#i guess to be fair the traumatic things were small T traumas but when i’m this sick it feels huge lol

[grimweathers]

very dramatic woe-is-me post incoming:

nothing like being sick and dealing with multiple traumatic things in the span of 3 days and no one responding to your texts and having Big Scary News blasted into your brain to make you feel extremely extremely alone

[abbystanaccount]

I wrote a new TLOU fanfic I’m gonna post here because it’s a different pairing and it’s little pointless but whatever it’s kinda cute

Anyway it’s rated T, it’s a Leah POV one-shot with some Leah/Jordan in it plus appearances from members of the Salt Lake crew. It was kinda hard to write her as a pov versus a side character but I tried 🤪

they don’t get it

It was near 1AM and the party was winding down. Manny and Nick were still trying to beat one another in some card game in the other room, and Mel and Nora had just left because they had hospital shifts the next day. Abby had come with Owen and actually seemed to be having fun for once and done quite a few shots, but she must have been exhausted from all the intense training she’d been doing recently as she’d seemed to have fallen asleep on her boyfriend’s chest. Abby had been asleep for nearly fifteen minutes but he didn’t seem in a hurry to wake her, holding her on the couch as she peacefully slept.

They were so cute together, Leah thought. She’d always been rooting for them, but she knew Abby had her issues. Losing your dad would be hard on anyone, Leah had lost hers long ago. Then in that hospital massacre that brought the eight of them so close, she’d lost her uncle and many friends. At least she still had her mom, who managed to become an English teacher here at the WLF, she’d done some teaching before the outbreak. It’d been quite the change in lifestyle for all of them since they’d first arrived a year ago.

Leah’s boyfriend was outside, smoking a cigar with one of the guy friends he’d invited. It was supposed to be just an ex-Firefly party, but he’d decided last minute he was going to stick around come too, despite not being really in the group. Leah had hoped he would have decided against it, he sometimes made situations weird among them all.

She could hear him laugh from outside. Her boyfriend, Frank, was a Seattle native. He was a bit older than all of them in his mid twenties, and he worked as a mechanic for the WLF. Leah’s friends were polite around him, but she could tell none of them were that big of fans. Leah wasn’t completely sure why, he seemed a nice enough guy.

When they first started dating six months ago, Nora had joked he was a spy from Isaac and Mel had made a face.

“You guys are dating now?” Mel had asked her with raised brows.

“Yeah! He’s really sweet and helpful,” Leah had responded. Frank had come to her apartment the week before to fix the refrigerator in her apartment and they’d gotten to chatting.

“I don’t get why he works out so much and he’s not even a soldier,” mused Nora, taking a sip of her drink.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” retorted Leah, feeling a bit deflated.

“Like you’re gonna do all that and not help out?” chided Nora. “We have to prove ourselves and our loyalty so much and guys like that get away with doing the bare minimum. Not to mention I’ve seen how he acts with his friend group and he’s a prick.”

“You can do better,” Mel added.

“At least I’m putting myself out there,” Leah had said somewhat bitterly. She’d seen Mel give Abby and Owen the stinkeye, she knew that she was jealous of them. Mel should be doing what she was doing and meet new people, but Leah wasn’t about to piss her off and say that.

Leah’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Frank slamming the door from outside open, coming in laughing with his friend. Abby jolted awake on the couch, and Owen gripped her arm to keep her from jumping up.

Maybe I need another drink, Leah thought. She sighed and went back to cleaning up the party, the guys in the other room seemed to be entertaining themselves enough, but she was sort of ready for this to be over and go to bed.

Looking up, Leah Owen and Abby approaching her, his arm around her waist. The girls had gone in with shots a few hours ago, but it’d mostly worn off for Leah and Abby had drank more after that.

“We’re gonna head out. You need any help cleaning up?” Owen asked her.

Abby looked like she needed a bed ASAP, her braid falling out in pieces and head leaning on his shoulder. “No, no I got it. You get her home.” Leah smiled to him. 

They were using her and Frank’s shared apartment. She’d only moved in a few weeks ago but it was hard to get used to. Frank wasn’t even there much, and when he was, he tended to leave her a mess to clean up. It was like she moved in to be his maid.

Owen and Abby left, and it seemed Frank had somewhere to be too. Her boyfriend came up to her across the counter, saying he and his friend were going to head to another one of his friend’s apartment to catch another party for an hour. Leah sighed but smiled at him, giving her boyfriend a kiss. Then when he’d left, her face dropped as she went back to wiping down the counters. Leah was all for being an optimist, and the peppy one, but this kinda sucked.

