#i can pull out my old language learning project

[bitterpngs]

i need to put this hyperfixation of mine to work

[gumnut-logic]

A Date with Monique

Okay, I'm blaming this squarely on @onereyofstarlight, @katblu42 and @gaviiadastra .

Have a little roadside assistance. Younger Earth and Sky and a lot of frustration for at least one of them :D

Hope it makes some kind of sense as I wrote most of it, ironically, on the side of a road :D It is possibly ridiculous.

-o-o-o-

“Aren’t you rich or something?”

Scott looked up at his date and mentally lowered the number on her scorecard for the night. “Yeah, so?”

She waved a hand in a random direction. “Can’t you call in a helicopter or something? I’m getting burrs in my stockings.”

That had him peering down the length of her long legs to the heels at their end. The legs were very nice indeed, even in the twilight darkness. But she was right. The grasses on the roadside verge had decided that she could transport their seeds quite well.

He wasn’t going to mention the bug on her shoe.

“No, we don’t do that.”

“Why not?” There was a whine to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps their unfortunate circumstances were a catalyst to revelations of her true nature.

“Help is on the way. He won’t be long.”

She slapped at her arm. “Ew, mosquito!”

Scott was leaning against his motorcycle. His motorcycle that was no longer motoring due to a busted spark plug. He had no spare, so that had necessitated a phone call.

That phone call was going to cost him because Virgil had been ranting at Scott for several weeks now that his bike needed a service.

He’d been busy.

Okay, he had forgotten.

And tonight was pleasantly unexpected. Well, it was pleasant until the bike stopped doing what he needed it to do.

“Who won’t be long? Did you call your father? I’d like to meet the famous Jeff Tracy.”

Oh, I bet you would. Her scorecard was dropping by the minute. Mentioning Jeff Tracy and his billions wasn’t the best way to get into favour with his eldest son. There were many opportunists out there…to use kind terms…apparently Grandma had at least a twenty-mile radius of influence when it came to language, even unspoken.

“Dad isn’t home.”

“Oh.” That deflated her.

Wonder what she will think of Virgil’s truck.

As if magicked into existence by the thought, a familiar rumble ramped up beyond the crest down the road. Moments later his brother’s old truck ambled over the top, its yellow headlamps lighting up the country road his bike had decided to die on.

“Here he is.”

“Thank god.”

Scott arched an eyebrow and wondered if his date would think the same once she was onboard.

Virgil’s truck was a workhorse. He kept her fully functional, but she did the hard yards for Virgil’s engineering and repair projects. The truck used to be Grandpa’s and, considering its age, was probably his grandfather’s before him.

Virgil adored her. But she was old and she showed it.

The truck creaked to a stop just in front of Scott’s bike, Virgil throwing open the driver’s side door and climbing out.

It was getting dark, but Scott didn’t need to see his brother’s face to know what expression was on it.

He cut him off before he could say a thing. “I know you told me, Virg.” He held up his hands. “I’m sorry.”

His brother snorted. “Live and learn.” He held up a spark plug. “This should do the trick.

Of course, being Virgil, he had brought his tool kit and sufficient lighting. A soft elbow to Scott’s arm and he was crouching down, pulling the guts out of Scott’s bike.

“Are you able to take me home in your truck?”

Both brothers looked up at his date.

Virgil answered first. “I guess I can, if you really want to.”

“It’s part of the service, isn’t it? Roadside assistance?”

“Um…”

“He’s my brother, Monique.”

“Your brother? Which one?” Yeah, there you go. She was showing much more interest in Virgil now.

Virgil, being Virgil, either that or just simply getting revenge on Scott for interrupting his piano practise, unfolded his legs and stood up, holding out a hand. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m Virgil Tracy.”

Scott bit the inside of his cheek as Monique took his brother’s hand and clasped it in both of hers. “Thank you so much for coming to our rescue.”

“Not the first time, ma’am, unlikely to be the last.”

Okay, his brother was dead for that line, no matter how true.

As Virgil extricated his hand from her clasp, Scott wondered if Monique would appreciate the grease his brother had probably shared with her.

Virgil was notorious for sporting a variety of grotty substances. And besides, his hands had been in the guts of his bike, for goodness’ sake.

Monique was making a point of leaning over said bike, despite her white dress, looking down at Virgil, and displaying her ample feminine attributes.

An hour ago, Scott had been admiring said attributes over dinner, all blonde curls, red lips, and alluring figure, but now he was no longer interested.

As for Virgil, his brother was clueless as usual, likely finding more interest in bike bits than the bits almost hanging in his face…oh, c’mon, now she was getting ridiculous.

Scott stepped around to her side. “Thank you for a lovely meal tonight, Monique. Apologies for the breakdown.”

She waved a hand in Scott’s direction. “It happens.” She didn’t even bother to look at him. “Virgil, dear, have you fixed the problem?”

Scott rolled his eyes.

Virgil was frowning at the bike’s engine, predictably oblivious. “Scott, when was the last time you had her serviced?”

Scott blinked away the non-sequitur. “Last May.”

“Where?”

“On base.”

Virgil grunted. “I’ll do it next time.” He stood up and chucked a tool into his kit. “You’re both riding with me tonight.”

“It’s not just the spark plug?”

“It’s not just the spark plug. I’ll overhaul her tomorrow. Tonight, it’s you me and Monique.”

Did she really have to suddenly look so eager?

Scott sighed and waved a hand. “Monique, meet Virgil Tracy and his truck…named Monique. Looks like she’s our ride tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Your name is Monique?” Virgil really could do the innocent and clueless so well sometimes.

Scott grabbed him by a shoulder and wrapped his arm around his brother. “Yes, little bro, I had a date with Monique tonight.”

That set Virgil grinning.

Oh yes, Scott was going to pay for this one. Possibly forever.

Monique, the one with two legs rather than four wheels, darted around Scott’s bike and looped her arm in one of Virgil’s. “Thank you again for saving us. Can you drive me home tonight?”

Unbelievable.

“Not a problem, Monique.”

Now he wasn’t sure which to strangle first.

“I’ll just load Scott’s bike into the back and we can get you home safe.” And yes, his little brother grabbed Scott’s motorcycle, rolled it over, and lifted it - by himself, with zero effort - into the back of his truck.

For a moment there he seriously thought Monique was going to swoon.

The thing was, Scott could call his brother an ass, but it was likely that Virgil had zero clue about the effect of his actions. He was known to lug stuff around the farm all the time, and this was probably just another case of getting the job done.

Virgil wandered back to them, wiping his dirty hands on an equally dirty rag. He looked up at Scott and frowned. “What?”

“Get in the car.”

“Truck.”

“Whatever.”

Of course, Monique made sure she was in the middle and virtually threw herself at his brother as they drove between the dark fields back to her apartment in town.

Scott might as well not have been there.

Probably just as well. Her motives were now clearly obvious and he had no interest in pursuing her further.

His main concern now was ungluing her from his lug of a brother. As they pulled up out the front of her block, Virgil was talking about the family history of his truck and how it had been handed down from Tracy to Tracy.

Monique was suspiciously interested. Earlier in the night she had claimed to hate listening to men talk about their cars. Scott had been glad he had his bike.

Apparently, it depended on which Tracy brother she was talking to.

What had he seen in her anyway?

“So, um, can I see you tomorrow?” She was practically pawing Virgil’s shirt.

“Um…”

Hmm, maybe his brother wasn’t as clueless as he appeared.

Scott interrupted. “I’m sorry, Monique, Virgil has to fly out for treatment tomorrow.”

“What?!”

Hmm, their voices did make an interesting harmony.

“Treatment?” Really? Now she was going to pull the ‘poor boy, I’ll look after you’ thing? So many doe eyes up at his brother.

“Okay, that’s it.” Scott shoved his door open and climbed out, attempting to urge her out after him. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience of the breakdown, Monique, but I need to get Virgil home.”

“What?” Well, he was going to pay for this forever, might as well make it worth it. Virgil was frowning up at him almost enough to break an eyebrow.

“Oh, okay.” She even managed to look put out. “I hope to see you soon, Virgil.”

“Uh, yeah.” Virgil’s hands actually squirmed on the steering wheel.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” She fussed around in her purse. “I don’t have a pen, so I guess this will have to do.”

And the woman wrote her phone number in lipstick on Virgil’s forearm.

His brother seemed to be frozen.

To top it off, she then re-did her lips with a smile.

Scott hoped she was enjoying the engine grease that…no doubt…was the lipstick’s new flavour.

Finally, little miss Marilyn Monroe slipped out of the car and strode past Scott with a bounce in her step. She waved at Virgil over one shoulder with a smile before disappearing down the path to her apartment.

Both Tracy brothers just stared for a moment.

Scott was wondering what her reaction would be when she finally looked in the mirror. Even in the shadows of the street lamps he could see that her white dress was now streaked in anything but.

Might be a good time to make an exit.

He slid back into the truck beside Virgil who was staring at his lipstick vandalised arm.

“She’s interesting.”

“Not your type.” Not in a million years was she getting anywhere near his brother.

“So she’s yours then?” And yes, his brother was grinning fit to split something.

He glared at Virgil. “Just drive.”

-o-o-o-

[blazehedgehog]

If one decides to start a creative project about their favorite thing, be it fanart, fanfic, fangame etc. , which approach do you prefer, the creatives involved fully dedicating themselves to recreating and recapturing what made the original works...work, or make an active choice to be derivative (this doesn't mean artists are ignorant about the original material, not necessarily) How do you feel about either, and are there any other approach you can think of?

There's this guy who used to post at SFGHQ named Sam Beddoes who now runs Freakzone Games. He's made the official Manos: The Hands of Fate game, he did both AVGN Adventures, he's the project lead on that Toxic Crusaders beat'em'up, etc.

But he's an old guard Sonic head and I've heard him turn up on a couple of Sonic podcasts, specifically to talk fangames, and by his account he got really fed up with the Sonic fangaming scene when everybody became obsessed with perfectly replicating the Genesis games, because to him, all the creativity and magic went away.

I remember hearing that and both agreeing and disagreeing with him. And I have enough thoughts about it that I've actually considered doing a video about it, and about fangaming overall.

I think there is a stigma to replicating something perfectly that's very adjacent to people who are concerned about young artists who start out by tracing pictures other people have drawn. Plagiarism is a real, legitimate problem. But it's only a problem if you lie about tracing.

I'm of the mind that if you're starting out drawing, half the problem is just learning control. Tracing can be a valuable tool in helping you to understand hand motions and give you a perspective on the construction of an image. For the earliest beginners, I don't think there's any shame in starting out by tracing. It's building muscle memory. Just don't say you drew it.

Similarly, my game development skills went way, way, way up about the time I started to analyze and perfectly replicate existing games. Like, the long canceled Sonic Forever project used an early enough version of the Sonic Worlds codebase that I had to read the Sonic Retro Physics Guide and use their data on how to add Knuckles in from scratch. My code matched how he worked in the Genesis games almost 1:1, because it was largely me just interpreting the values into something Clickteam Fusion could understand.

Something similar happened when, in 2012, I started (and never finished) a remake of my famous Mario Blue Twilight DX fangame. That's when I started really paying attention to how the source games worked so I could get a better sense of how a Mario game needed to "feel" in order to be correct.

And that trend continued with every fangame project I worked on following that, like when I figured I could make my own version of Sonic 2's Hidden Palace Zone, since I wasn't happy with the Retro Engine version. The idea was to be accurate above all else. In some cases, I'd even watch recordings of official gameplay in slow motion just so I could see exactly how the game was created, and in some cases, count frame by frame the duration of certain actions.

And all of this just makes me think of when I showed a friend my game jam game, OverBite. He complimented me on how nice the controls felt, in that kind of backhanded way where he said "When did you learn to make games feel so nice?"

Because if you go back to those really early games of mine, they all feel like garbage to control. And I attribute it to putting in a lot of time pulling apart the nuts and bolts of real retro games and putting a microscope up to why they work the way they do. Deconstructing all of their little nuances and sub-states and then trying to put it all back together again in a different programming language.

You learn a lot when you're forced to stop and understand why a piece of code exists in the way it does. Why there are all these little edge cases that you never notice but still exist to make a game feel just a little better.

At the end of the day, yes, Sam was right. Games need to have creativity and seeking out the perfect replication of the Sega Genesis Sonic games can feel somewhat futile. Every SAGE for the last ten years, there will be at least three games that instantly vanish from my memory because they are basic, plain Sonic Worlds Delta fangames with no style of their own. They just want to make Sonic 4 and we've had a lot of different Sonic 4s by now.

But the thing about learning is, you gotta learn the rules before you learn why and where to break them, because breaking (or at least bending) all of those boring, standardized rules is where your personal style starts to emerge, and that personal style is ultimately what people are going to be interested in at the end of the day.

So I think it is vitally important to start at 1:1 exact recreation and once you've made a comfortable replica, only then should you start asking yourself what you'd change and why. Make sure you understand the material before venturing further. You gotta learn to do it right first.

[amelias-zelda-calamity-quintet]

Developing Gerudo As a Language For MoaH

Ok, I wanna make this very clear at the top: I’m not a linguistist. I have a passing (conversational at best) knowledge of a handful of languages, only fluent in English. Part of the reason that Hyrule got the Arthurian coding for Mark of a Hero was because part of getting my BA in Literature required taking HEL and that included learning about Old English and I wanted to use that knowledge to divide Hylian and ancient Hylian most easily for me as a storyteller. To include making up words there. I came up with a new word for an ancient knife with this, a drifemece. It’s based on a real knife described in an old hunting manual but there wasn’t a name for it that didn’t require using a different weapon name (and Ambrose’s zweihänder has taught me why that’s an issue) and “Hero’s Hunting Knife” didn’t sound very cool. Also, I'm taking a whole bunch of accents out. I can't do them without doing alt codes and that's a pain. I already have to hunt down zweihänder every time I want to use it.

To circle back on topic. My point is that I have some small understanding on how languages form broadly. But I’m still not a linguistist. So usage of Gerudo is probably gonna get limited to that stereotypical bilingual representation of “occasionally uses words from language.” In my defense though, I’m reverse engineering a language from a vocabulary bank of like ten words from the games. There is no grammar for me to reference and because the languages I have rough understandings in don’t include the families of languages I’m pulling from, any development of is going to be surface level because it would take me years to learn these languages fluently. Which isn’t to say I’m not still trying but I’m also not in a place to get another language subscription to understand this perfectly for a fanfic project.

