. Then it was lights, cameras, action. The four guests were introduced: Me, Winnie, a male YouTuber named Carlos, and underrated solo idol James. Carlos was a friend of mine and had the longest hair out of anyone there. It was braided back and tied with a red and green ribbon.

We would be answering questions and playing games all night. Things went well, and Winnie kept quiet for the most part. She was polite, which was sort of weird. Like, she was usually polite but just racist towards black people in a passive aggressive way.

“So, (Y/N),” James asked. “You’ve had a video go viral lately. What do you think attributed to it getting so popular in such a short period of time?”

“Well, uh, it was an accidental upload of sorts. My editor had spare time to edit as she was waiting for her dog to get treated--he’s ok by the way, and she just posted it for me. As to what caused the popularity, it was BTS. They’re good guys and popular and talented, and people are constantly looking for content of them. I just happened to be the supplier of it that day.”

Winnie commented, “You’re used to supplying people with their daily fix, aren’t you?”

Drugs. She was talking about me being a drug supplier. Not just me, either, every black person that ever breathed. As if there hadn’t been thousands of cases where people of color had been framed or wrongfully killed because of suspicion. As if it were a joke she was allowed to make. The others gave a quiet laugh, looking for me to say if it was ok to find this humorous.

“You’re a comedian, right?” I asked.

“Yeah?”

“Then try saying something funny instead of the racist bullshit you’re always spewing.” Everyone got silent. “Just because I’m black I must be a drug dealer? That’s what you’re saying.”

She tried to backtrack, “N-no. It’s just that--”

I wasn’t going to let her, “I’ve dealt with you for three years, Winnie. I’m putting my foot down. Make a real joke for once instead of turning yourself into one. Let’s continue.” I looked at Carlos and put on a smile. “Yeah, so it was a lot of fun getting to interact with them. BTS are just a bunch of sweethearts. I’m lucky I got to interact with them.”

The main host cleared his throat, “Um, well, that’s...that’s good to hear (Y/N). We’re gonna take a quick commercial break and be back in just a moment.”

All eyes were now on me after CUT was called. Makeup artists started to approach the stage and do touchups for everyone.

Winnie was shocked, “What was that, (Y/N)? Couldn’t you just smile through it? You know how I joke.” She tried to be buddy buddy with me now.

“I do, and that wasn’t a joke. Well, not a good one at least. Good jokes are funny. Also, I’ve been smiling through your so-called jokes and dying inside for way too long. I’m done. If you can’t take it, then don’t try to dish it out.”

I held up my finger when my makeup artist redid my lips and smiled at him, “Thanks, Saeran.” I smacked my lips. My smile faded when looking Winnie right in her blue colored contacts. “If the next thing out of your mouth isn’t an apology, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Alright, 30 seconds everyone!” The director called.

Everyone scrambled to their seats and she kept silent. I scoffed. Of course she wouldn’t apologize. She was too good for that, apparently. As the stream went on, there was more laughter and reading of questions. The games still went on. Once the last one was cleaned up, we could answer ten more questions and then say our goodbyes.

“Question #9 is for (Y/N). Will you ever make a video about the racism and ignorance you have faced in Korea, or is it small enough where it’s not worth talking about?”

“Awwww.” The others went sadly.

I know what I had to say, and I would mean every word of it, “Well, I think the earlier event that happens answers part of your question. I’ve been here a long time, and I’ve mentioned being the victim of ignorance many times. Less than the good times, but I still think it’s about time that it gets its own video. It’ll come sometime January, probably.” I smiled and laughed.

Everyone nodded and then the last question was being read, “Final one. Is there anything you really want for Christmas?”

James said, “A girlfriend would be nice.”

“I’d like to see my dogs back home in Canada.”

“A new look.” was Carlos’s reply.

I thought for a moment before saying, “World peace or a really long nap.”

Everyone smiled and laughed.

“Well, that’s it. Thank you all fo--”

“Actually. I wanna change mine.” Winnie said, surprising everyone.

Girl was about to do some shit, I could just feel it. I braced myself for another snide comment reeking of ego.

She turned to me, “I want (Y/N)’s forgiveness for Christmas.” She stood and bowed at my feet like a proper Korean.

I was shocked to say the least. Was this actually happening? Where was I supposed to look? I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about this.

“(Y/N) I am sorry. I have been a complete jerk to you for no reason. Honestly, I don’t wanna be known for making cheap shots at you, so I apologize for every one I’ve made and I promise I won’t do it anymore.”