At that, she heard the door to the other room crack open. Luckily, it was just the person she’d wanted to see.

“Did Frankenstein leave?” asked her friend, Jordan. 

‘Frankenstein’ was Jordan’s not so nice name for Frank because of his name and somewhat wide forehead. It wasn’t a very nice nickname, Leah wasn’t sure why Jordan had it out for Frank.

“You shouldn’t call him that.” Leah scolded, putting the last of the dirty cups in the sink.

“Because he’ll get mad again? I’m not scared of him.” smirked Jordan, running a hand through his dark brown hair. He’d been growing it out, it used to be so short when they were Fireflies, as had he. The eight of them had all been teens or just about when they’d been Fireflies, Jordan grew half a foot in the time since they’d joined the WLF a year ago. Maybe it was the good food.

“We get it, you’re taller than him and you go out and kill Scars. Big whoop, me too.”

Jordan leaned his chair back, “Yeah, you are taller than him, you have to lean down a bit to kiss him.”

Leah smirked, “I’ve noticed, Jordan.” He was giving her that look again, with the knowing smile. 

They probably shouldn’t talk about Frank when he wasn’t here. Plus he couldn’t change his height, so that wouldn’t be a nice thing to make fun of. Frank wasn’t even that short, it’s just Leah was quite tall. 

She changed the subject. “So uh, Manny lent me some of his mangas the other day. They’re pretty interesting, I guess. It’s weird to read backwards.”

Jordan grinned at that. Leah knew he and Manny both liked that Japanese stuff. 

“You did, huh? Which one?”

“Fullmetal Alchemist.” 

His hazel eyes lit up and his mouth opened in shock. “That’s my favorite one.”

Leah ducked her head down and pretended to be cleaning something. Her face was hot, which was dumb because she didn’t need to feel embarrassed or anything. 

“I know it is.” 

Leah could just tell Jordan was grinning. “Well you said it was good!” She exclaimed.

“It is, it is, it’s great. We can talk about it later.”

“Sure.” She agreed. Though then her mouth skewed at a bad memory, and Leah tried to push it away.

“What’s up, Leah Beah?” Jordan asked softy, using his silly rhyming nickname for her that didn’t even make any sense.

Leah shook her head, “I don’t wanna say anything bad.” She looked at the remaining party leftovers she had to clean up and felt all motivation leave her. Maybe she’d do it later. Sighing, she grabbed an empty stool and sat across for Jordan.

“It’s just, I love hanging out with all you guys. You’re all my best friends and we all... we get each other, you know?”

“Yeah, for the most part, I guess,” said Jordan, scratching his chin. “No offense to like Mel and Owen and Abby all them, but sometimes I wonder what goes through their brains.”

Turmoil, jealousy, deep rooted issues from trauma… She thought. Leah was thankful she was able to push stuff like that down.

“I know Abby and all them can sometimes be a handful, but like, we get why. And only we would get why,” said Leah quietly. She didn’t like to think back to that day. At least her mom made it out alright, some of them had their families destroyed.

“Yeah, I can’t stand the fucking side eyes from the people are here,” growled Jordan. “Like what do they want me to say? That we’re all traumatized from seeing our friends and family slaughtered? That we lost everyone? That I lost everyone?” 

Jordan was getting upset, Leah could tell by his voice. He’d lash out at times and Manny or Owen would try to calm him down, with varying results. On the road to Seattle, Jordan had told Leah about what had happened to his family, that he’d lost everyone years ago but his older brother. Then when his older brother died in the hospital attack, and he was with a lot of the younger teens trying to hide, he’d felt so guilty he hadn’t helped.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Leah took his hand in hers. He was shaking a bit, but it stopped after a bit. She could feel the pulse of his vein through her thumb. 

“We don’t need to talk about that. Nothing can change what happened. We just have to focus on the positives we have in life, that’s what I do” 

Jordan rubbed his face with his other hand and took a deep breath. “You’re right, sorry. I don’t want to blow up on you for no reason.” His anger faded then and he melted a bit, looking meek. “You’re probably my favorite person, Leah.”

Leah looked him in the eyes and gave him a small smile back. Her instinct was to say to back, but she realized dully that wouldn’t be fair to Frank. Jordan was just her friend, even though she cared about him so much and was maybe the his closest person he had left.