But let's get started. What are we pulling from?

Dictionary (Official)

Sav'otta - Good morning (Slang: Votta)

Sav'aaq - Good day (Slang: Sav'a)

Sav'saaba - Good evening (Slang: Sav'a)

Sav'orr - Good night

Vasaaq - Welcome

Sav'orq - Goodbye

Sarqso - Thank you (Slang: Sarq)

Sa'oten - (Surprise)

Voe - Man

Vai - Woman

Vehvi - Child

Vaba - Grandmother

Vure - Bird

So we start with the vibes of the language. With how it sounds. So far, Gerudo has a lot of words with harsh consonant, the V's and Q's, and then lots of vowels to balance it out. Sa-V-O-Ta. Sa-V-a-Q. Sa-V-O-R (I'm not grabbing the accented ones for actual phonetics, I always got them mixed up). To balance those harsh sounds, the language likes aspirated constants, like S and B, and also those long vowels.

There are some rules here. Conjugation seems to be represented with the apostrophe. I'm going to interpret that as conjugated words, likely because a second word has an aspirated consonant to start blending into a word with a harsh consonant at the end. So the word for "Good" in Gerudo is likely something like "Save" (pronounced more like Sa-vuh) and then the work for morning (as a time) is "Sotta." When said together, that second S is going to be dropped to make "Sav'otta." And then as a greeting, morning is "Votta." Because "Votta" is the slang, it likely was made after the words for "good" and "morning" (as a time), so they do need to be different.

Another rule we can draw is the V's tend to start words for personhood. Vai, voe, vehvi, vaba. That's why my Gerudo word for a nonbinary person is vyu. A V with the last two vowels not yet used. This also lined up really well with the term Siyu from "Ivarkaq'Siyu" or "Twice-blessed" for the Gerudo lineages. That "yu" sound now can be used for the Gerudo word for "two," "iyu."

For the rest, I'm also pulling from real languages if there isn't enough here to go off of. Right now, my main three languages for reference are Arabic, Hausa, and Oromo. I try to find words between them that have a similar spelling, indicating a similar root word. That's how we got the word for the "Ivarkaq." I pulled "albarka" from Hausa, "mabruk" and from Arabic (and I have "ibukun" written down but I can't remember where I pulled it from), and then we worked backwards to get some of these common sounds into the Gerudo ruleset.

So now we have an added bank that includes:

Dictionary (MoaH Original)

Vorsaa - Mentor, teacher (Formal: Vorsiisaa)

Vada - Grandfather

Ivarkaq'Siyu - Twice-blessed

Ivarkaq'Saya - Once-blessed

Ivarkaq'Si'a - Chance-blessed

Ivarkah - Blessed (person)

Vyu - Non-binary person

Vahana - Sibling

Alheri'Din - Din's Grace (expression/"Bless me")

Aba - Mother

Ada - Father

Ayu - Parent

Save - Good

Sotta - Morning

Saaq - Day

Sasaaba - Evening

Sorr - Night

One - Aya

Two - Iyu

"Aba" and "Ada" drop the V because these are the words babies first say. Hard consonants are not easy for babies, that's why you typically get "Mama" before "Dada." That said, "Vaba" was already a Gerudo word, so to follow that rule, it's "Aba" for mother. Following that scheme, that's how I got to "Vada" and "Ada" for grandfather and father respectively.

Which brings me to a point that gets brought up in the books too. A lot of people assume there aren't Gerudo words for masculine terms. I saw this when I was pulling up the original dictionary, and people couldn't decide if "vehvi" meant "child" or "daughter." I'm going to assume it means "child" as a gender neutral. If there is only one Gerudo male every hundred years (per lore), then it doesn't make sense to gender the word for "child." All children would be daughters except one. But because the Gerudo male thing, it is still central to the Gerudo culture that the term can't be exclusive. So instead, my interpretation is that a lot of terms around youth are gender neutral so that when there is the Gerudo boy born, he's not ostracized for being the one person with a different word before he's old enough to understand what the Hundred Year Male things means.

Also, assuming that Gerudo don't have gendered terms ignores that even in canon, Gerudo still have fathers. And from what TOTK showed us, know their fathers for a period of time. There would be words in Gerudo for that. So we do need a word for "father" and "grandfather" in Gerudo. But following the previous thought, that we can't make the one Gerudo boy feel ostracized, most of those words are for adults. You don't pick those words until you're old enough to be an adult and understand gender. Now we've come back around on developing culture through this.

Now, if you've read some of my other worldbuilding posts on how MoaH hands the Gerudo, you know part of this too is because there are multiple lineages of Gerudo, to include ones not affected by the Hundred Year Gerudo Male thing. This comes down to how Nintendo has demonstrated genetics to us. Gerudo mom and Hylian dad, always a Gerudo kid. That indicates a dominant trait. Why? Well, MoaH posits that it's because "divine traits" that diverted the lineages from human biologically are genetic markers and only one can be present. The exception is with the Gerudo. This is going to go into some of the revisions on Ganondorf in the setting and framing his campaign as an individual rather than representative of a people, but some Gerudo have multiple "divine traits." Because these traits are given literally by the Goddesses, accruing them has to be permitted by the Goddesses and only a small group of Gerudo pursued that. Those that did, the Ivarkaq'Siyu, also took on the Hundred Year Male thing to balance things out.

So how does all that impact the culture then too? Now, most of this is focused on Dirjaani culture, where the Gerudo language originates in MoaH, so there are variants in other regions. But. In general, "divine traits" aren't a marker for superiority. Because everyone but humans have them, they're just a trait you have. The divinity of it is the source of evolution (which we've seen throughout the series as a whole), but that doesn't make a people better than anyone else.

But because the history of the world is entangled with the whole "Ganondorf" thing, I think Dirjaani culture develops a lot of community first culture. That's why it's last name given name. Legacy is paramount to so many Gerudo, but the one thing more important is family. A huge part of that is a culture responding to "How do we prevent this curse from taking our son?" Because after the first Ganondorf, no one would name their kid that. That's a name someone chooses, that when the cycle reappears, someone chooses. The belief then in Rahaal is that whatever Ganondorf is truly (Demise), that possesses the Hundred Year Male. So how as a culture to we make sure he can fight it the longest? You build a culture focused around community. That's why the leadership of Rahaal is the Forum. That's why the spiritual leaders of Kohno are elders or use familial terms.

I know we've diverted a little from linguistics for culture, but the two are intrinsically intertwined. It's why so much of the added vocabulary I have focuses on family terms. And that's why you have to think about both in tandem.

I'll get back to reverse engineering now.

[laracrofted]

baby, i'm high octane (i)

synopsis: nora rogers has made a name for herself in the documentary world, but lately, she's been running on empty. and then, with impeccable timing, her aunt charlie calls about an eight-week project in san diego: a feature on naval aviation's newest and most elite squadron. she accepts.

pairings: jake seresin x nora rogers (oc), minor bradley bradshaw x nora rogers (oc)

warnings: 18+, minors dni, explicit language, existential dread, alcohol consumption, slutty (affectionate) rooster, eventual smut in later chapters. set after the movie, so spoilers!

note: i have been working on this for many, many months, and every time i went back to edit it, it gained another 500 words, so i need to put it out in the world for my own sake. hope you enjoy!

read on AO3 | series post | next chapter

tagging: @theharddeck as usual, some mutuals (@anniesocsandgeneralstore @roleycoleyland), plus some folks who were nice about the halloween fic (@peakyrogers @t-nd-rfoot @double-j) let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

[ OPENING CRAWL ]

On March 3, 1969, the UNITED STATES NAVY established an elite school for the top one percent of its pilots. Its purpose was to teach the LOST ART OF AERIAL COMBAT and to ensure that the handful of men (and now women) who graduated were the BEST FIGHTER PILOTS IN THE WORLD. They succeeded.

The Navy calls it Fighter Weapons School. You might know it better as TOP GUN.

The DAGGER SQUADRON is Naval Aviation’s newest and most elite squadron, exclusively made up of patch wearers. Here are their stories…

 [ CUE MUSIC AND FADE TO BLACK ] 

Back in California for less than 24 hours, and Nora already longs for the cobblestone streets and late night espressos and dear god, the accents of the past six months.

She is used to being on the move. Living out of an expertly packed suitcase, down to a science now. Never quite settling down.

Any documentary filmmaker worth their salt learns early to stay light on their feet, ready at a moment’s notice to get the call that takes them halfway around the globe and brings them the quote, unquote next great story. 

This…was a different sort of call.

“You want me to go to San Diego? Why?” 

It was well past midnight in France, which made it more or less dinner time on the other side of the Atlantic. For Charlie Blackwood, a perfectly acceptable time to ring her favorite niece, but Nora had to take the call out on the small balcony that was attached to her hotel room. 

Documentaries weren’t the same as Hollywood films with their wider box office appeal and George Clooney-type stars. Funding was measly in comparison, so Nora bunked with one of the producers for the Paris leg. She and Jenna had worked together before a couple years back, and while Nora knew her to be sugar sweet from dawn to dusk, the 30-year-old woman did not fuck around with her skincare routine and her eight hours. 

At this time of night on a non-weekend, Paris didn’t have much street noise, but Nora was still certain Charlie’s connection must’ve cut out somewhere in the middle of her sentence. Or maybe Nora had heard her wrong. 

International calls could be so fickle sometimes. Right?

“Let me get this straight. You’re asking if I want to leave Paris to go to San Diego…” Nora repeated slowly, leaving ample breathing room between each word, plenty of time for Charlie to cut in and correct her, “and meet with your ex-boyfriend about some Naval feature? We don’t even like him.” 

“You can call him Maverick,” Charlie replied evenly, “Everybody else does.” 

Nora pulled a face. “I’ll call him Pete. How’s that?” 

“He’ll definitely ask you to call him Maverick.” 

“And I’ll still call him Pete.” 

Charlie’s answering sigh was loud in her ear, even through the static, and Nora smiled down at her shoes. She took a careful step around the bite-sized table, stacked precariously full with her laptop, camera, and notepad, and planted her elbows on the railing. Metal creaked gently under her weight.

“Pete… will be fine,” Charlie relented, “and really, Pete is fine in my book. We’re just… two old acquaintances who wanted different things and were never going to work out in the long term. Besides, from what I hear, Penny Benjamin is his new sweetheart now. Well, new old sweetheart.”

She didn’t know who Penny Benjamin was. Must be a real saint to put up with him.

“Good. He won’t be knocking on your door the next time the Navy sends him to Washington to accept some medal then, right?” 

Nora was seventeen the last time Pete Mitchell came knocking on Charlie Blackwood’s door; around eighteen months after Nora’s mom died, making Charlie her legal guardian. He happened to be in town for some medal or some ceremony or some medal at some ceremony.

He left in the dead of night, out the window, and Charlie spent the next two weeks muttering curses about hotshot pilots and their charismatic bullshit.

“That was almost twelve years ago, Nora,” Charlie chided, much less fun Aunt Charlie and much more diplomatic Charlotte Blackwood, employed by the Pentagon in that moment. Nora rolled her eyes. 

“And anyway,” Charlie continued, not letting her get another word in, “Maverick isn’t the main contact. You’d only meet with him because All Hands…” A Naval magazine, print and digital, funding the project, as Charlie had explained in her initial one long sentence explanation before Nora had been distracted by the who and the where. “…wants to focus on his team. Everything is already approved. All you, my love, would need to do is get the golden seal from Cyclone to head it up. He’s the Air Boss over there.” 

“Now Cyclone is a name that I don’t know,” Nora said, then swiped out of the call to look up the definition of Air Boss. “Doesn’t sound like a name made up by a 13-year-old boy who plays too much Call of Duty. He a Captain too?”

“Vice Admiral. You can meet him on your first day,” and Nora’s lips parted in protest, to say that was a little presumptuous, given she hadn’t agreed to anything and was still half a world away working on something else. Charlie cut her off, right at the knees: “Don’t start with me. Your Paris job wraps in what… four, five days?

Three, but Nora didn’t correct her. 

“Normally, by now, I would be getting half a dozen calls every week from you, gushing about what you’ve got going on next; whatever place you’ll be jetting off to this time. This is the first time I’ve talked to you in at least two weeks,” Guilt pinged at her chest, along with a large helping of existential dread. “Have you even signed on to anything new?”

No. And Nora was doing jack shit to change that. 

Her producer was already signed on for a film that would start pre-production ten weeks from now. It was a big one, lots of people to bring on board, and Jenna – literal angel in human form Jenna offered to pass Nora’s name along for consideration. 

Nora still hadn’t given an answer. 

She worried the edge of her lip but said nothing, and Charlie must’ve taken that as encouragement enough to continue on. “It’ll be a short project. Gives you enough time to find something new that excites you. Just… go to North Island and talk to Cyclone. You need a break.” 

Late May breezed across her cheeks, smelling of the sweet pink and white cherry blossoms in bloom at a nearby park. She’d passed it nearly every day, afraid that the end of May would come and Nora wouldn’t ever see them in full bloom before having to leave. They bloomed two weeks ago, almost overnight, and Nora knew that June loomed and with it, the end of another project. 

All that remained was uncertainty. 

She did need a break, though Nora wasn’t sure that anyone other than her aunt and herself would consider working on another documentary to be a break. She couldn’t remember the last time Charlie had even taken a sick day. They were born and bred workaholics the both of them, and usually, Nora thrived on that.

But lately, Nora was so tired. 

Another project could be good for me, Nora thought. Fewer eyes and expectations, without the pressure of acclaim and awards and future grants and questions of what are you doing next tightening like a noose around her neck. It’d be a one and done. She could do that.

“Alright,” Nora said, feeling a little lighter from letting the words loose. That was reassuring, at least. “Start from the beginning. How’d you find out about it? Who are the subjects? What’s the goal?” 

Smile audible in her voice, Charlie started again, “Here is what I know…” 

They wrapped mid-week with the usual fanfare, and the next day, Nora was packed and on a plane back home to Southern California. 

Nora could already tell the Vice Admiral was ready to have the screening process over and done with. He barely asked her any questions before shaking her hand and foisting her onto Admiral Bates who ran her through the rules and regulations for getting onto the base and her accommodations. 

Since Nora was freelancing for a Naval magazine, the United States government would be putting her up for the duration of the project. God bless America. She did not want to find a last minute hotel room in San Diego in June. 

After obtaining a temporary ID card and a neat stack of manilla folders, probably filled with generously redacted background and service records, Nora is promptly deposited in the beachside parking lot of a steel-blue apartment building, faded from sun and brine, with a whole night ahead. 