My mouth flapped open several times before I could say something, “Thanks for apologizing. I’ll have to see you actually do what you say before I can completely and honestly forgive you.”

What the fuuuuuuck? I got out of my seat and quickly went to the dressing room where I took off my Christmas suit. The two of us didn’t say anything else to each other than good nights when I left first and “Happy Holidays!” following after. I needed a drink. |

Good thing D had texted me earlier. She said we needed to celebrate me growing a spine. We got wine drunk at her place as people tweeted about the “Feud” between me and Winnie or whatever. When I got home the next day, there were a few boxes waiting for me. I opened them once I was inside.

It was the most beautiful snowy dress ever. Elsa could only dream of such a dress. It was forest green with white beading to make it look as though snowflakes had landed on the dress. Trying it on, it was perfect. How did he know what my sizes were? There was another two boxes. One had snow colored heels and the other had...a tiara! Oh my god!

I couldn’t believe it. I had to text him.

I twirled in the dress for a good hour before finally taking it off. Wow, ok, so I had to do my own makeup for this? I needed to step up my game. Internet beauty gurus here I come! Wait, I needed to eat first. | The day soon arrived where I got my makeup done by a store known for giving free makeovers. I tweaked it to be a bit more sparkly when I got home. We walked the red carpet which is something that I’ve done before but never with someone so popular and kind. It was beautiful inside where all sorts of idols danced and talked to one another.

It was a good time to just relax and chill with Hoseok. I was nervous, but his calming aura put me at ease. While talking people brought up my Winterview, and I stood my ground. A lot of people were proud of me. Hobi seemed to smile every time someone said they were glad I finally stood up to her. Apparently, a lot of people had kept silent about her sucky brand of “humor”

“So, is there anything you wanna do before the new year rings in?”

“I don’t think so. I just wanna enjoy my time with you today and not worry about the future for a little bit y’know?”

He smiled, “You’re so cute. I’m honestly really proud of what you did the other day. It makes me glad to see you speaking for yourself.”

I said thanks and asked if he wanted anything to do before the year was over. He said he wanted to do two things he had never done before. Those two things were 1. Beat Junkook in a round of Overwatch and 2. Do something very Christmassy

“Like what?”

“Drink eggnog, open presents in pajamas, Christmas karaoke, kisssomeoneunderthemistletoe. Y’know. Something like that.”

I blinked, “What was that last one?”

He blushed and no longer met my eyes, “I want to kiss someone under the mistletoe. I’ve always seen it in movies, but I’ve never done it myself. Not like I really could without getting angry fans in return.”

“Why not kiss one of the members. I’m sure the fans will find that cute.”

“Well, mostly because I wanna kiss someone I like in a romantic way or even love. Also, kissing them would just be fan service.

I scoffed, “As if you don’t kiss each other all the time. You’re Jung Hoseok.”

He laughed, “Ah, I guess you’re right, but there’s actually someone I had in mind.”

“Who?”

Hobi took a deep breath and leaned next to my ear, “You...if it’s ok.”

He came away from my ear to look me in the eyes. The question was obvious, but I still couldn’t believe he was actually asking me this. I bit my sparkling magenta lip and nodded. If I could kiss Jung Hoseok, it’d be a dream come true. Even better if I was helping him reach one of his goals as well.

A smile came over his face, “Really?”

“Yes. I would love to my your mistletoe kiss.”

Hoseok squeezed my hands tightly and then searched the skies for the mistletoe drone that was flying the plant to random areas. As the song came to a close, he gently waltzed me to be under it with him. The only problem was that other couples were trying to do the same as well. Fans weren’t allowed to be in here, so it wouldn’t go too viral unless someone mentioned it on social media.

No one usually talked about the balls until months later anyways.

So, when the music finally ended, it was me and J-Hope underneath the mistletoe. No, not J-Hope, Hoseok. This was him and not his public persona. He was the man who wanted me of all people to be his mistletoe kiss.

“Ready?”

I nodded even though I wasn’t sure if I was ready. I wanted this for sure, though. There was no doubt about that in my mind. Both of us closed our eyes, and he smooched my lips. His were so soft. His Christmas pine needle cologne was even stronger than before and pricked my nose. I smiled. It was more than just a peck as he held my face in his hands. My heart was on fire.

He hugged me afterwards, “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” I replied, a bit breathless.

The two of us danced closer than ever, a new song having come on. It was a bit more upbeat than the previous waltz, but us two just swayed together in our own little world. Even though it had been a hard and stressful couple of weeks full of unexpected events and words from every which way, this had been the best and most unplanned thing.