She settled instead with, “I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

[gurguliare]

do you have any ideas for how a Good version of TLJ might have gone? Assuming TFA stayed the same

Okay here I have summarized a convoluted revised version of TLJ for you, keeping as much of the plot skeleton as possible. What I am proposing is not so much a “Good” version as a “trashy version I would have enjoyed.” I feel comfortable in the knowledge that no one is going to read to the end of this read more.

Rey plot: have the initial focus/mystery be the fact that Luke having voluntarily cut himself off from the Force, and the “darkness” on the island then is some kind of very literal dissociated embodiment of his trauma, or whatever; like, Rey talks to Luke and gets nothing from him, Rey goes to the kelp pit and gets the same traumatic memory projector effect as she got from the lightsaber but x1000. Kelp pit is grief pit. Also instead of the porgs retrieving the lightsaber it would have washed up in the sea cave there, obviously. Also logically the pit should be under the tree/temple/whatever, I don’t know why the pit wouldn’t be under the tree. OH maybe there is no tree and Luke destroyed it years ago lmao. And is like, somewhat sheepish about this, but not that sheepish. Luke gives an actual cogent argument for why the Jedi need to end + a description of what it’s like to be submerged in the Force and be tempted, constantly, by the ‘destiny’ the Force recommends, even after having already failed—he wanted to restart the school! He dreamed of finding other children to replace the dead students! He couldn’t bear the hope, so he cut himself off. Rey: “… it’s nothing like that for me. are you sure that was the Force. btw there’s a mirror underground here and it hates you.” The ROTJ parallel isn’t Luke and Vader / Rey and Kylo, it’s Rey distractedly, bemusedly saving Luke.

(As far as the Kylo backstory goes, uhhhh, my problem is that I really LIKE “Kylo thought Luke was going to kill him” from the Kylo side, it’s a classic fucked-up thing triggers massively fucked-up reaction type scenario, my favorite, but I Just. Cannot. Do It. with any amount of finagling. on Luke’s. And all the stopgaps I’m coming up with are ridiculous. “Snoke makes a projection of Luke attack Kylo, foreshadowing Luke’s projection of himself at the end” “Snoke makes a projection of SNOKE attack Luke, Kylo tries to ‘defend’ Luke and accidentally blows up the temple, foreshadowing his failure to blow up Luke’s projection at the end” These are all so bad. I’m realizing that I cut the Luke-projecting-himself element. Maybe uhhhhhh Luke realized that Snoke had been tampering with Ben’s mind and tried to temporarily cut off Ben’s access to the Force >_ Or asked Ben to close off the Force and Ben interpreted that as a threat, rapidly escalated things into a physical confrontation, pretty much accidentally did serious injury to Luke, and then panicked? I don’t know that’s still pretty shitty but I like the idea of this then leading to the world’s most melodramatic self-punishment on the subject, also could tie into “the vanity of the Jedi, thinking they own the Force!”)

0k that’s my tentative proposition. Luke explains this to Rey in five minutes or less, she’s like, “bye,” jumps down the hole. She is crying the whole time for reasons probably. For the record, I would keep a lot of the stuff with Kylo’s and her minds being bridged, or at least I would keep the fact of them being linked all throughout her time on the island—actually, wait, I got it, Kylo is one of the things waiting on the other side of Luke’s severed bonds, so when she goes to the pit she accidentally picks up on that. BTW the Force speech Luke gives her would be all about “bonds” and would be MUCH more Orson Scott Card as a consequence. So now Kylo’s manipulation to the tune of, When I was a child, the galaxy was so silent. Mother was there, and Uncle Luke was there, and everywhere else, silence. Don’t you know what it’s like to be alone? Imagine if someone had asked you—to shut your ears—and she’s like I STAYED ON JAKKU FOR 23 YEARS and smashes the mirror

Luke, extremely Force-hungover: oh

AND THUS, HUT EXPLOSION.

Then Rey and Luke have some kind of excitable shouted conversation in the pouring rain where Luke is like “he’s looking for me!” “YEAH, HE’S LOOKING FOR YOU.” “no, you don’t understand—he’s looking for me!” “HE’S LOOKING AT YOU RIGHT NOW, ACTUALLY.” “but he wasn’t—he disappeared for years! he did take my advice, in the worst way possible! i feel so connected!” “ARGHHHHH”

luke + rey pilot the millennium falcon resistanceward, she discovers he is also a backseat driver