Showering off the plane eats up a few minutes, as does replying to the check-in email that the magazine contact sent over this afternoon. They would talk more over the weekend and into next week. It was difficult to connect with the time difference, so Charlie had guided the initial communication. 

Calling Charlie drains another half hour, while Nora hums in all the right places and fights to keep her eyes open, chiming in with the occasional observation about North Island and tidbit about the conversation with Cyclone and Warlock. 

“What’d you think of Cyclone?”

She stares at the blank wall across from the bed – all that wide open space and not an art print in sight – and thinks back. 

Cyclone leveled an impassive stare at her over the folder that held her portfolio – apparently faxed over by Charlie before Nora had even agreed to come – and said, “This is an unusual circumstance. Most of the nepotism hires that come across my desk are aiming higher than an eight week contractor.” 

She’d bitten her cheek to hold back a laugh, and Admiral Bates let out a suspiciously timed cough, hiding his mouth behind a balled fist. 

“He was kind of hot,” Nora admits, then has to hold the phone away from her ear to not be deafened by Charlie’s laughter. “What? Just because I lack a father figure, I’m not allowed to appreciate an older man every now and then?” 

“Sure, but I think I’ll draw the line at Maverick.” 

Nora does her best projectile vomit noise, and Charlie laughs so hard that Mr. Charlotte Blackwood – as Nora affectionately likes to call Charlie’s husband John, who always accepted it with a congenial smile that only made her like him more – shouts from another room, wanting to know what exactly is so hilarious. 

She won’t see Pete Mitchell until Monday, and after promising to tell him that Charlie says hello and sends her best to him and this Penny Benjamin woman, Nora hangs up the phone. 

It’s barely 8 PM, and Nora wants nothing more than to crawl under the covers and leech the travel from her bones, but the San Diego sun is stubborn and high on the horizon. She knows her own body well enough to know that an 8 PM bedtime makes for a 3 AM bout of insomnia. 

Boredom finds Nora perched on a cushioned barstool, a fresh t-shirt on her torso and a new coat of red lipstick on her lips, in the crowded Hard Deck bar. Sipping on an Old Fashioned, chatting with none other than Penny Benjamin. 

“Charlie Blackwood,” Penny Benjamin repeats, a surprised but amiable smile on her face. A brown leather jacket sits over her slender shoulders, the same warm shade as her hair, and Nora spots a United States Navy patch on the sleeve. “God, I haven’t seen Charlie in… 30 years now. She may have told you, but I met her once or twice at Top Gun, back before my old man, the great Admiral Benjamin, retired. How’s she doing?” 

“She’s good,” Nora offers, adding as an afterthought, just in case Penny Benjamin was the jealous type. “Married now.” 

Penny sends her a sidelong look, narrow-eyed, that must make the fresh-faced Top Gun hopefuls cower in their regulation boots. Behind the glass, Nora’s lips curve into an amused smirk. 

Things must be going well. Good for them.

Nora swirls the amber liquid, fishing out an extra cherry from the bottom and popping it into her mouth. “She sends her well wishes. She’d probably want me to give you a hug or something, but I think I’d fall on my ass trying to lean over the counter. Consider yourself lucky.” 

“You can give my hug to Pete, but only if I’m there to witness.” 

 “Distinguished Captain Mitchell isn’t much of a hugger? I’m shocked.” 

“Are you kidding?” Penny fills another pint glass for a patron a few barstools down, sliding it down the counter and looking back at Nora with an amused twinkle. “He’ll turn into a robot. He won’t know how to react. Make sure to ask one of the boys to record it for you so I can blackmail him with it forever.”  

Imagining it, Nora is still smiling when Penny’s name calls her to the other side of the counter. Leaving her alone to people-watch and observe the establishment with a filmmaker’s eye. 

Miniature planes hang from the ceiling, swaying in the breeze that cuts in with the opening and closing of the door. A wood island separates one side of the bar from the other, stacked high with an assortment of colorful glass bottles that gleam in the fading sunlight. 

A golden wash spills through the back windows, and the Hard Deck is filling up fast with civilians, veterans, and servicemen alike. They’re the easiest to spot, wearing  their service khakis and all. 

Music swells through the bar, and Nora spies a jukebox in the corner, drawing a line five deep, all waiting for their turn to select the next 1980s classic. She recognizes the current song from her white dad music playlist. 

‘Take It Easy’ by Eagles. Track four, baby. 

Over her shoulder, a tight-knit crowd surrounds the pool table. They throw jeers and jokes at each other with familiarity, and Nora watches them for a moment too long, dragging her tired eyes away when one of them starts to turn in her direction. 

She checks her phone, under the bar, not on top, of course, unless Nora wants to buy the whole room a round. A little after 8:30 now. She just needs a kill another hour or so, and then, that’ll feel like an acceptable time to crawl into bed and sleep for the next ten hours. 

Fingers dancing through her tote, Nora fishes out her favorite journal, setting it down flat on the least sticky surface she can find. Leather-bound, stuffed to the brim with colorful sticky notes and touch-creased photographs. Further searches reveal that Nora left her pens back at the apartment, somewhere in one of those suitcases that had gotten packed and unpacked in an attempt to burn time. 

“Do you have a spare pen?” 

A blue pen rolls over to her waiting hands as Penny passes with a wink and dashes down the counter to fill a round of drinks. She has that endless energy that Nora needs a few coffees to achieve. 

Thinking it makes Nora’s lids feel even heavier. 

Tracks switch again on the jukebox, and Nora hums along to the new song, another winning installment on her white dad music playlist. Has the United States Navy hacked her Spotify account or something? She cuts through the pages like a surfboard through an ocean wave to find a fresh page, and Nora spins the pen between manicured fingers, mouthing the lyrics to ‘Dancing in the Dark’ under her breath. 

Her brain is a firework show, thoughts shooting off high and fast, bursting into a million different directions. Loud and colorful. She can be like this on her best day, but a severe lack of sleep – or in this case, horrible jet lag – makes it a million times worse. 

A long blank stare at the page later, Nora manages to piece a few words together into what might resemble a coherent thought, with emphasis on the word might here.

And right as Nora clicks the pen and presses it down on the page, denting the lined paper beneath the blue ink, an empty pint glass is set down on the counter, a few inches from her left hand. A whiff of cologne fills her nostrils, a little overbearing but still pleasant. 

Fingers drum against the wood, in time with the music, and determined, despite the distraction, to pin down the semi-coherent thoughts that are now fleeing like scattered mice, Nora reaches for her drink and finds it empty save for half-melted ice and an orange rind. 

“Buy you another one, sweetheart?” 

She looks up, in spite of herself, and damn. 

He is handsome as hell, heart-aching levels of handsome, a little like looking into the sun. Like a goddamn movie star, all broad shoulders and perfect, slicked back blonde hair, and easy confidence that fits him like a well-worn shirt. 

He plucks the rocks glass easily from her stunned grip, holding it between two fingers, a loose, almost careless hold, and damn her to hell, Nora swallows against her suddenly dry mouth. 

She really needs to go to bed. Among other things. 

Green eyes study the contents of the glass, then flick back over to her, and Nora is hit with the full force of a mega-watt smile. 

Dimples out. Ready to film a tooth-whitener commercial. 

“Bourbon girl? I’m impressed.” 

“Why?” Nora drawls, and hell, the word comes out of her mouth a little rough. Get it together. Put away the bedroom voice. She clears the cobwebs from her throat. “Because I look like I’d order a cosmopolitan in a dive bar and act surprised when I’m given a vodka cran?” 

He seems to take look as an invitation, dragging his eyes over the soft t-shirt, a little damp over the shoulders from her shower, and the faded blue jeans that hang loosely from her legs, an old pair with a rip in the knee big enough that Nora might soon need to give them a second life as shorts. 

His appraisal stalls out on her blood-red lips, tracing the shape of them, getting the lay of the land. And then, slowly rises back to meet her gaze. All the while, smiling like a pageant contestant. 

“Name’s Hangman.”

Record scratch. He’s a pilot.

Goddamn pilots. 

“That doesn’t sound like a name,” Nora drawls back, matching his conceited-ass smile with her freshly chilled ice-cold bitch smirk. “And I can buy my own drinks.” 

Rudeness isn’t her drug of choice, but Nora clocks him as a tough one. A swift one-two ego punch should do the trick, rejecting his advance and mocking his precious call sign in one fell swoop. Aviators toss those around more than their actual names.

He’ll leave now.

She stares him down, and Mr. Pilot stares right back, eyes amused and sparkling in the twinkling lights dancing right above the bar, tucked between the steins. 

Any minute now.

He doesn’t move an inch, and if possible, the Barbie and Ken smile grows even wider on his perfect face. He’s so hot, Nora kinda wants to break his nose just to make something on his face crooked. 

“It’s my call sign.” 

She is so tired. It trips off her tongue, almost out of habit: “Well, I’m not calling you Hangman. What’s your actual name?” 

Why…. Why would those words come out of her mouth, instead of the ‘Get lost, Malibu Barbie’ that was locked and loaded in the back of her mind? Damn damn damn. 

She doesn’t fool around with pilots, not after Charlie’s history with Pete Mitchell and her own Air Force sperm donor who couldn’t be bothered to call more than once a year. And especially not, when Nora will be working on the base for the next two months. What if Nora ran into him?

The edge of Hangman’s mouth twitches into a slow, dangerous smile, and Nora catches a flash of his canines, ultra-white like the rest of his teeth. 

She fiddles with the pen cap, rolling and bending it between her pointer finger and thumb. Waits impatiently for him to give her an answer that gives her the opening needed to send him packing, back to the pool table to make better use of his bulging arm muscles over there. 

Some co-ed girls push behind him, stumbling and giggling to each other, and in stepping out of their way, Hangman inches forward into her space. Breath warm at her nape, stirring the pale strands loose at her cheekbones, too short to remain tucked behind her ears without a fight.

Clever fingers capture one and brush it back into place, softly brushing against the side of her neck. His words are a low, hot rumble against the shell of her ear: “It’s Jake. Lieutenant Jake Seresin.” 

Oh, Nora thinks, warm all over in a way that has nothing to do with the sticky heat of the night. Oh shit. 

She has the borrowed pen in a chokehold, gripping it hard enough to redden her fingertips, and Hangman – now Jake notices. His grin widens, and Nora forces herself to loosen the hold, to let the blood flow back into her hands, to regain some of her composure.

“Let me buy you a drink.” 

Not a question this time, so Nora doesn’t need to give him a yes or no. 

He’s offered a loophole, one around her own better judgment, without even realizing it. She can just drop her shoulders with casual indifference, as if to say if you insist, and turn back to her journal. Pretend not to feel his intent, most definitely intrigued gaze on the side of her face. 

It’s a free drink, and Nora’s hardly encouraging him. What is the harm, really?

A smug smile crosses his face when Penny comes over, an unreadable expression on her face, and Nora doesn’t stop him from ordering another Old Fashioned. He’s close enough now to feel the evening heat radiating from his tan skin, exposed where the sleeves of his t-shirt cut across his biceps. 

Nora is not enabling anything. Not at all. 

Rooster is on the last swallow of his beer when Phoenix looks over his shoulder and groans, a dramatic and drawn-out sound that would’ve made her an excellent soap opera star in a different life. He barely has time to snort before Bob appears at her side, a look of sudden concern on his clean-shaven face.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re never getting our next round.” Phoenix rigidly jerks her head in the direction that Hangman disappeared a few minutes ago. Too long ago, now that Rooster thinks about it. “Bagman got distracted.” 

This is enough to bring the rest of the Daggers to attention. They round the pool table one by one, incited by the suggestion that Hangman might get out of buying them drinks. 

“Distracted,” Payback lets out a sardonic snort. He leans on the pool cue like a walking stick, towering over the rest of them with Rooster seated. “He probably forgot to order the round. Idiot.” 

“I don’t blame him,” Fanboy drawls, looking to the center of the room, waggling his brows. “I think I’d let her distract me anytime, anywhere. Is that not the hottest woman you’ve ever seen step foot in this bar?” His eyes go wide, almost panicked, darting to the only woman in their ranks. “No offense, Phoenix.” 

Phoenix shows no sign of hearing him, and Rooster and Payback share a disbelieving look over the WSO’s head, snickering underneath their amazing mustaches. Lucky son of a bitch. 

“Poor girl,” Phoenix muses with a slow shake of her head, sending her loose curls cascading over her shoulders. “Someone needs to launch a rescue mission. He’s practically drooling into her glass. And…” Something changes in her expression. “Did I hit my head in the cockpit this afternoon and not remember it? Does that girl look familiar to anyone else?” 

“Never seen her before in my life,” Payback says, slapping his WSO on the shoulder, which seems to give Fanboy the confidence to add in, “I’d love to get further acquainted though. Think I can swoop in and steal her from Hangman?”

Phoenix has already pulled out her phone, paying no attention to the round of low chuckles and smirks that are shared between the men. Her fingers skate across the screen, faster than an F-18 on descent, and Rooster looks over his shoulder to get in on the joke. 

It takes him all of two seconds to find them, mostly because Hangman has just flashed that thousand-watt smile that could probably blind an enemy dogfighter. 

He leans against the counter, the cocky bastard, with a pint glass in his hand – one that should be in all of their hands right now. Not an empty glass filled with an inch of foam. Looking down at the barstool next to him, or more specifically, at the woman perched there.

Slender, blonde, dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans, and most definitely a civilian. He can’t accurately weigh in on Fanboy’s assessment, at least until Rooster can catch a glimpse of her face. 

“I knew it!” 

All of them startle when Phoenix makes the announcement and looks up from her phone with the victorious expression of someone who’d just shot down Maverick in a dogfight. She waves her phone in front of their faces, too fast for him to make out more than a blur of words and pictures. 

“I fucking knew it. I follow her on Instagram.” And the wide smile on Phoenix’s face be described as nothing short of gleeful gloating. She cackles to herself, leaning over to show the screen to Bob again. “And you little shits made fun of me for loving documentaries so much. Who’s laughing now?”

Documentaries…. 

Recognition tugs at the edge of his drunken memory.

“Her name is – ” 

She turns, and Rooster sees her face. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rooster calls out, and Phoenix and Bob startle at the sudden change in volume, brown and blue eyes shooting up from the phone like Rooster blared an airhorn between their heads. He ignores them. “Am I seeing things, or Nora fucking Rogers, is that you?” 