Hobi bought a dress and crown that made me feel like a princess and then he kissed me underneath the mistletoe. Even if I was in rags, that kiss. Those few seconds would’ve made me feel like a princess anyways.

And with that kiss I knew or at least hoped that he wanted more. He wanted me. What a Merry Christmas it had been, and it wasn’t even over yet.

#BTS #Bangtan #Jung Hoseok #J-Hope #JHope #Hoseok x Reader #Reader x Hoseok #JHope x Reader #Reader x JHope #J-Hope x Reader #Reader x J-Hope #Black!Reader #Youtuber!Reader #Black!Youtuber #Story: Trivia: Holiday Dance #Story: Trivia Holiday Dance

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years ago

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Who owns the covid vaccines?

A key idea from sf is “all laws are local, and no law knows how local it is.” Prisoners of our own time and place, it’s hard not to feel like we’re living in the only possible world, is if everything around us is inevitable and natural — and any change is “unnatural.”

But anyone who’s ever dabbled in multi-agent modeling (sims where “individuals” each have their own goals and aversions) knows there are lots of stable configurations that a big, complex system can fall into, and re-rerunning the same sim produces wildly different outcomes.

14 months ago, we hit STOP on our big, complex system and now the US is about to hit START again. It will not be a return to “normalcy,” because the old normal wasn’t inevitable. There are lots of other ways we could get along. And frankly, the old normal sucked.

A key way in which Old Normal sucked was the way that monopolists were able to style themselves as heroic entrepreneurs whose great rewards were commensurate with their great risks — when in reality, the risks were always socialized and only the gains were privatized.

That’s an area where a new normal is long overdue, and that new normal is being born in the controversy over public access to covid vaccines.

Helping the poor world manufacture its own vaccines is the obvious right thing to do.

Not just because vaccine apartheid is slow genocide, but also because the longer billions of people are infected, the greater the chance that one of them will incubate a vaccine-resistant, even more deadly mutation.

MRNA vaccines are wild: compared to conventional vaccines, they can be manufactured with 99.7% less capital and 99.9% less physical plant, and mRNA production facilities can retool to make new vaccines 1,000% faster.

https://coronavirus.medium.com/manufacturing-mrna-vaccines-is-surprisingly-straightforward-despite-what-bill-gates-thinks-222cffb686ee

Moderna’s own assessment is that new mRNA facilities can be built in 3–4 months. There’s no good scientific or humanitarian reason to object to patent- and know-how transfer to the Global South, where vaccination is currently projected for 2023/4 (!).

https://apnews.com/article/drug-companies-called-share-vaccine-info-22d92afbc3ea9ed519be007f8887bcf6

We’ve just experienced the collapse of the racist lie — peddled by Big Pharma, Bill Gates, Howard Dean and other vaccine apartheid apologists — that poor brown people are too primitive to make vaccines.

The new talking point? “CHINA! CHINA! CHINA!”

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/15/how-to-rob-a-bank/#roll-the-dice

Whether it’s racist lies about the Global South or New Cold War hysteria, the underlying ideological story is the same: exclusive patent rights and the (spectacular) profits they yield are the foundation of lifesaving medical innovation.

That is, fate has placed among us a tiny cohort of collosi, endowed with the superpower of inventing the future. But for all their creative might, these saviors-in-potentia have the fragile temperaments of toddlers, and if they’re denied their due, they’ll abandon us to die.

“Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.” The true mRNA vaccines theft isn’t entrepreneur-inventors who face robbery by the public sector — rather, those “entrepreneurs” have enjoyed billions in public subsidies, and now insist they owe nothing in return.

So much public investment went into the covid vaccines that it’s hard to account for it all. The GAO thinks that Uncle Sam coughed up $18–23b in direct subsidies. BARDA pumped in $19.3b.

https://www.healthaffairs.org/do/10.1377/hblog20210512.191448/full/

The USG picked up the tab for non-clinical studies of new covid vaccines ($900m), and also shelled out for Phase III trials ($2.7b).

Moderna got $53m for production capacity, part of $100m in direct capacity contracts to pharma, backed with $2.7b for contract manufacturers.

J&J got a $1b pre-order from the USG; Moderna got $4.95b, Pfizer (which touts its lack of public subsidy!) got a $5.97b guaranteed order.

That’s just the latest round of investment. BARDA has been backing mRNA vaccine research for years, pumping billions into the project.

Pharma’s claim that it doesn’t owe us anything in return makes no sense, even by the companies’ own logic. They say that markets produce wonders because they reward canny risk-taking with vast fortunes.