Finn plot: I assumed in the first five minutes of the movie that the way the First Order was “tracking” the Resistance was through Finn, and I still think that makes the most sense/offers the easiest dramatic tension. I mean it’s cheap but whatever this is still a hypothetical Disney movie we’re talking about. Uh… I don’t know there are a bunch of directions you could take this but like … I guess playing on Rose’s initial hero-worship of Finn, make it a thing where… mm. Finn convinces her that the reason he’s sneaking onto an escape pod is because he’s nobly trying to save the Resistance by removing his implanted tracking beacon from the ship (there is no such device and he’s making this up, to the best of his knowledge); she comes up with the plan to uncouple the devices on-site, if they can sneak aboard the ship, because he’s Finn and it’s so important that he escape finally and for real! he makes up a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about First Order security and an expert codebreaker who might be their only hope, planning to lose her on Canto Bight; on Canto Bight, they have some uncomfortable conversation about growing up as slaves and the appeal of the Resistance, Finn maybe assuming that Rose joined for her sister’s sake? wrongly, blah blah extended annoying conversation about how there’s protecting the actual person and then there’s protecting the things that person would want to protect; Lando Calrissian arrests them for parking violations halfway through the conversation, which continues in the prison, where small child jailers throw bones and debris at them; he tries to ditch her in the confusion of the prisonbreak, she catches up to him and is Very Betrayed; then the First Order scoops them up because it turns out they were using Finn to track the Resistance, and the reason they managed to do so even at lightspeed was because Kylo Ren could detect Finn’s force signature. Because of how Force-sensitive Finn is.

Cue tragicomic re-recruitment sequence in which we POSSIBLY meet some of the other Knights of Ren, and also, Phasma is there, “helping.” Phasma: it’ll be just like endurance training! You LOVED endurance training! You did so well on all your diagnostics! Finn: …………………….

Finally Kylo kicks everyone else out and is very casually like hey are you and Rey force-bonded because for some reason she’s stopped talking to me and I’d really love to consult her about somethinggggg, I was wondering if she’d trust me more if I already had your support! Don’t you want revenge? I’m going to kill Snoke. It turns out my uncle loved me!

Finn: should you just say that

Kylo: I’ve been thinking it every day for the past fifteen years so I doubt he’s too worried

Finn: DO YOU NOT SEE THE ISSUE HERE

then unfortunately right at that moment he does actually hear Rey’s voice in his head. Some prior buildup with Rey actively reaching out toward Finn before that and being SUPER FRUSTRATED to constantly get Kylo. Rey: Finn, don’t worry, Master Luke has a plan, we’re coming for you! We’re .… . . crashlanding in the main docking bay and being arrested. Oh my g

I’m basically picturing Luke, like, uselessly draped over several stormtroopers’ unwilling arms because he’s so high on being In Tune With The Force Again, and oh btw the stormtroopers received orders to toss Luke to Kylo but bring Rey straight to Snoke—Kylo: fuck!!! He weirdly ignores Luke, seeming satisfied now that he’s gotten his validation from him. So then Finn and Luke are left alone under guard and Kylo storms off to confront Snoke.

Luke: mmmmmmmm. huh. hello.

Finn: Hey quick q if I’m so fucking Force-sensitive why can’t I read minds and control people’s wills

Luke: [surprised voice] Can’t you? I thought you didn’t want to

Finn: OH MY GOD, I HATE YOU PEOPLE

Luke: Or I could blow up all the electronics in this room, hold on

(later in the chase sequence finn mindcontrols hux and is like “oh god it was so SLIMY like holding an eel”)

Probably some dumb climax where Snoke makes a pitch to Rey re: Luke not training her, which is a true established thing in this version of TLJ, and tells Rey to kill Kylo because he (Snoke) can only afford one apprentice. Rey: are u serious, I actually kind of don’t want to murder him at this point, it seems like a lot of hassle. I want to learn, and you and Luke both suck—Kylo won’t you teach me

(Luke as Finn hauls him across, likely, a catwalk: Do you remember feeling like you couldn’t fit in, like you were always different? The one person you knew who wasn’t part of a whole?

Finn: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Luke: I’ll tell you a secret. That’s because you’re part of something bigger. Something much bigger than your squad, or Hux’s army, or even the Resistance. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

Finn: is it the jedi.