Everyone in a 10-foot radius looks at him, exchanging looks and eye rolls, dismissing him as belligerent but harmless, but Rooster ignores them, keeping his eyes locked on one woman. 

Cornflower blue eyes survey the crowded room, sifting through the noise to place the voice, and finally, land on him. Surprise softens her features. And as the jukebox switches tracks, another crooning 1980s love song pouring through the speakers, Nora Rogers smiles at him for the first time in half a decade.

“Bradley Bradshaw, from beyond the grave.” 

It really is him. This… six-foot-something hallucination with tree-trunk arms and a ridiculous porn star mustache and a familiar gleam in his eyes that spelled trouble. Did Charlie know Bradley would be here? She might’ve mentioned that. Nora looks up at him… and up again, because goddamn, were all Naval aviators so fucking tall?

An awkward beat passes where Bradley and Nora seem to grapple for the right greeting for a person you hadn’t seen in years and hadn’t seen all that often in the first place and mutually, come up empty-handed. 

They’d met all of four or five times over the years, courtesy of the long-distance friendship that blossomed between Aunt Charlie and his mother Carole after Pete had left his Top Gun instructor post and shipped out again. She could use the extra friend without her husband, Charlie had said. 

And then, Nora got older and became Charlie’s backup plus one to some Naval Aviation functions, usually thrown by Top Gun graduates who passed through when Charlie was a civilian instructor. She’d see him there every once in a while, all grown up and pursuing his dreams of becoming a pilot. 

And then, Nora thinks absently, there was that one time…

She should’ve remembered that Bradley Bradshaw is a hugger. 

Making up his mind for them both, Bradley reaches out and tugs her against his chest. And for one moment, Nora can feel the muscled strength of his arms banded around her torso, the firmness of his chest underneath the open Hawaiian shirt and incredibly thin white tank; can practically make out the ridges of his abs through the fabric. 

It is barely longer than a brief squeeze, but as Nora pulls back, an unnatural but not entirely unexpected lightness buzzes in her chest. She is quick to blame it on the lack of sleep and dark liquor coursing through her veins.

She is feeling all kinds of strange tonight. 

Like earlier, when Jake Seresin handed over the Old Fashioned, an unshakable curl to his lips, and as Nora took a delicate sip, watched the movement with half-lidded eyes; the muscles that worked in her throat. Like Jake wanted nothing more than to follow the path with his mouth, and Nora could picture him sprawled across her bed, clear as a snapshot: chests heaving, sweat dripping, tongue dragging across her pulse point, his large hand a collar around her throat. 

Right then. Silly little thoughts like that. 

Nora clears her throat, tugging at the neckline of her tee, and almost unbidden, like a magnetic pull, her gaze wanders back to him, standing in nearly the exact same spot at the bar, collecting a round of drinks. He apparently owed the group for the last pool game or something.

She can’t help but notice a new tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. She can tell, having been slightly too preoccupied with the strong line of his shoulders over at the bar for her own liking. He’d seemed so casual at the bar, so relaxed. 

Is Jake mad? At Bradley, for interrupting them? At Nora, for coming over here?

These seem to be his friends. He was playing pool with them after all, up until Jake approached her at the bar. And Nora was hardly even talking to him at the bar, scribbling in her notebook and entertaining the occasional question as Jake seemed content to stand at her shoulder and watch. 

“What’s your name?” 

“What’re you doing in Fightertown?” 

“What do you do for work?” 

“A filmmaker? Like Quentin Tarantino?” 

And Nora had been incised enough to set her pen down and stare him down. “I make documentaries, and if I did make movies, I’d at least like to be compared to someone decent. Not some piece-of-shit asshole director.”

His brows rose, but Jake looked unperturbed. “Like who?” 

“Like… I don’t know, Nora Ephron or Greta Gerwig. You probably don’t even know who Nora Ephron is, do you? Do you also think Fight Club is a love letter to toxic masculinity?” 

He exhaled a laugh, brows still halfway to his hairline, and opened his mouth to reply when Bradley called her name, and Nora was gone before Jake could get another word in.

Still. Seeing him look so… Tense? Dejected? Annoyed?

It makes her feel off-kilter. 

Maybe Jake just wanted to chat her up at the bar and go back to his friends, not to be bothered for the rest of the night. She’s ruined that plan by coming over here, invited or not. It shouldn’t matter. She can’t stop herself from wondering anyway. God. Why do you even care?

She doesn’t know him, and after tonight, she’ll likely never see him again. 

He starts to turn, and Nora slingshots her gaze back to Bradley, refusing to be caught watching him, who is looking down – and down – with a rose-colored hue to his face. A pair of aviator sunglasses sit crookedly over his eyes, showing her reflection. 

She takes a half-step back to not have to crane her neck so much to meet his eyes. Raises her voice to be heard over the music, much closer to the jukebox now. “What are you doing here? I might be out of the loop, but didn’t you already graduate from Top Gun? Like many, many years ago?” 

“She’s calling you old, Rooster,” Jake cuts in, reappearing and passing out the few bottles and glasses around the circle. Seven total, including another Old Fashioned that Nora probably doesn’t need but still accepts. He shoots her a wink over the glass. “You gonna take that, man?” 

“I was not, you jackass,” Nora shoots back, the second Old Fashioned blurring the lines between her brain and her mouth.

Jake settles against the pool table in a casual stance, arms crossed across his chest, biceps bulging. She must’ve imagined the earlier tension. He seems fine now, watching her with a smirk.

“I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here. Answer the question, Bradshaw.” 

Bradley’s laugh is a little loud, a little unsteady. One look at the nearest hightop table, littered with empty beer bottles and pint glasses, tells her everything she needs to know. 

Bradley Bradshaw is tipsy. Color shines high in his cheeks.

“‘What am I doing here?’ You’re on a Naval base, darling, which makes me,” Bradley pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose and with the hand holding the new beer bottle, gestures to his own chest. Covered in that shirt that is… not hiding much, “the law around these parts. I ask the questions around here.” A dark-haired woman rolls her eyes behind his back. “What the hell are you doing here, civilian? You following me around now?” 

Oh wow. He’s so drunk. 

“In your dreams.”

She doesn’t like the look on his face; doesn’t trust what drunk Bradley might spit out next in a public setting, so Nora brings them back to more even ground, summarizing everything with a short and sweet, “I’m doing Charlie a favor” that is more or less true. Gives him the barest rundown of her past 48 hours, all too aware of the four Naval aviators standing within earshot, shooting her curious glances and waiting for an introduction. 

“It’s your turn now.” 

“We were here on a special detachment. Eight months ago. Top secret shit,” Bradley offers in an oh so serious tone. All of his concentration seems to go towards hiding a smile. It’s given away by the obvious twitch of his mustache, dampening the effect slightly. “I can’t talk about it, or Cyclone will shoot me out of an airlock.” 

“We’re on the ground, Rooster.” 

“Semantics, Payback. He will take me up into the atmosphere in an F-18 just to shoot me into space. And then, probably like, come down here and have one black coffee in victory. Happy now?” 

Nora offers, “I actually have some security clearance.”

Some was probably an exaggeration. Charlie set her up with a director who needed an assistant, back when Nora really needed another project under her belt to build her portfolio. Lightly sensitive, all for internal use, of course.

“No shit. Aren’t you special?” 

Drenched in sarcasm, but Bradshaw is looking at her over the edge of his pint glass with a hint of something else in his brown eyes.

Nope. No. Not going there tonight. 

“Now, Bradshaw.” She delivers a light slap to his chest, and Bradley looks down, amused. It’s a little more familiar than Nora was going for. She probably didn’t need another drink. “When are you going to stop being rude and introduce me?” 

His arm settles over her shoulders, swiveling her like a Hard Deck barstool to face the rest of the group. They go down the line, one by one. Call signs, then their first and last names, upon request because Nora refuses to call a bunch of grown men things like Rooster and Fanboy. Phoenix is actually a damn cool name. 

Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, and Bob.

Natasha, Mickey, Reuben, and Bob again.

“And Hangman,” Jake finishes, a pronounced twang in his voice that Nora didn’t notice before. She was missing the accents earlier, wasn’t she? “We met at a little spot not far from here. I was the devastatingly handsome man buying you a drink.” 

“Sorry,” Nora shoots back, all calm and collected. “I don’t think I know a Hangman. Doesn’t sound like a real name to me.” 

A muscle twitches in his cheek. “Jake.” 

“It’s all coming back now.” And Nora doesn’t mean for it to come out so quiet, so intimate. “Hi Jake.” 

He flashes her a dimpled grin, all soft edges. “Hi Nora.” 

It’s so damn charming that Nora has to bite back an unbidden smile, but with the high-speed attention of an F-18 pilot, Jake catches it, the smug son of a bitch. He lifts his beer to his mouth and shoots her a heated look that curls her toes inside her boots. 

“So,” Phoenix interjects, glancing between them with an all too knowing look that makes Nora flush. “Who is up for another round of pool?” 

She should’ve stuck to her original plan, which would have seen her leave over an hour ago. Already curled up under the sheets for a long, much-needed sleep by now. 

But Nora is having too much fun, sitting on a barstool near the pool table, watching the game and listening to them trade insults and stories (just the non-classified ones, of course) back and forth. All of them seem to know each other well, and Nora learns early on that Captain Mitchell recruited them for this special top-secret detachment a few months back. 

“We’re still here under Maverick as an actual squadron now. We’re… I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure what I can and can’t tell you,” Bob explains, cutting himself off with a sheepish expression. He is damn cute, clean-shaven and baby-faced. Easygoing. He reminds her a little of a duckling, jabs rolling off his back like water. “You can ask Maverick on Monday. Are you just following him around with a camera or…?”  

She gives him the quick run-down, well aware that the Daggers are all within earshot now, not even pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation. “It will probably be a good bit of interviews and additional footage. It’s not just about Captain Mitchell. I’ll be focusing on the whole team.” 

“We’ll probably be seeing a lot of you then.” 

It is a perfectly nonchalant observation, but Nora’s heart does a stuttered thump-thump in her chest, the exact same realization piercing through her intoxicated brain way too late. If Maverick is their CO, then Bob is on the team that Nora will be profiling in the feature. All of them are. Which means...

She will be seeing them. Probably every single day.  

Nora manages to get out an even, “I guess so.” 

She remembers the cardboard box of files, sitting unopened next to her overturned suitcase, and wants to bang her head against a wall. Instead, Nora washes down the overwhelming sense of uh oh with a too-quick gulp of her drink. Green eyes burn against the side of her face, stinging like the bourbon in her nostrils. 

Natasha drops onto the next barstool over, providing the perfect distraction from her thoughts. She’s just landed an impressive sequence of shots against Mickey and Reuben, who now stand staring down at the table, hands on hips in identical stances of contemplation.

“I follow you on Instagram,” Natasha admits, snagging her beer bottle from a nearby table and waving off the popcorn that Bob offers her. “And I have to tell you. I have invited these idiots over to watch documentaries with me more times than I can even remember. Tried different topics too. Bob is the only one who ever comes over. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.” 

“Oh, I won’t. I can smell a fraud a mile away,” Nora reassures, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes to match the other woman, “but I, for one, would love an invitation to watch a documentary with you. Make it a weekly thing while I’m here.” 

And Natasha grins wide enough to inspire warm and fuzzy feelings in her chest. Is this what budding friendship felt like? She has been on the move so much lately. She’d almost forgotten. 

“Nora is my friend, Phoenix,” Bradley cuts in, sunglasses sliding further and further down his nose. His large hand comes up to deliver a playful push to the other woman’s shoulder. “Stop trying to steal her away from me. Get your own friend.” 

“We’re friends now, are we, Bradshaw?” Nora can’t help her laugh, slightly mocking, light enough not to be mistaken as rejection. “I haven’t seen you in like… five years. You probably don’t even know my birthday.” 

He pouts. “Phoenix doesn’t know your birthday either.” 

“It’s in August. She posted about it on her Instagram.” 

“Go away, Phoenix,” Bradley reaches across her again to push at Natasha harder. He loses his balance a little bit and nearly topples into Nora’s lap, only caught by Phoenix shoving against his shoulder. “Don’t let her do this, Rogers. You’re breaking my heart here.” 

“You’re drunk,” Nora giggles, an honest to god giggle, only reserved for drunk Nora. Sober Nora laughs. Drunk Nora giggles. It’s usually a sign to call it a night. “You’re drunk, and I think… I think I might be drunk.” 

“You’re definitely drunk.” 

Nice. Real professional. Getting drunk on the night before her first day and with none other than the only team of pilots on North Island that she is guaranteed to see after tonight. 

“Oh no….” Nora whispers through another giggle, and with a hand that feels disconnected from her arm, reaches up and pushes Bradley’s sunglasses back up his nose. His grin turns wolfish and… “I think I need to go home.” 

“Or…” 

“I can take you. Where’re you staying?”  

Jake pulls his keys out of his pocket and dangles them from a finger, while Bradley straightens, with sudden coordination, to his full height. Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha has paused mid-sip, watching with unadulterated interest, like Rooster and Hangman were the most interesting thing on television. Bob offers her the popcorn again, and Natasha takes a handful. 

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I stopped an hour ago, and I only had two.” 

“She doesn’t know you.” 

“Did you not just say you haven’t seen her in five years?”

“She’s not going home with you.” 

“Jesus Christ…” Jake scrubs a hand over his face, his growing irritation plain. “It’s a ride home, not an invitation to bed. You’d rather put her in a cab with a stranger than have me drive her home? What’s your problem?” 

“My problem is – ” 

Well. This is… rapidly descending into a testosterone fest.

She can feel a dull ache developing in her temple, a heaviness to her lids that is becoming harder to ignore. She needs a strong painkiller, about three and a half glasses of water, and a bed. Preferably tonight. 

“Alright, I’m calling an Uber.” 

 She reaches for her phone, and Jake raises a placating hand.

“Don’t waste money on an Uber. I’ll take you home,” Jake repeats, looking pained, and then, Bradley Bradshaw opens his mouth and takes a big breath, gearing up to restart this idiotic argument. 

“Bradshaw, I swear…” Nora presses her fingers to her forehead and closes her eyes. “In about five minutes, I might sleep on that pool table, so please, I will take what I can get. I’m staying at…” Did Warlock ever give her the address? Goddammit. “It’s… It’s like a blue apartment building next to the beach. It’s not far from here. Know what I’m talking about please.” 