By that logic, the public — who assumed the majority of the risk in developing vaccines — are the angel investors in this high-tech unicorn, and the pharma companies are the VCs who came in with some late capital to help scale up a sure thing.

It’s neither good business — nor legal — for early minority investors get squeezed out by latecomers.

But, of course, the government isn’t a business. Our democratic institutions direct our national productive capacity to R&D in service to human thriving, not profit.

Public investment in R&D isn’t a business in the same way that having kids isn’t a retirement plan: we have kids because we love them and want them to thrive. If they care for us in our dotage, that’s great, but if you treat your kid as an ambulatory 401k, you’re a monster.

I first encountered these ideas when serving as an NGO rep at WIPO alongside Jamie Love and Knowledge Ecology International. Love helped create the Access to Medicines Treaty and has been fighting the pharma industry’s self-serving story of fragile genius for decades.

In an interview with Janine Jackson at FAIR, Love lays out the plain case for an IP-waiver to enable poor countries to make their own vaccines, like the undeniable truth that this would “definitely expand the production and supply of vaccines.”

https://fair.org/home/government-money-thats-gone-into-vaccine-development-is-being-privatized-by-a-handful-of-companies/

Love also recounts the kind of public subsidy that went into covid vaccine production (for example, Pfizer’s boasts of free enterprise entrepreneurship omits the €400m from Germany and €100m from the rest of the EU).

Pharma’s claims of philanthropic largesse are wildly overblown. Pfizer told its shareholders it expects $26b from covid vaccines in 2021; Moderna’s projecting $20b (Moderna’s CEO’s personal net worth just hit $5b).

All that before pharma companies jack up the prices for “their” vaccines, in the years to come when we all need annual boosters, when the price will go from $10 to $175/dose, for a vaccine that costs $0.10/dose to manufacture.

The case for public access to vaccines and the case against pharma as a necessary or even laudable force for good is so thin, it’s remarkable that it’s persisted this long.

But as Love points out, the ideology that knowledge-monopolies are moral has some powerful backers.

Bill Gates is a prime example. Gates has been committed to enclosing commonly created knowledge and turning it into a monopoly — in service to coaxing our toddler-genius-collosi into action — since he was a teenager, writing petulant letters to computer hobbyists.

Today, Gates — a convicted monopolist — directs one of the world’s great fortunes (“behind every great fortune…”), and he mobilizes his capital to prop up the story of necessary and benevolent profiteering.

The Gates Foundation, for example, donates millions to “independent” media outlets (as well as partnering with public media like the BBC), and as Love describes, this has a chilling effect on negative reporting on Gates, the Foundation, and its ideology.

Like the time Love got a Washington Monthly reporter interested in a critical story about how the Gates Foundation’s grants influence its media coverage — only to have the reporter’s editor kill the story because they’d just applied for one of those grants (!).

Gates is a true ideologue, a relentless campaigner against any public access to public goods, in every domain, not just software. He’s been at it a long time, leading the charge against Nelson Mandela’s demand that South Africa be allowed to manufacture its own AIDS drugs.

Love: “Gates is a smart guy; he’s not the only smart guy around or smart woman around. I think people need to listen to other views. And, actually, Gates has sort of a mental block about these issues, and so some of his arguments just don’t add up.”

But all laws are local, and multi-agent systems have many stable configurations. On Friday, the New York Times editorial board — long a voice for strong corporate power — published an editorial and accompanying package strongly endorsing vaccine waivers.

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/14/opinion/biden-covid-vaccines-world-india.html

The Times notes that the global economy is losing trillions due to lockdown, and that these loses will mount for so long as vaccines aren’t universally available.

But it also makes an ethical case, calling vaccine apartheid a “moral failure.”

It warns of political instability and the potential for states to topple if something isn’t done, pointing to the pitched battles in Colombia (in which death squads are now murdering leftists with impunity and posting snuff videos to social media as a boast — and a warning).

Beyond advocating for vaccine waivers, the Times backs Public Citizen’s plan to spend $25b ramping up domestic, publicly owned vaccine production facilities to make vaccines to be given away free or at cost to poor countries.

https://www.citizen.org/article/25-billion-to-vaccinate-the-world/

That effort will produce 8b vaccine doses, “enough to vaccinate half the planet.” And it will provide booster shots and new anti-variant vaccines into the future.

The future is coming. Lockdowns are lifting. The rich world is inching toward an emergence from emergency. But normalcy isn’t returning — thank goodness. The whole world deserves (and requires) so much better than normal.

Image: Quapan (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/hinkelstone/49920420853

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic

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