Luke: no. NO. i said BIGGER)

To be fair to Rian Johnson, I have no clue how to write a satisfying multipart star wars climax. something something where Kylo explodes grandpa’s lightsaber in order to finish off Snoke, and I guess takes unconscious Rey prisoner, is realistically how I would end this?? The triumphant Lando-restocked Resistance decloaks, but the First Order fleet turns tail and runs after a few rounds? Finn deliberately uses the Force to find Rose and trace a (reluctant, angry) path through the disintegrating star destroyer, goes with Luke and Rose on the Millennium Falcon, having fought off Phasma but sort of in a hurry? Rose maybe killed Hux? Idk what the reasoning for Finn agreeing to leave Rey would be, other than I guess “the awareness that Kylo wants to use him to manipulate her, however ineptly.” Rose probs involved somehow. Rose: It’s still important that you escaped. Finn: I HAVEN’T GOTTEN AWAY ONCE

end scene where Finn has just finished an offscreen argument with Luke about Luke training him in the Force, and therefore comes to Leia

end-end scene where they all hear Rey’s voice at once because she picked up telepathic specialization from Snoke, because it’s traditional that Rey gain wild new Force powers in every movie purely through observation.

end-end-end scene where Luke has an audibly two-sided argument with Anakin’s ghost behind a closed door (“I’m not the last Jedi. I should have been, but I’m not. It’s my duty—” “what duty. it’s been ten years you haven’t answered my calls” “Daaad.”)

Start of the next movie: Kylo: You know, I used our telepathic bond to mislead Snoke. Rey: cool, don’t care. Kylo: It is ironic because of how he used that same bond to manipulate me. Rey: RED MEN ARE GLISTENING

.

.

.

.

Poe plot: Can someone else do this one

[jarienn972]

Only a Little Superstitious - Chapter Nine

As revealed in the previous installment, Emma has spilled everything to Ranger Littlecreek and now she’s faced with learning just how serious Killian’s injury was.  Things are not going to be easy for our pirate - which I’m sure will bring a smile to the face of @killian-whump.  

AO3  FF.net  Tumblr: One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight

"Mrs. Jones?"

She heard the voice but from where? Was this part of a dream?

"Mrs. Jones?" the voice repeated, this time snapping Emma awake as she was struck with the realization that she'd fallen asleep on a battered faux leather sofa here in the dreary hospital waiting room. Her eyes gradually opened to see the face of a woman with deep olive skin and jet black hair pulled into a loose bun atop her head standing before her.

"Yes…?" she replied drowsily, not yet fully alert but already feeling the protest from her back, neck and shoulders as she tried to straighten her body from the awkward position she'd slept in. "Sorry – fell asleep, I guess…"

"It's alright," the nurse answered with a sweet smile. "Happens all the time. I just came to let you know that your husband is out of surgery and has been moved into recovery. The surgeon would like to speak to you for a moment."

"Is Killian okay?" Emma wondered, jolted fully awake with renewed concern as the thought of the surgeon wanting to speak with her didn't sound promising.

"He's very critical, but stable at the moment. Dr. Pineda will tell you more. Please, follow me."

Emma stood and retrieved the backpack, having used it as a pillow apparently, then followed the raven-haired nurse along a narrow corridor to what could pass for a smaller version of the waiting room they'd just left. This room held only six wooden armchairs that looked even less inviting than the furniture in the larger room. There were two chairs positioned against each of the windowless walls, a square table topped with months old magazines next to each pair. The room was certainly anything but cozy – feeling decidedly cold as she noticed there wasn't even a single piece of artwork or a television and she couldn't help but wonder exactly what this little room was typically used for.

The nurse gestured for Emma to have a seat then left her in the strange little room but Emma didn't have a chance to sit down in one of those seemingly uncomfortable armchairs before a tall, dark haired man sporting a crisp white lab coat and pale blue surgical scrubs appeared behind her in the doorway.

"Mrs. Jones?" he asked with a glance down at the metal clipboard in his hand.

"Yes – that's me," Emma replied, trying to ignore the growing lump in her throat as she awaited her husband's prognosis.

"I'm Dr. Pineda, part of the surgical team who just finished patching your husband back together," the doctor stated with a very polite smile, obviously attempting to lighten the mood. "Why don't you have a seat?" He motioned toward the nearest pair of armchairs, but Emma didn't really want to sit down.

"I'd really prefer to just stand right now."

"That's fine. Whatever is more comfortable for you. I just have to tell you that your husband is a very lucky man. We brought him back to recovery about twenty minutes ago after removing this nasty little thing from against his spinal column…" He reached into the right-hand pocket of his lab coat and brought out a small specimen jar which contained a metal triangle that was discolored by rust and probably blood. It was about a half-inch long and even from a distance, Emma could see that its edges were jagged and most likely, very sharp. "This appears to have broken off of the blade used to stab him and while that initial puncture wound certainly caused extensive damage itself, this tiny little razor blade was making things worse. Any movement your husband made was causing this thing to shift around, nicking whatever was around it causing heavy internal bleeding and some nerve damage. Thankfully, nothing was completely severed so there shouldn't be any permanent damage."