Exhaustion makes her blunt, but Jake looks amused again.. More amused than Nora would give herself credit for inspiring with her drunken rambles.

“I know it. We all live there.” 

Oh. Oh no. 

“Oh. Great.”  

She really will see them every day, even on her days off.  

Something flashes across Bradley’s face, too quick for her to clock it, but Nora is focused on putting hands on her phone, wallet, and keys. Hoisting her bag onto her arm. 

“Well, I’ll come with you.” 

“Rooster. Seriously?” 

“No, I should probably call it a night too, and I caught a ride with Phoenix here anyway. I’ll come back with you guys.” 

Jake and Bradley share a long stare-down that Nora is too tired to even process. It is some sort of telepathic conversation that must be exclusive to Top Gun graduates, or a silent dick-measuring contest. One of the two. 

“Oh,” Phoenix observes, tossing another piece of popcorn in her mouth. “This’ll be interesting.” 

Yeah, Nora thinks. It’ll be something alright. 

It is a short ride back to the apartments. Bradley hums the words to ‘Great Balls of Fire’ under his breath the whole time, over and over in an unending loop, while Nora presses her forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass with the late night temperatures, and closes her eyes. 

It does little to alleviate the weight of Jake’s gaze, dashing off the rearview mirror at every red light. He casts a sideways glance at Bradley, then opens his mouth to say something, but then Nora’s eyelids flutter closed and Jake remains silent, reaching for the radio knob to turn the volume down.

His truck finally rounds the last bend in the road and pulls into the lot, and Nora is damn near crawling out of her skin. She drank two full glasses of water at the bar before leaving. She isn’t buzzed enough at this point to blame the heady warmth on the alcohol. It’s him.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake expertly steers the truck, one-handed, into a spot along the front row of apartments. She can see her door from here, spotlighted under a second-floor flood light like a safe haven. “Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle until I’ve come to a full and complete…” 

He’s barely tapped the brakes when Nora mumbles a good night and makes a run for the staircase. 

“Alright then,” Jake calls after her through his open window, accent thick from drowsiness. “Good night to you too, sweetheart.”

She shuts her door on his raspy chuckle. 

It echoes in her ears all the same, even after splashing freezing cold water on her neck, stripping off her clothes, and climbing into the bed with the slightly scratchy sheets. Lingers, like the brush of his fingertips down the side of her neck. 

Nora heaves a sigh in the blue dark. “Goddammit.” 

end note: likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. and if you have thoughts and feelings, please shout in my asks or my messages. i'd love to hear from you!

read the next chapter!

[showtoonzfan]

For some levity, the Lackadaisy pilot is finally out! If you’ve seen it already, what are your thoughts about it? I thought it was a treat!

Yup! I’ll post my review here then!

So, overall I definitely liked it. As everyone is saying, the animation and composition is absolutely GORGEOUS, I loved the 3d props and backgrounds, I have been following this project since it was announced for an animated short so I watched a lot of sneak peeks from behind the scenes, (even becoming a patron member for Tracy for a long while) and the long wait and hard work definitely paid off. While the sketch lines being visible is very distracting at times, I will give credit that the animation and look and feel of the short is nice, since they were trying to go for an old-timey Don Bluth/Disney vibe, basically those old cartoons from the 50’s-80’s.

I will admit that while this is around 25 minutes, it feels very short, I was hoping we got to know the characters more better, mainly characters like Wick or Pepper. Like….I will say I thought there’d be a little bit more than what we got, so that was a little underwhelming for me, BUT what we got wasn’t at all bad, especially since this is a pilot. This entire time I thought it would just be an animated short, since I could have sworn the creator said that’s all it’s ganna be for now, but now it’s labeled as a “pilot”, so I can give it a pass for that. Even if you haven’t read the comic like I have, you can kinda get down most of the characters and dynamics.

Rocky is this loose canon yet sweet and can get the job done in wacky ways, Freckle is the soft cutsey wutsey one who deep down has a temper and is crazy, (and Rocky can see the potential in him) Pepper comes off as someone who wants to be an independent woman and can pull her weight around the way how rough the world is, (with Rocky respecting her and her and Freckle having somewhat of a cute relationship) Nicodeme and Serafine (two that I really enjoyed watching) are also loose canons who enjoy the battle, being paired up with my favorite character that is Mordecai, a straightforward, professional and stern person who has an infamous past and isn’t aquatinted well with the people around him. The Mitzi stuff along with the other characters at the bar I’d thought we’d dive into more, but again, this is a pilot, and they do hint at future things, how they’re trying to get Wick to help them, Mitzi being a mysterious character, and the leader of their rivalry business learning about the mishap that happens in the end credits scene.

Since this is a pilot, there are PLENTY of things to be explored, it opens a door for the characters to get more depth, and for the story to expand, something that I really want, especially since the comic (for now) seems to be on halt. I think this pilot serves as a perfect “short and sweet” scenario, it did want it wanted to do, it introduces the characters and some of the story well, and I really hope this gets a BIG following enough for the cast and crew to keep working towards this goal, I would even say I hope a studio sees this and wants to pick it up. Lackadaisy certainly isn’t for everyone, I myself have said that I had a hard time following the comic at times due to the 1920’s language, and some of the humor didn’t catch me, some of the dialogue in this pilot as well could have been better in terms of showcasing the characteristics of each character or the world, but other than everything I mentioned, I don’t have any other criticisms or nitpicks, since it’s too early.

Now that the pilot is finally out, I definitely want to reread the comic and compare the two in the near future, Lackadaisy is something I have passion for and I’m so proud of the team for what they accomplished. Here’s to hoping there’s more! 🍻

[dajaregambler]

Hello once again.

I have good news. After a lot of mental struggles, personal stuffs, feeling overall aimless in life because I’m dealing with graduation, and so on, I have finally found motivation to get back to translating.

Being first hand in Japan and experiencing the language, learning new things everyday (and emptying my wallet on Keith stonks), really made me remember how much joy I experienced from interacting with this language.

And there are many amazing things out there, from games to manga and novels. I want everyone to be able to experience it. I had started to learn Japanese with that intent, but due a harrowing (albeit worthwile) internship, the looming pressure of Capitalism and exploitation of creativity crushing me, plus a lot of other stuff… yeah, my motivation died down heavily for a bit. I dropped other TL projects I had and kept pulling Helios behind me in hopes I’ll finally finish what I started, since I couldn’t with the rest.

I also felt discouraged because I kept asking myself, who am I doing this for if not myself…? I don’t know how many people, if any, even need my translations that much. I felt a bit lost on that too. I have had people tell me they appreciate what I do, and I know I’m part of why people can enjoy Helios to some extent. But I had to say to myself: I’m here ‘cuz I just love translating, and Keith. If people read it, that’s a mere bonus. This is a hobby thing after all.

There’s a lot of days left of my vacation however, so of course I will be taking it easy and enjoying the rest of it. Hopefully not lose all of my money on Keith stonks either.

I know people follow this blog for content, not for me. But hey, take it as a lengthy update that can be summed up into “Ah that slacking jackass is finally getting back to work.” (I mean, I’m a Keith oshi who thinks he is in the right about slacking off, expectations should be on the floor by now…)

Anyway, that’s that on that.

When I’m back, I’ll be back for real. Gonna crank out SITD and finally clean up all my old TLs, they need it badly!

PS. Went to Happy Elements store and the lack of Helios was shameful. SMH. This is why I must spread the word like a preacher, international Helios stonks will take over.

[littlequeenies]

Helena Harland, who runs World of Demri instagram account, has a blog at substack where she is publishing interviews she does to people who knew Demri. I asked for permission to share this entry about Demri's activism in here and she kindly allowed.

From her substack blog:

"Demri possessed a radical nature alongside immense charisma. She was a nudist, openly bisexual, modeled for several adult magazines like Penthouse and Hustler, and was unabashedly sexually liberated at a time where it was seen as taboo. She did not view other people with a critical eye, but rather embraced those who most would find “off-center”. Demri’s late mother Kathleen recalled a memory of driving 20 year-old Demri home one day when she suddenly started shouting “Mom, stop! Stop!” Kathleen stopped the car and Demri jumped out to her friend who had green skin, pointed ears, and pointed elf shoes. Demri said, “This is my friend, he’s an elf. Can we give him a ride?” Kathleen, who likely passed on to Demri her attribute of non-judgment and acceptance, gave the elf a ride as he and Demri squeaked and chirped at each other in their own elf language.

Demri’s uniqueness has always intrigued me, and I often wonder what her moral and political beliefs were, as well as what she would think of today’s political issues. The 90s were marked with many social justice issues like LGBT rights— specifically the AIDS crisis. I asked Amber Ferrano, a close friend of Demri’s what she thought about the AIDS epidemic at the time, and it can be beautifully summed up by this memory:

“Demri was bi. She loved everyone and judged no one. We went to shows in gay clubs and they were awesome. I loved that they handed out free condoms even for our crowd. AIDS was horrible at the time. I remember a few times when guys in full drag (with gloves on, mind you) put their hand out to shake and pulled back saying they had AIDS, but Demri went in for a kiss and a hug. People would make negative comments saying she had AIDS or hepatitis from drugs. She didn't understand why people were so mean. If she were here today she'd be on the frontline along with Layne.”

Demri was also visited in the hospital by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, a subversive LGBT activism group that satirized traditional standards and gender roles by combining drag and religious imagery to their street performances. Kathleen said that they adored Demri, and the nurses would gawk at them on their way in.

To seek some more insight on Demri’s activism history, I reached out to Vivian McPeak, the founder of the Seattle activism group called the Peace Heathens, of which Demri was a member. The Peace Heathens were known for their annual Seattle Hempfests, and many Alice in Chains fans have likely seen this video of Layne Staley making an appearance at one in 1994. It is one of the few videos we have of Layne during that year, taken shortly after the release of Jar of Flies.

H: myself, V: Vivian

H: I was wondering what the core beliefs of the Peace Heathens are and how the organization  was conceived?

V: In 1988 I had this idea to start a street-level volunteer group composed of alternative culture folks to do good things in the name of the alt-culture, community service projects and benefit shows for righteous causes that got little support from the mainstream. I called it the Seattle Peace Heathens. I created this manifesto, and Yossarrian “Rex” Kelley did a logo graphic I put at the top of it. I plastered the paper fliers all over The Ave, at places like the Allegro Cafe, Espresso Roma, and The Last Exit. I started getting lots of calls from people excited about my crazy vision quest, wanting to learn more and get involved. We started having meetings in people’s homes that eventually got too large, and we moved them to Ravenna Park, where we turned them into potluck feeds that started attracting a homeless contingent. 

Meetings started attracting as many as 70 people, mostly music culture and street culture folks - hippies, punk rockers, and an eclectic mix of just progressive, activism-type people. The thing that struck me most, though, is I would be approached by some very neat and clean folks who came on really strong, talking about how resourceful they were and how they were going to contribute all these things. I became very excited about these folks and what they might bring to the group. Then there was an entirely different contingent of absolute street people. These folks were often disheveled, unkempt; they might even have a distinct odor about them. At first, I was not sure what to think about these people, and I placed much of my focus on the other group of folks who seemed to have their shit really together.

The core values of the Seattle Peace Heathens were a commitment to service to society and others through volunteerism, basic counter-culture values of peace and love, Left politics such as social and environmental justice, and a commitment to the power of change through art (visual and music).

H: -It was said that Demri Parrott was a member of the Peace Heathens, do you have memories of her attending meetings or the Hempfests?

V: [I was closer with Layne, so I’ll tell the story of us meeting first.] I was at a hard rock club called the Prime Rib Palace in Totem Lakes, Washington and I struck up a conversation with a blonde dude with long hair and silver pants. We hit it off. He learned I was fresh from Hollywood and wanted to know all about the club scene there. He said his name was Layne, and he had a band called Sleze that was being renamed Alice in Chains. He gave me his number. He was the first person I developed a friendship after I moved to Washington State. A few years later, he invited me to his apartment in a big old brick complex above Eastlake. I met his lady Demri, a petite girl with a beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. I didn't know where to buy weed, and they told me I could get my weed from them. I am not really sure if they were dealing weed or if they were just helping me out, but they always had an eighth when I needed to buy one.

Around 1988 Layne had developed a heroin problem, and I had a cocaine one. I would pick Layne up and drive us to TUNA (Tuesday Night N.A.) at the Rendezvous on 2nd in Belltown, where a guy named Will ran the Narcotics Anonymous meetings. It was pretty much the rocker NA for the area. Unlike his rock persona, Layne was a quiet, almost shy person. He was sensitive and kind,in my experience. It was stunning watching the band climb to rock stardom. I loved their music and was impressed with the strength and power of his voice.

Demri was a bubbly, outgoing person. She volunteered for the Peace Heathens and helped at several of the benefit shows we produced at the famed OK Hotel, one of the only venues with all-age shows. She helped put up posters promoting the shows around town, and at the shows, she worked the merch table and helped us load gear in and out, even though she was a very diminutive person. She was sweet and kind and fearless. She resonated with the Peace Heathens's core belief that all of the various cultural sub-genres of the music/youth/alt-culture (punk, metal, hippie, Reggae, etc.) shared a common spirit and was essentially responding to the same mainstream desire for conformity and control. She believed in the benevolent act of helping others, which was central to the Peace Heathen identity.

I hope this provided some insight on the free spirited nature of Demri, and the ways in which she provided to her community and led with love and compassion. Big thanks to Vivian for taking the time to speak with me and tell me of all his cool stories, and to MemoriesOfDemri on instagram who pointed out the Peace Heathens sticker on Demri’s suitcase as well as provided the information regarding the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.

Thank you for reading!

-Helena"

***

Thank you very much Helena for allowing us to share this story here!! Go and follow her on instagram or subscibe to her blog!

[four-white-trees]

Sunday Six

It's the time of the week!

I've been working away and several RGG projects this week, and the one I'm most excited to show off is a lengthier fic that explores Kuwana's life as a high school teacher. This was originally meant to be a small vignette in a fic that explored all of Kuwana's transformation, but then the high school teacher took the fuck over. I'm very proud of it, however, and especially the bit I'm sharing today.

Tagging the collective @overdevelopedglasses @carbonatedcalcium @fire-tempers-steel @passthroughtime @woundedheartwithin @mike----wazowski @skysquid22

The lecture that day was over haiku, which Kitakata usually enjoyed, especially with third-years. By then, students had grown up with haiku all their lives, so he was able to pull a deeper discussion of meaning, construction, and language. He’d start with one that always got laughs from the class: 

Over-ripe sushi,

The Master

Is full of regret.

- Yosa Buson

“What strikes you about this?” he asked, raking his gaze over the class. His eyes lingered on Kusumoto’s empty desk. 

“Someone needs to learn how to make sushi,” Kawai said, drawing a laugh from Suzuki and Akaike. 

“But he’s a Master,” Sawa pointed out. “He knows how to make sushi. I think there’s something very sad about someone who knows better but still makes such a basic mistake as preparing old sushi.” She locked her eyes with Kitakata then, a flare of indignation in her eyes. Kitakata plastered on a smile. 

“Quite good, Sawa-chan,” he said. “Although perhaps sadness is not the emotion to take from this. Rather, think of it as a warning to remain humble in your craft. You can always make a mistake, no matter how good you are.” 

The look in Sawa’s eyes seemed to intensify, and then she dropped them to her notebook as she scratched out some notes. 

He moved on to a famous poem that everyone in the room was guaranteed to know. 

An old silent pond...

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

- Matsuo Bashō

“This one is about serene nature,” Suzuki offered. “I like it. It seems like such a peaceful scene.” 

“That it is,” Kitakata said with a nod. “Notice how Bashō is able to paint a dynamic picture in so few words. The energy moves from stillness, to movement, and back to stillness, like the cycles of life itself.” 

“Seems too boring to be real life,” Kawai suggested. “Maybe back in the samurai times this made sense, but today? We have cars, man.” 

“So you’re saying this haiku lacks a sense of timelessness?” Kitakata pressed. 

Kawai shrugged, but Akaike took up the conversation. “Yeah, I think it does. The modern world is just too different. I don’t even know the last time I saw a frog was.” 

“Perhaps this can serve us modern people as a reminder to slow down, then,” Kitakata suggested. 

“No way,” Kawai said. “You slow down, you fall behind.” 

“Interesting perspective, Kawai-kun,” Kitakata said. He turned to Sawa. “What do you think, Sawa-chan?” 

Sawa fiddled with her pencil, looking thoughtful. “I think there’s an overwhelming sense to the silence of the pond. Even though the frog disrupts the silence temporarily, it returns, and it’s like the frog had never even jumped at all.” 

Kitakata let a silence hang after Sawa’s words, surprised by her perspective. The silence was disrupted, however, by Kawai and Suzuki’s laughter. “You’re such a downer, Sawa-chan,” Kawai said, earning him a glare from his classmate. 

Shaking himself from the reverie, Kitakata moved on before Kawai and Sawa started arguing. 

My life, -

How much more of it remains?

The night is brief.

- Masaoka Shiki

As Kitakata recited it, he caught Akaike and Kawai exchanging an incredulous look. “Now, I think this one resonates with me a little more than you,” Kitakata said. “You are all at the beginning of your lives, and you don’t get a sense of mortality until you’re an old man like me.” 

Suzuki giggled. “You’re not old, sensei,” she said. 

“See? That’s the correct response, very good, Suzuki-chan,” Kitakata said, and Suzuki giggled more. “Still, it is good to keep your own mortality in mind, even at your age,” he went on. “You aren’t invincible, as much as it may feel that way. Now, I’m not saying any of you are going to die young.” He paused and swept his gaze over the classroom again. Kawai rolled his eyes. “But you never know.” He smirked, and Akaike chuckled. 

He lectured on a few more haiku, but the end of class came quickly. He dismissed the class, hoping to make a quick exit, when Sawa stood up. He recalled, then, that she had asked to talk to him the day before, and he had completely forgotten about it. But before he could address her, Kawai jumped up.

“Sensei,” he said, drawing Kitakata’s attention. He closed the distance between his desk and the podium in two long strides. Lowering his voice, he asked, “My grade’s pretty bad, huh? Think there’s a way I can make up some of those missed assignments?” 

Kitakata sighed. “Kawai-kun, you know I don’t give out extra credit,” he responded. “That’s more work for me.” 

Kawai smiled, embodying all the cocky self-assurance a seventeen-year-old could. “Yeah, but I’m your favorite student, right?” he said with laughter in his voice. 

Behind him, Kitakata noticed Sawa’s shoulder sag. She gathered her backpack and left the room. He should have called to her to stay, as he had no intention of entertaining Kawai’s nonsense, but he was also eager to get home and relax. Perhaps whatever issue she had had already been sorted out. 

“The best way to salvage yourself here is to stay on top of everything for the rest of the term,” Kitakata said firmly. “Then, Heaven help you, you may have a chance.” 

If Kawai was disappointed by this response, he didn’t show it at all. “You got it, sensei,” he said. He grabbed his notebook, which Kitakata had noticed he hadn’t written in all class, and joined his usual crew out in the hall. 

“Idiot kid,” Kitakata muttered under his breath. He gathered his notes together and picked up the textbook he had been teaching from. As he placed his bookmark back in it, his eyes fell over another haiku. Perhaps it was the end-of-the-day fatigue, but the words caused a prickle of goosebumps to kiss his neck. 

I kill an ant

and realize my three children

have been watching.

- Kato Shuson

[ahungeringknife]

365: May 12

Amanda looked up from what she was doing as a ship landed in the hanger looking like it'd been through a war. Panels were cracked, the windshield was just gone, and it looked like every nut, bolt, and rivet were straining under the pressure of keeping itself together. The ship itself flailed as it landed, rocking back and forth. Her bro furrowed. What had happened to it that would cause the gyroscope to be damaged like that? Not even the gravitational gyroscope just the normal one. She'd seen Guardians crack a gravitational gyroscope by pushing their ships to the limit of physics (and had had to chew Ren and his stunt buddy friends out for it) but this? The ship landed like a belly flop, barely catching itself on the platform. She heard the strain of the metal landing gear trying to support itself.

She stepped away from what she was working on, letting the tablet fall away to her side, catching on the attached strap so it dangled from her belt like any other tool, and went over to the ship. The engines heaved and as they wound down she heard them sputtering and sucking and knew they wouldn't be coming back up for some time. Not without some work. Even the paint was frayed.

She recognized this ship. Special fabrication for a very special Guardian. She'd seen it a week ago and it had been perfect. Flawless. Completely space and air worthy. The thing was barely a month old! How did it look like this? The Taken War was... 'over' she supposed. Oryx was dead. And yet it looked like this thing had just been flown through Oryx's asshole.

The Guardian climbed out of the broken windshield and landed lightly under the nose of the ship. Amanda folded her arms. At least Kass the Kingslayer had the awareness to look guilty. Not that Amanda could see her face. It was in the slouch of her shoulders and the way her hood was pulled so far forward it was like she was trying to hide her helmet. You got good at learning to read Guardian body language because for hell like they'd talk to you face to face sometimes.

"Um... I can explain," Kass said, voice thin over her helmet's speakers.

"I'd love to hear it," Amanda said, sarcastic as the day was long.

"Um- well... you see-- uh," she'd never seen this little lady nervous but here she was.

Amanda sighed and unfolded her arms. She went up to the Hunter. "Do you even know what happened?" Amanda asked. Because she knew well enough wild stuff happened to Guardians. Stuff they couldn't always explain.

"... No," she said after a moment. "No I just-- I just woke up and it was like this." There was more to the story but Amanda wasn't going to force it out of her.

Amanda looked at the ship, hands on her hips. "It really took a beating," she said.

"Yeah. I don't- not that it wasn't a really good ship!- but I don't want this one anymore?" she said nervously.

"I'm sure with how wrecked it is."

"Is my old ship still in storage? I'll just use that one again," she said quickly.

"That death trap? Yeah, no," a silky voice Amanda associated with Kass' mentor came out of her Ghost.

Kass sighed dramatically. "Fine. Fine," she huffed. "Do you have like... a loaner or something I could use? I was in the middle of something for the Vanguard," she asked Amanda.

"Do I have a- Kass do you not know how many schematics you own?"

"No?" Kass said and she could imagine how big those purple eyes of her were behind that helmet.

Amanda sighed and scooped up her data pad from where it hung at her knee. She projected several ship schematics between them. "These are all your ships," she said.

"... Since when?" Kass asked, voice going up in pitch.

"Since forever?"

"Why do I have so many?"

"Girl I have no idea," Amanda said. "This isn't the most though. Some Guardians collect them."

"Where did I even get these?" Kass leaned forward to look at the projections.

"Again; no idea," Amanda said. "So which one you want me to bring out of storage?"

"Ummm... this one, I guess," she indicated a sleek looking jump ship.

"This one is cockpit only. There's no room for sleeping."

"Oh. Hmmm. Well then I'll come back and try another one after I guess. I just need a ship now," she said.

"Right," Amanda said. "And what do you want to do with this?" she indicated the ship that was still moaning and groaning under its own weight.

"Do I have to keep it? I'm sorry," she added quickly.

Amanda chuckled. "Nah," she said and tapped on her datapad. "We'll scrap it for glimmer and parts. I'll send you a cut of it once it's been disassembled. Your other ship should be coming up any minute. And really? You just woke up and it was all messed up?"

"Yes."

"What Ghost say caused it?" she asked, more curious than anything.

Ghost stared at her. "Bad dreams," he said and Amanda didn't understand what that meant.

"Well, anyway, there's your new ship," she nodded at the ship being raised up into the Hangar. "Try and keep it in one piece?" she asked.

"I will! Thank you. And sorry again!" Kass cried and darted off. Amanda just sighed fondly after her. She was such a nice girl, really.

Once Kass had taken off she went and inspected the damage a bit more thoroughly. Her brows creased in confusion as she looked at the scorching and damaged electronics. She'd seen all sorts of destruction from ballistics and Fallen aggression and Cabal aggression and even her share of Hive tearing into it but nothing like this. All the damage had come from inside the ship. It was like... she didn't even know really. She'd never seen anything like it. Just that all the damage was done from the Light and the power of it bursting from the inside out had nearly ripped the ship to pieces.

She thought about asking Kass about it when she came to trade in the other ship but what had Ghost said? 'Bad dreams'.

Maybe she didn't want to know actually.

[wannaberp]

— WHO IS FUJISAWA SAKUYA?

he's an EIGHTEEN year old wannabe, born DECEMBER 17, 2005. he's currently UNDECIDED regarding companies and lives by the words “out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.”

maybe you should learn more or ask him a question.

▶ PLAY THE CLIP [ harsh_critique.mp4 ]

"stop, stop, stop."

he exhales harshly, sweat dripping from his brow as sneakers squeak against the linoleum. sharp eyes cut over to where the form of his sister stood, hands on her hips and expression disapproving. she looks more put together then himself, hair slicked back into a ponytail, not a strand out of place. she probably hadn't of even broken a sweat despite the intensity of the choreography. his jaw clenches in annoyance.

"how do you expect to ever become a trainee this way? hell, even a full fledged idol again? are you even trying to move on beat? you're all over the place right now. you're supposed to be a seasoned idol, sakuya. do better."

her scolding has his brows furrowing, standing to his full height as he looks down at her. he respects his elder sister immensely despite the burning jealously that he holds deep inside. he should still be in her position, shuffling from schedule to schedule, meeting fans and singing his heart out on stage. instead he's trembling under the weight of his own lack of training, body all limbs that he still hasn't fully grown into. he feels sick.

'do better.' what is better for him? was better busking like his life depended on it, scrambling to find a sense of self again? was better bed-rotting and watching old clips of performances of a younger him, bright eyed and full of life? was better this now, training with his sister who took the time out of the limited break she was given to come assist her washed up, snot-nosed little brother?

"i'm trying," he all but whines, a petulant sound, something only she can pull out of him. "it's been, like, two fucking years-"

"language!"

"-two freaking years since i had to do choreo and it was nothing like... like this bullshit." he waves his arm around in a vague motion and she sighs, something cutting and displeased. he feels out of his body, watching himself stumble and jerk around like a ragdoll. it stings, her disapproval. he wants to be good, again. worthy.

"this "bullshit" is what separates the people who dream of debuting and those who actually do," she tells him, turning and tapping the screen of her phone, turning off the song they were practicing to. he watches her with a almost helpless expression, fingers curling and flexing as if he could somehow stabilize himself despite it feeling like everything was coming apart. "you can't say you want this and then not do anything to improve or show you actually do. if you think you can just jump around on stage like you used to and not put in any real effort, we can end practice here. i don't want to waste my time on someone who won't even put forth his best after all the complaints he's given that he wants this."

he flinches at her tone and feels small, somehow, despite being heads bigger then her. she doesn't bother to turn and look at him, as if she was already dismissing him. what was his worth, now? what could he be now, when it felt like almost all his chances were slim to none? when he looks at himself in the expansive mirror of the borrowed practice room, all his mind projects back are fleshy cheeks and big eyes. thirteen year old him looks as anxious as he feels. so young but already wondering if he will even be good enough. wondering if he will be passed up on a opportunity to do the only thing he knows he can do right. the only thing he loves. he hates looking at that version of himself. he can be better.

he has to.

"play it again," he says to her, voice soft, tinged with something bitter. their gazes meet and he takes in how she looks at him through the mirror, eyes dark and intense. he's not sure what she sees when she stares at him for those few long moments. he hopes she sees something more then he sees in himself. hopes that she can't see the fear of being impossibly not good enough deep down reflected in his eyes. 

but then she presses play again, the music filters in, and he makes his body move.

[yoo-jeongneon]

the sticky tab series | sticky tab one: 6B

× minors/ageless/empty blogs dni. you will be blocked. ×

× series masterlist × main masterlist × × <- previous × next -> × seventeen (ot13) x gn!reader genre: mystery, thriller, drama warnings: journalist!reader, former journalist!jun, explicit language, smoking, written as a journal entry in the first person, discussions about journalism, dates given in dd/mm/yyyy word count: 748 taglist: @hipsdofangirl × @strawberri-uyu × @asyre × @minhui896

name: wen junhui date of birth: 10/06/1996 date moved in: 12/02/2018

When I stepped into his apartment, the first thing I caught was the scent of tobacco mixed with a dried out reed diffuser. I couldn't possibly say what the scent was, but something tells me it was earthy.

Speaking of tobacco, one of the first things I learned is that Junhui is a smoker. I'm not, so I declined his offer. He wasn't rude about it - he spared me a 'suit yourself' and just sat down on his leather three-seater.

I sat on the matching two-seater. Comfortable, but judging by the wear it was likely a few years old. The dried diffuser was on a side table pressed against the wall on the other side of the room. The kitchen was to my left and there was a pair of double doors that opened out to a balcony.