"So, his inability to move his legs this morning wasn't due to paralysis?"

"No. There's a lot of swelling around the site of the wound due to infection and pooling blood from those internal injuries and there was damage to the cartilage disk between his T-12 and L-1 vertebrae, but that will heal. We've drained most of the excess fluid, but honestly, it was a good thing you got him here when you did. The homeopathic remedies were a good start to treat the infection, just not strong enough and there was no way for you to know how extensive the internal bleeding was. With the amount of blood loss, he might have only made it a few more hours…"

"He'll be okay now though, right?" Emma asked with a noticeable, horrified gulp.

"Now that the broken shard is out of his chest and no longer opening new wounds, he should recover fully. We've repaired all of the major damage, but he did lose a lot of blood. He'll likely need a few more transfusions to help his system stabilize, but from the look of his numerous scars, he doesn't appear to be a stranger to traumatic injuries. I saw that his chart lists his occupation as Deputy Sheriff, but these injuries sure don't look like they came from that profession…"

Emma nearly choked as she thought about how to explain all of Killian's battle scars in a way that would be believable. It had been so much easier to just spill it all to Carlos Littlecreek.

"He was a Captain in the Navy – the Royal Navy – years ago. Saw more than his fair share of battle until he lost his hand… He didn't become Deputy Sheriff until long after that."

"I see. That would certainly make sense to explain all of that trauma. I hope for his sake that it means he's a survivor."

"You could say that. He's led an interesting life," Emma replied. "Will I be able to see him soon?"

"I don't normally allow this, but since you are both law enforcement officers, I'll make an exception and have Patrice take you back there for a few minutes. It's been a slow morning so far, so he's the only patient in recovery right now. He isn't going to be conscious yet."

"It's okay. I just need to see for myself that he's alright. Thank you for everything you've done to help him."

"You're very welcome, Mrs. Jones, but your husband definitely has the most work to do. The next 24 hours are going to be critical and while he is stable at the moment, that could change in an instant so just be prepared for anything…" Emma nodded in response but didn't say anything else. She understood how precarious the situation was, finally lowering herself into one of the armchairs in that windowless room, staring pensively at the blank wall opposite her as the doctor departed, stopping to say a few words to the dark-haired nurse who had escorted Emma to this room before he disappeared down the corridor. A moment later, that same nurse, presumably Patrice, stepped through the doorway and approached Emma, a very professional, yet empathetic smile on her lips.

"Dr. Pineda just told me he'd given you permission to spend a few minutes with your husband. He's this way so you can follow me and you can go ahead and leave the backpack here. No one will bother it." Barely waiting for Emma to get to her feet, Patrice headed back out of the door and made a right turn. Emma sprang up and stayed right behind her as they passed several rooms on each side of the hallway, most with their doors closed. Patrice finally paused as the corridor ended at a set of double doors. "Wait here for just a moment while I let Rosa know that you've been authorized to stay a few minutes. There's a sink just to the left if you'd please wash your hands before going inside. I'll be right back…"

Emma stepped toward the huge steel double sink while Patrice pushed open one of the doors they'd been standing in front of and quickly scrubbed her hands while attempting to get a glimpse inside the room through the little windows in each door. She could see Patrice walking back toward her from the other end of the room but she couldn't make out much else except a bunch of beige and pale blue curtains that cordoned off the room. She finished drying off her hands just as the door swung open and the nurse gestured for her to enter.

Emma timidly accepted the invitation, suddenly awash with overwhelming emotion - including a feeling of awkwardness that she was entering an area that would normally be off-limits. She couldn't yet see where her husband lay, but obviously he was shrouded behind one of these many curtains and the increasing butterflies in her stomach reminded her he was near. Patrice had stopped next to the third curtain and was now facing Emma, preparing to go over a few instructions.

"Your husband is right back here and as you can see, even when we don't have a lot of patients, it's a little bit close in here so there's nowhere to sit down. It's okay to touch him but try not to disturb any of the monitoring devices. You'll see that he is still intubated until his vitals stabilize, but we plan on being able to remove the tube before we bring him upstairs. It might look a little worrisome, but his lungs are technically fine - he's just still coming out of very heavy general anesthesia. I think that covers it. Do you have any questions for me?" Emma shook her head, barely able to think of anything while so tense. "Alright then – I'll give you fifteen minutes. You'll see Rosa just to the left should anything happen."

Patrice tugged the privacy curtain aside, allowing Emma to step through before leaving them alone and the first thought that crossed Emma's mind was that the nurse hadn't been exaggerating when she warned that Killian might look a little frightening. She tried hard to fight back the little gasp that escaped her lungs at the moment she laid eyes on her husband laying silently on the narrow bed which actually looked more like a gurney with the metal safety rails raised on both sides. A pale blue blanket was draped over him, tucked loosely around his legs and hips and pulled up to his chest where it obscured her view of the thick gauze bandages covering the surgical incision that would soon become his latest scar. His arms were positioned straight atop the blanket and she could see that there were bundles of wires extending out from beneath the blanket toward various electronic devices and several tubes stretching from the transparent bags of donated blood and intravenous fluids which led into a spot on the inside of his right forearm.

She reached between the metal rails to grasp his hand and unexpectedly noticed that it was secured to the bed by a soft white fabric cuff - which had her wondering why they would have him restrained. She assumed it had to be for one of two reasons – either they needed to keep his arm immobilized due to the unusual location of the IV or they were concerned that he'd awaken and in a semi-conscious state possibly attempt to yank out the IV or maybe even the breathing tube. She did her best to ignore the restraint and wrap her hand around his, finding herself somewhat unnerved by the sensation of his bare, ring-less fingers. It was almost surreal to see him like this – his skin a pale, pasty white; the unnatural rise and fall of his chest as his breathing was aided by the ventilator.

Her left hand found its way to his cheek, caressing the side of his face while being mindful of the breathing tube that marred her view his still handsome features. Her fingertips drifted down to his jawline until she found herself absentmindedly playing with the tendrils of dark hair along the nape of his neck.

"I love you," she whispered to his ear as she leaned in as close as she could to him as she anticipated the inevitable tears coming on. Why hadn't he let her know how much pain he'd been in? He had to have been in complete agony every time that broken piece of dagger moved and inflicted pain anew, but he hadn't complained. If she'd known she never would have made the decision not to go directly to a hospital – but he knew that. He'd suffered in an attempt to keep both of them safe, but for how long? "Hang in there…"

She hadn't expected any response so when she glanced back up at his face, she wasn't expecting to see a pair of blue eyes staring back at her. His gaze was glassy and she saw no hint of recognition as he was still deeply under the effects of anesthesia and morphine but she took it as a good sign even if those eyelids didn't stay open for long and unconsciousness quickly reclaimed him. She waited patiently, hoping for another moment of wakefulness, but none came. It was disappointing, but she knew not to expect much – honestly, he hadn't been out of the operating room that long. It was going to take time for him to get well – to get strong enough for them to return home, but for now, she had to be strong to keep both of them alive and stay one step ahead of Nehemiah Kronk.

Emma had been so lost in thought that she barely noticed when Patrice returned, gently tapping her on the shoulder to garner her attention.

"Has it been fifteen minutes already?" Emma wondered, time barely relevant to her train of thought right now.

"I'm afraid so," the nurse replied. "Don't worry – I'll come get you when we're ready to move him to a private room upstairs. That way, you can ride up with him, okay?"

"Okay. You obviously know where you'll be able to find me," Emma sighed dejectedly. She wanted so much to kiss her husband right now, but with the railings in the way, she had to settle for a transferred one – pressing her lips against her own fingertips then tenderly touching them to his cheek. "See you in a little while, my love," she assured him, hoping that the nurse hadn't just seen the tear that just tumbled across her own cheekbone – not that the damp, shiny trail it left on her skin wouldn't be evidence enough. She wanted to give some semblance of strength even if it was ridiculous to think that a nurse would be bothered by the sight of a patient's wife crying. It was more her pride getting in the way than anything else.

"Come on," Patrice spoke up. "I'll walk you back to the waiting room where you met Dr. Pineda so you can collect your things."

"Thank you," Emma responded, giving Killian's hand one last squeeze before letting go. "May I ask you a question though? Why is his hand restrained like that?"

"We had such a horrible time keeping a viable IV line. The one that the paramedics started collapsed and he was so dehydrated that it took multiple attempts to located a useable vein. The best one that we could get was that one on the inside of his forearm but it's a location that's easily dislodged and since we didn't have a way to explain that to him before we put him under, we had to use the restraint so that if he woke, he wouldn't pull it free accidentally. Once he's conscious, we can explain it to him and remove it."