Junhui apologised to me for what the man from 4B wrote in his letter, though he admitted while he knew a note had been mentioned, he didn't believe the man actually went through with writing and leaving it. The second he heard me mention his apartment name, it twigged in an instant. "I should've known that bastard would actually do it. Like I said he's got a propensity for pissing me off."

He asked me why I came to the building, informing me that he saw me arrive from his apartment window, pointing to the set of double doors. I explained my reasoning and he seemed surprised.

"No one ever comes to Drawbridge. People just snap pictures from afar then run off to write bullshit about it." It didn't surprise me that the residents here knew of the reputation. He took more hits from his cigarette as he continued. "And you told me you were ready to turn and leave when you realised people lived here, but you picked up the phone."

He caught me with that. It is true that I had picked up the phone. I fell silent for a while as he studied my expression.

"I get why you did," he said, "you're a journalist at the end of the day. Like I said, I share your experience. I was a freelance journalist at one point. No matter what, we'll take any chance to get a story."

I couldn't believe I was sitting here, having this conversation. I did not expect to turn up to find out there were thirteen residents. I also didn't know at the time what was to come..

I told him, "I am not here to, as you said, 'drill holes in your walls'. In fact, I will be ready to leave after this conversation."

Junhui stared at me then. "I appreciate you not wanting to do that. Though I must admit, it might quell some rumours about this place.."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what of you trying to keep your solitude?"

"I can wish for solitude while wishing the reputation didn't exist."

That struck a chord. I wondered how many other residents here felt the same way. At the time, I considered I wouldn't be getting those perspectives.

"I suppose.. as long as you don't go ahead and make this whole situation public in the way only a journalist would-" He gave me a knowing look; I held back from rolling my eyes. "..Then I suppose I can tell you a little something, former journalist to current journalist."

I didn't know how to respond. Initially, I wasn't going to take him up on his offer, but I already felt that I'd made a vow.

I pulled out my journal, to which he smiled. It was rather frustrating in its smugness but.. it was clearly the smile of understanding.

'I share your experience.'

Details of note from our discussion:

junhui was the fifth person to move in

junhui took 6B as he felt it had the nicest kitchen

project drawbridge almost didn't go through

several investors were sceptical of its tenancy power

junhui doesn't know who lived in 7B

7A is the only person who knows about it (and he hasn't shared that info)

junhui doesn't get on well with 6A

junhui stopped being a journalist in 2021

3A doesn't talk to him because of his experience in journalism

people have made small efforts to remove the 'silent dweller' name from searches after learning what the project name is

3B was the last person to move in

× yoo-jeongneon ×

[thecameronchronicles]

The Foster-Part Three

TW: hints at smut. Language. Angsty situations.

SUMMARY: Situations arise that being certain relationships to light, as well as desires and tensions….

WORD COUNT: 1700

*ORIGINAL CONCEPT*

The Foster Part 3

She was flawless in every way you picked yourself apart and it made your eyes narrow at her. It was the only action in which allowed Kiara to find something to like about you, a mutual loathing for the effortless beauty that was Sarah Cameron. Leaving a string of insecure girls and aroused men in her wake without the means or care of doing either. At least to everyone but John B, it seemed. 

"Haven't you done enough?" Kiara shot as she stood before John B, your eyes widened as JJ leaned over to you. 

"Sarah got our golden boy fired after he borrowed some scuba gear..." 

"Stole, you mean-"

"Doesn't matter. Just goes on to prove once again why you can't trust Kooks..." 

But if you happened to learn the details of their mutual disgust for her presence, nobody validated this more than Kiara. 

"Don't you have a boyfriend to irritate? Some friends to stab in the back?"

"This isn't about you Kiara." She tried to look back towards John B, resuming a conversation that didn't have a chance to begin. Her siren eyes flashing to you for only a moment before you looked at John B. 

"You shouldn't even be here." The girls continued to throw cruel remakes at one another before you recognized the fire behind Kiara's eyes. The one that would come just seconds before she would lunge, something you believed you knew well as you'd done the same. Many times. 

"It isn't worth it..." You explained before Sarah scoffed. 

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?"

"I don't know what's going on, but-"

"Stay out of this-"The way Sarah projected her hand to your face was enough to alter any potential kindness into an upset rivaling even Kiara's. 

"I think you're on the wrong side of the island, Barbie. Maybe you need to get back to whatever ken doll you've managed to victimize long enough to realize you're pretty dense otherwise-" You tapped her temple as she hit your hand away. 

"You think because you're new that your opinion matters. Hate to break it to you, sweetheart. You don't. You and whatever sob story you rode in on. Piece of advice, you might want to try putting a little effort in because whatever tragedy is responsible for the bags under your eyes will only make people feel bad for so long. Won't be enough for anyone to stay-" The very thing you tried to keep from happening to Kiara had now been what forced John B to wrap his arms around your waist to keep you from attacking Sarah. 

But from the second he pulled you away, you were able to feel every pull of each muscle as he took you into safe parameters. For Sarah's sake. When you were finally released, you repressed a pout as you found an odd comfort in his grasp. 

"Come on, Rocky..." He teased while taking you into his room within The Chateau. 

"If all Kooks are like that, I can see why you don't get along."

"Usually Sarah's actually manageable...Until recently, anyway."

"Yeah JJ told me about the scuba gear. Why did you take it?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you..." He confessed before looking over his shoulder. "And they'd kill me if I did "

"Well I have nothing but time and need something to calm myself down before I find out just how many hair extensions she has." 

"Damn, scrapper...okay...But just keep an open mind." And with this, John B began to tell you every detail that had transpired since before he was sent away into the system. Details of treasure and gold. A sunken Grady White and a dead body. An old compass and its connection to a clue that brought him unintentionally to now. But where he expected you to become even more inquisitive or even confused, you just laughed. 

"Fine then, don't tell me."

"I'm serious. My dad spent his entire life looking into it. Taking our rent money and just disappearing-" He was suddenly on his feet.

 "Come here..." He took you across the hall and into his dad's office. Walls littered with research of an old maritime vessel you pegged as "The Royal Merchant." Your fingers came to the collection of books, mostly too dusty to appreciate a lack of care for, until looking back at him. 

"He left this..." A tape recorder placed what had been a final message along with a map. The contents sending your mouth wide. 

"Shit..."

"And I was on my way to finding out more before being hijacked by the state-"

"What exactly are you after?"

"400 million..." Pope spoke in the doorway. 

"Don't get me wrong, I didn't ignore the fact you had my back with Sarah, but it doesn't mean I forgot you stole my clothes." Kie added.

"Actually, I gave them to her..." John B defended, his eyes reaching across the space to you rather slow climb as you adored the attention and defense for a moment. 

"Well still...I guess you're one of us now..."

"You should have seen the look on her face. I don't think I've ever seen a princess that pissed..." JJ finally entered. 

"She knows..." Pope explained, slightly disappointed. 

"Good because in case y'all haven't noticed, we aren't the best at keeping a low profile..." 

"Speaking of that..." John B suddenly alerted you all of the new and unwanted arrival. 

"JJ..." Kiara warned. 

"Swear to God wasn't me...I don't think..."

"J!"

John B collected your hand within his own. 

"I'm trusting you. Please don't make me regret it." He spoke into your ear, squeezing your hand just enough to leave an impression of the warmth he could allow. His body leaning down to you as if to tell you it would be alright. 

"If they see you, they'll take you both back!" Kiara reminded as everyone looked to one another before you and John B were ultimately left waiting for the other to offer some grand masterplan. 

"Closet. I'll take care of them..." Kiara spoke somewhat reluctantly before pushing you to the direction of his room. Before you could object, the bedroom door came closed. 

"If you felt better about it, I could probably squeeze under the bed-" You would allow him even a second before taking him within the closet, the sound of steps approaching having meant you escaped in the nick of time once again. 

"Maybe if I had you around the first time, I never would have been caught..." He spoke in a low whisper. .

"But then you never would have been blackmailed." You reminded, reading the tension of his torso as it was forced against you. The heavy exhales forced from shirt inhales making you well aware of just how close he was within the darkness. 

"You can trust me, John B." He scoffed. 

"Sarah said the same..."

"I'm not her..." You could feel his smile. 

"You definitely aren't..." The sudden sensation of his fingers against your knuckles pulled your own breath to quiet. Even though your heart hammered within your chest, you couldn't help but wonder if it was with intent. Because of this, you remained still. Growing more desperate by the second. 

"I'm glad you did."

"What?" 

"Blackmailed me. It wouldn't be nearly this much fun without you. Or entertaining..." You smirked to yourself. 

"Or..." He continued, his touch having now rested on your elbow as it made that stealthy climb. 

"Or?" Your voice was weak, truly consumed by the moment and the closing proximity that continued from adrenaline and apparent fate set you a part of. 

"Okay all-" JJ tore the doors open, revealing just how close you and John B had been. An unnecessary closeness that existed from your need to be close to one another. 

"Uh..."

"It's late." Kiara interrupted Pope's inability to formulate a sentence of any kind. 

"Yeah..." John B clenched his jaw in disappointment. 

Within a handful of minutes, Kiara returned home after following Pope to his father's borrowed truck to wish a good night, leaving JJ asleep on the couch, and you unsure of where you'd rest for the night. But one thing was for certain, you needed to wash the day off. Between running the night before and the near scuffle an hour prior, you were anxious for that cleansing feeling. 

"I don't think Kie left anything else, but you can borrow a shirt of mine..." 

"You sure?" He nodded. 

"Least I can do for how you defended us..." 

You nodded, slipping across the hall before starting the water. Testing the stream below, you turned to find John B's reflection in the mirror. His eyes trained on you in a way of regret for having been interrupted prior. Your lips pulled to a widening grin before you teased your fingers along the line of your shirt. But just before he would learn of your proclivity of white lace, you closed the door. 

The shower was uneventful yet sultry in theory. You imagined John B making his way into the steamed room, collecting the curtain in a forced pull, and joining you to enact the visions that contradicted your attempt to get clean. Yet the events of the night brought you to smirk at yourself in comparison. You hardly knew him. Even if he made your thighs press whenever he was close and offered some sense of safety you could explain. He was really no more than a stranger. 

With heartbreak eyes. Tempting lips. Muscles that could pull you effortlessly away from gravity. It was enough to bring a blush to his cheeks and your hand in a teasing descent before you remembered how close he had been. How his chest fell against yours. How his breath rested at your lips…

Because of this, you retracted any attempt to silence that need between your legs and finally exited from the shower. But once doing so, you became nervous on what you'd say when seeing him again after your near peep show seconds before shutting the door. After a moment's hesitation, you decided it was better to face the music, but found him looking at you instead. 

Without a word, just as your lips parted to speak, he moved into you. His hands at your hips as he walked you back into the sink. A final look for consent offered to you before he then surprised you with a soft kiss. But it was that instant collision that offered only a glimpse of the passion he was capable of. 

Passion you were soon to learn from this unexpected turn of events. 

TAGLIST: @hopebaker @drewspisces @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4tangerine @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @jjmaybanksangel @phildunphyisadilf @mashdan0916

MASTERLIST

JOHN B ROUTLEDGE MASTERLIST

THE FOSTERS MASTERLIST

MARCH MADNESS MASTERLIST

[sweetswesf]

Hello! My first project is off to an interesting start. My team loved my tech spec. I was getting things done, despite my fear and doubts about if I could do it or not. Team was impressed. There were so many gaps in my understanding of things, but I powered through and have been delivering despite. Turns out, I CAN survive in a new company and code base despite not having any experience in ANY of the tools and languages my new company uses…

I felt relief when my manager came to the conclusion on his own, confirming my beliefs that this was a HUGE project that would take much longer than he 1st expected, but I’ve been learning a lot and as he said today, exemplifying resiliency.

However, it has not been all roses. A few weeks back, I noticed something off about another team’s service I was using, but I didn’t know if it was a me issue, that team’s issue, or the tool’s issue. I raised it, and they kept saying they would fix it. They would say they fixed it, it would look the same, I would raise it again, then they would say, it DOES need to be fixed again, go silent, then say it was fixed and say it’s up to me to make it work. I didn’t know I had pull and I didn’t know it truly was a problem until I got a teammate’s eyes on it. I didn’t want to embarrass them and call them out in meetings, so I said everything was all good. My manager already kinda had beef with them before I joined and made that apparent to me, which reminded me of my old company. Whenever my manager has beef with a team I’m forced to work with, I ALWAYS end up getting burned some how or another. This time was no different.

This service was owned by that colleague I said I had a crush on. I don’t have a crush no mo’, because when my manager asked me to call out the problem with the service in a meeting with my team and his team (including my manager AND his manager), his manager realized it was an issue and was like “get your ish together [my crush’s name].” It was awkward af. I lost sleep trying to document everything and do work arounds and did NOT have context on so many things that happened before I joined. This led to me not representing my team in the best way. It did buy my and the partner teams more time which we all so desperately needed. Timelines that I tried to ask for in the beginning but were told we should be more aggressive on.

My manager sent out an email to him, cc’ing all the attendees of the meeting after that. Was it necessary? Hell no. There’s a law about power that says, “Know when enough is enough.” I don’t think my manager knows that. Or maybe it’s company culture. Idk. I was more than willing to take the blame for it or make it work, hence why I didn’t raise no alarms. But I did tell him multiple times and gave him plenty of time to fix it. My TEAM told me to raise it publicly after that.

Needless to say, he is less than happy with me. He hasn’t said that, but his ruffled brow in the meeting and tone def changed. He’s much more responsive to any question I have. Goes above & beyond. He wanted to be the quickest to be promoted to L6 since he was the first ever promoted in the company from L4 to L5. Maybe he feels he’s lost that now. And he may be right. Any screw up here and it seems like you get punished disproportionately as an example for others. Needless to say, I don’t like that about the culture…

I thought about hitting dude up offline and chatting about it, but I felt like that would have been unprofessional. Sorta like how Macklemore sent Kendrick Lamar a “you should have won the rap Grammy instead of me” text and tweeted that out so other people could see lol. Damage was done. I gave him a heads up and felt the discussion could wait for our 1:1, but he rescheduled it to next. It’ll be weeks since the meeting. I think he thinks I maybe tried to embarrass him? But how could he, because I told him in private multiple times WEEKS before my manager asked about it. So there was nothing more to say.

This isn’t quite me, but I’d love to get to this level. I thought I was better than I thought, but I care more than I should what my colleagues think of me. I’m moving despite. I know they think I’m annoying af. I’d kinda hate me too lol. I’m not a wizard with this stuff, and I struggle, but I’mma try…I’m learning being a people pleaser isn’t helping me. I don’t think I have to be rude either, but I don’t have to feel bad when people are called out in my defense. I always come with the best intentions. I don’t know how I could have prevented the situation from getting to that point because I told him multiple times and got verbal confirmation he knew it was a problem and he said he fixed it multiple times and it still wasn’t. My manager was the one that told me to call the meeting with his manager.

Shortly after that, I found a few OTHER issues. I’ve never been the one to find the flaws in something. Usually it’s me being called out for making the flaws, so maybe that’s what also discouraged me from thinking it was a problem that I couldn’t fix on my own.

We have our 1:1 next week. There’s nothing for me to apologize for this time. I can’t trust him now anymore and it was already thin.

I can’t trust no one really. Not even the other Black woman on my team I knew before I joined who I heard had beef with the team and manager before I started. She constantly be asking me if I like our manager. I know what she’s trying to do. I’m not falling for that trap. I have my feelings about it, but you not gone know. I’m an empath, but I am trying to be less of an emotional sucker all around. Being nice don’t get you too far. Kind. Always. But don’t get caught slipping, because people like to take advantage of you when you come with a pure heart. Don’t stoop to their level or be closed off, but don’t let everyone in…

Feedback I received in private was, I should have rang alarms sooner. But I did above my due diligence and did damn well the best I could considering all that was on my plate! To be honest, I feel like the feedback to both me and him was to deflect from the not so great decision to agree to a timeline before I joined the team and before I hopped on the project.

I’m tired y’all. I get about 4/5 hours of sleep a night. I haven’t really hung out with the new “friends” I made, but things were looking shady anyway when I realized they had a group chat, would discuss me in it, never invite me, but they each would invite me to the same events individually. Just put me in the chat. I don’t get it. I don’t trust lol.

I go to work, I come home, I eat, I watch a few YouTube videos, I nap for 1-3 hours because I am dog tired, and hop back on the computer. I finish my self-imposed second shift around midnight - 2 AM which leaves me dog tired in the morning and throughout my day.

I’m grateful for what I have and what I prayed for, but just wish I was faster. They move FAST and it honestly at times be having me like, is this what God wants me to be doing?

I have to pray a lot about it. Sundays I spend washing my hair, going to church, and going to the mall. Saturdays I either am in an online shopping hole or YouTube hole, or I work. I told myself to sacrifice for the next 2 years, but I need balance. I want to get quicker, and stop making excuses, but I have to deliver.

I haven’t been going nuts with the online shopping. Just buying clothes so that I don’t look like a slob in t-shirts. I’ll be 31 soon and want to dress smart casually. I feel it’s respectful to myself and the folks around me.

When I doubt if I’m doing what I should be, I try to ask myself of a few things:

- Does it bring Him glory?

- Can I grow His kingdom with it?

- Does it allow me to have community?

- Does it challenge and grow me?

- Is it something I want to do?

- Does it allow me to have balance?

I can try harder to say yes to the last question. I’m also pondering, “Did He bring me to it, or am I forcing it to happen?,” because I was told no the first time I applied and reached out to a few people to try again. Was that all a part of His plan, or did I force it? I’m trusting Him though; as long as I just try my best, keep in good relationship with Him, remain confident, and let Him guide my steps, and don’t give up, I’ll end up where I’m supposed to. When you’re doing well, the devil likes to distract you. I can complain about the stares I get, the awkward silences, focus on how much I may not like where I’m at, but it’s not productive. God wants me to focus. I’m trying really hard to not let my past fool me, not revive old habits, and change the things I feel need to change for this next level.

I find myself also thinking a lot these days: what good is it if I am able to buy a house and retire years from now if I have to sacrifice seeing family, making REAL friends, doing the work I could be to grow the kingdom, and when so many who work harder won’t have the same because the economy has us all working HARD for scraps? I don’t have scraps. I’m grateful for my blessings. But I work a LOT of hours. So many people are getting laid off (I was one), and yet, businesses and CEOs are richer than they’ve ever been. The math ain’t mathing…and who typically suffers once the top suffers? All of us…

Like Mos Def says over & over @ the end: “I want my people to be free…that’s all that matters to me…”

My mom mentioned how she used to be able not to take work home. I can’t survive here if I DONT work after work. It’s not sustainable…

Will I have time to breathe? Will I get my Saturdays back? Can I have them now if I didn’t procrastinate from work laying in bed on YouTube on my Saturdays because I’m so exhausted and doing that saves me money? God’s got it handled. I shouldn’t worry about scenarios that may never happen or questions God has already found the answers for.

Something’s gotta change :)

By the way, I saw the dude and ex-colleague I had intercourse with for the first time at a parade in Oakland. He locked up and tried to act like He didn’t see me. I didn’t get that mistaken. It was pretty obvious. I had a similar interaction JUST today. One of my teammates who has given me a bit of the cold shoulder from day 1 has been OOO for 2 days this week. She is based in LA but came into the office in the Bay where I am. I’m the only one on the team in that office. She knows that. She didn’t reach out. When I saw her, I spoke and told her I didn’t know she was coming. She said “yeah, I’m still on OOO.” I felt like it was key-word for “don’t say nothing.” I didn’t. She grabbed lunch with a colleague on another team. Something smells funny, but I’m so checked out and need to focus on MY plate that I ain’t even got the time to ponder. Whatever the heck is going on AINT my business and AIN’T gone make my situation easier.

I came across a quote that I’ve been remembering from time to time: “God assigned you this mountain so you can show others it can be moved.” I would have loved to hop into a role using all the same tools I did before, but God had a different plan. I think He knows I’m trying. He’s got a plan for it. God never wants to set me up for failure. I do wonder if I should have invested more time. I can’t dwell on the past though and have to keep trying for today. I need to do less worrying and more believing. I’ve been alright so far…

A new guy started this week. He’s visiting LA soon. I told him I’m from South LA, in a city where Compton is east of it and Long Beach is south of it. He heard Compton and his face lit up: “Would I be safe in Compton?!” 🙄🙄🙄🙄

Chile…

Anyway, showed him grace and told him it’s still got its activity, but for the most part, it’s just like any other city. It has been overhyped in the media but it has million dollar homes. And that’s a fact. I can’t afford to buy a home in Compton and I get paid very well. The economy is another topic for another day chile…

Anyway, despite this comment, I knew not to judge. It is only his 4th day and he already demo’d work. And it reminded me how it took me 4 weeks before I pushed code on the team’s services. It was high key embarrassing. It reminded me to stop playing scared. But I don’t know if I was truly scared back then or if I didn’t want to embarrass myself so quickly, because I figured it would be tough. I guess I just have to listen to God more. And stop comparing myself…I congratulated him. Genuinely.

I know for a fact that taking that time to learn and ease into things helped set me up for this behemoth of a project…

I’m working so hard…y’all pray for me. I’m praying for you, reader…

God bless.

[sullustangin]

The World Beyond

Rating: T

Summary: Some things return to Eva.

Others are lost. Utterly lost.

Quick Note: This is a faster-paced fic, so I'll be doing shorter chapters with 2 entries per week. We got a happy ending to get to here.

Quick quote:

Eva heard a droid speaking to Lana, but even though she knew the language, it – she didn’t understand him. 

Not everything came back to her – not all of her skills or knowledge.  Hibernation sickness. 

It robbed her of time.  Sense of time.  Memory.  Order of memory.  Names.

Feelings.

Then the building rocked under her feet.  “What’s happening?” Eva asked.

“It’s Vaylin.”  Lana shifted, and Eva was forced to look up at her from her hunched over position. “I can sense it.  She’ll bring the whole city crashing down on you if she has to.”

Swiftly, Lana pulled Eva into a building. 

Almost immediately, Koth piped up.  “Lana, are my scanners glitched? Did you just charge headfirst into a skytrooper droid factory?!”

Skytroopers!  That’s what they were called.  That’s what –

The mask called them that. 

Darth Marr – the ship. 

“Vaylin is almost upon us!  We’re out of options!”

“This is Altair 3 all over again!”

Your operative can prove herself useful again, Theron.

Theron.

You’re still my asset.  It’s an abuse of power.

“Maybe not.”  Eva said the words out loud, as both conversations merged in her head.  Eva reached into a secret pocket of her coat.  She knew it was there – just on the wrong side now.  Because her right hand couldn’t feel it out. 

With a huff of impatience, Eva yanked her coat open and pointed at the pocket’s latch. 

Lana without hesitation hooked her finger in, then grabbed it.

Lana’s breath caught.  “Your omnitool.  You saved it.”

“Never leave home without it.”  Eva stared at the device in Lana’s hand.  Eva flexed her right hand and shook her head.  There wasn’t enough sensation to even try.  And –

Lana wasn’t – him.  She’d let him do that.  Not her. 

Guess it was the day she learned how to use this thing like Hadrian did – left-handed.

[mariacallous]

Lena Anderson isn’t a soccer fan, but she does spend a lot of time ferrying her kids between soccer practices and competitive games.

“I may not pull out a foam finger and painted face, but soccer does have a place in my life,” says the soccer mom—who also happens to be completely made up. Anderson is a fictional personality played by artificial intelligence software like that powering ChatGPT.

Anderson doesn’t let her imaginary status get in the way of her opinions, though, and comes complete with a detailed backstory. In a wide-ranging conversation with a human interlocutor, the bot says that it has a 7-year-old son who is a fan of the New England Revolution and loves going to home games at Gillette Stadium in Massachusetts. Anderson claims to think the sport is a wonderful way for kids to stay active and make new friends.

In another conversation, two more AI characters, Jason Smith and Ashley Thompson, talk to one another about ways that Major League Soccer (MLS) might reach new audiences. Smith suggests a mobile app with an augmented reality feature showing different views of games. Thompson adds that the app could include “gamification” that lets players earn points as they watch.

The three bots are among scores of AI characters that have been developed by Fantasy, a New York company that helps businesses such as LG, Ford, Spotify, and Google dream up and test new product ideas. Fantasy calls its bots synthetic humans and says they can help clients learn about audiences, think through product concepts, and even generate new ideas, like the soccer app.

"The technology is truly incredible," says Cole Sletten, VP of digital experience at the MLS. “We’re already seeing huge value and this is just the beginning.”

Fantasy uses the kind of machine learning technology that powers chatbots like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and Google’s Bard to create its synthetic humans. The company gives each agent dozens of characteristics drawn from ethnographic research on real people, feeding them into commercial large language models like OpenAI’s GPT and Anthropic’s Claude. Its agents can also be set up to have knowledge of existing product lines or businesses, so they can converse about a client’s offerings.

Fantasy then creates focus groups of both synthetic humans and real people. The participants are given a topic or a product idea to discuss, and Fantasy and its client watch the chatter. BP, an oil and gas company, asked a swarm of 50 of Fantasy’s synthetic humans to discuss ideas for smart city projects. “We've gotten a really good trove of ideas,” says Roger Rohatgi, BP’s global head of design. “Whereas a human may get tired of answering questions or not want to answer that many ways, a synthetic human can keep going,” he says.

Peter Smart, chief experience officer at Fantasy, says that synthetic humans have produced novel ideas for clients, and prompted real humans included in their conversations to be more creative. “It is fascinating to see novelty—genuine novelty—come out of both sides of that equation—it’s incredibly interesting,” he says.

Large language models are proving remarkably good at mirroring human behavior. Their algorithms are trained on huge amounts of text slurped from books, articles, websites like Reddit, and other sources—giving them the ability to mimic many kinds of social interaction.

When these bots adopt human personas, things can get weird.

Experts warn that anthropomorphizing AI is both potentially powerful and problematic, but that hasn’t stopped companies from trying it. Character.AI, for instance, lets users build chatbots that assume the personalities of real or imaginary individuals. The company has reportedly sought funding that would value it at around $5 billion.

The way language models seem to reflect human behavior has also caught the eye of some academics. Economist John Horton of MIT, for instance, sees potential in using these simulated humans—which he dubs Homo silicus—to simulate market behavior.

You don’t have to be an MIT professor or a multinational company to get a collection of chatbots talking amongst themselves. For the past few days, WIRED has been running a simulated society of 25 AI agents go about their daily lives in Smallville, a village with amenities including a college, stores, and a park. The characters’ chat with one another and move around a map that looks a lot like the game Stardew Valley. The characters in the WIRED sim include Jennifer Moore, a 68-year-old watercolor painter who putters around the house most days; Mei Lin, a professor who can often be found helping her kids with their homework; and Tom Moreno, a cantankerous shopkeeper.

The characters in this simulated world are powered by OpenAI’s GPT-4 language model, but the software needed to create and maintain them was open sourced by a team at Stanford University. The research shows how language models can be used to produce some fascinating and realistic, if rather simplistic, social behavior. It was fun to see them start talking to customers, taking naps, and in one case decide to start a podcast.

Large language models “have learned a heck of a lot about human behavior” from their copious training data, says Michael Bernstein, an associate professor at Stanford University who led the development of Smallville. He hopes that language-model-powered agents will be able to autonomously test software that taps into social connections before real humans use them. He says there has also been plenty of interest in the project from videogame developers, too.

The Stanford software includes a way for the chatbot-powered characters to remember their personalities, what they have been up to, and to reflect upon what to do next. “We started building a reflection architecture where, at regular intervals, the agents would sort of draw up some of their more important memories, and ask themselves questions about them,” Bernstein says. “You do this a bunch of times and you kind of build up this tree of higher-and-higher-level reflections.”

Anyone hoping to use AI to model real humans, Bernstein says, should remember to question how faithfully language models actually mirror real behavior. Characters generated this way are not as complex or intelligent as real people and may tend to be more stereotypical and less varied than information sampled from real populations. How to make the models reflect reality more faithfully is “still an open research question,” he says.

Smallville is still fascinating and charming to observe. In one instance, described in the researchers’ paper on the project, the experimenters informed one character that it should throw a Valentine’s Day party. The team then watched as the agents autonomously spread invitations, asked each other out on dates to the party, and planned to show up together at the right time.

WIRED was sadly unable to re-create this delightful phenomenon with its own minions, but they managed to keep busy anyway. Be warned, however, running an instance of Smallville eats up API credits for access to OpenAI's GPT-4 at an alarming rate. Bernstein says running the sim for a day or more costs upwards of a thousand dollars. Just like real humans, it seems, synthetic ones don’t work for free.