"Okay, that makes sense. He might put up a bit of a fight when he wakes though. He tends to take offense to being tied up…"

"I'll make a note of that," the nurse stated with a slightly raised eyebrow, "but I doubt he'll be up to fighting for a while…"

"I'm hoping you're wrong about that," Emma replied with a half-hearted grin. She needed Killian to be his usual stubborn self and start fighting back because it would be the first step in returning their lives to normal.

Time seemed to drag on excruciatingly slow as Emma sat alone again in the waiting room. She figured she should call their family with an update but since she didn't know exactly how much time it might be before news came that Killian was being moved out of recovery, she just stayed there, staring blankly at whatever old sitcom rerun was playing on the television mounted on the opposite wall. The actors seemed vaguely familiar but she wasn't really focused on the show as it was merely providing a mindless distraction to keep her brain at least semi-occupied – not that it was working.

Nearly forty minutes passed before she saw the raven-haired nurse's face again and the moment Patrice stepped through the doorway, Emma sprang to her feet.

"Mrs. Jones – my apologies for the delay in coming to get you," the nurse began as she gestured for Emma to join her in the corridor. "We had a minor setback that altered plans a little…"

"Setback?" Emma didn't like the sound of that word. "What exactly do you mean by 'setback'?"

"Come with me. I'll take you upstairs and try to explain on the way…" She led Emma over to the elevator bank to the right of the waiting area, pausing to press the UP arrow before she would continue the report.

"What exactly is going on?" Emma wondered, the unknown making her fearful that her husband may have taken another turn for the worse.

"Your husband's temperature spiked quite suddenly just as we thought his vitals had stabilized enough to move him upstairs and he suffered a minor seizure," the nurse stated as they entered the opening elevator. "We went ahead and moved him upstairs so that we could get him situated with cold compresses and medication to try to bring down the fever. We've also given him an anti-convulsive, but until his temperature returns to normal, he's definitely still susceptible to seizures which become increasingly dangerous for him due to the extent of internal injury he suffered because a violent seizure might tear open sutures or worse."

"How high was his fever?"

"It jumped to over 104 degrees in minutes and while it had been a little high before surgery due to the infected wound, this was rather unusual. Dr. Pineda even doublechecked his X-rays to ensure there wasn't another fragment we might have missed, but didn't find anything else. We're going to have to closely monitor him so that combined with the extra security that was requested due to the nature of your situation led us to the decision to place him in Intensive Care."

"Wait – Intensive Care?" Emma repeated, stunned at how far this had progressed.

"Right now, it's mainly precautionary," Patrice insisted as the elevator doors parted at the fourth floor. "It'll give us a better environment to evaluate him so we can get to the bottom of what caused his temperature to rise so drastically and hopefully, get it under control before he suffers any additional seizures. We just don't want to take any chances. I'm sure you understand that."

"Of course, I understand," Emma replied. All too well, she thought to herself as she was reminded once more of the dangerous gamble she'd undertaken. "It doesn't mean it doesn't still worry me though."

"I know," the nurse empathized. "He's been through a lot and that has to be frightening. That fragment really caused a lot of damage and honestly, he's really lucky he's still alive." Yeah, luckiest damn pirate in the universe Emma chuckled to herself.

Patrice headed to the left as they exited the elevator and Emma lagged behind, listlessly taking each step as so many unpleasant thoughts assaulted her mind. All she wanted right now was for Killian to be alright. She couldn't think about Nehemiah Kronk out there pretending to be a Federal Marshal as he hunted them. She couldn't think about Regina back home trying to figure out how to make that stupid scepter work to get the portal reopened and she certainly couldn't think for one second about their family – likely wrought with worry as they were too far away to comfort her at this moment. No, she couldn't allow herself to think about any of that. She just wanted to be with her husband and do whatever she could now to make up for her poor choice yesterday. She should have allowed Ranger Littlecreek to bring them straight here – should have done exactly that, but she hadn't made that decision. Until Sarah Bending Willow had mentioned the broken piece of the dagger, Killian's wound hadn't seemed quite as serious as it instantly became.

"Are you okay, Mrs. Jones?" Patrice asked, concerned that the woman following behind her had become so quiet.

"Yes – yes, I'm fine," Emma stammered as the nurse's words brought her back into this reality. "I was just trying not to think too much and managed to get myself thinking WAY too much…"

"I understand," Patrice responded in a calm, heartfelt tone as she approached the nurse's station for this wing. A man and woman stood on either side of the desk – one filing patient charts while the other was taking inventory of what appeared to Emma to be medications. "One moment. I'll introduce you to Bernadette and Tobias here…" Patrice stepped up to the desk, saying a few words to her colleagues that Emma couldn't make out but she saw the male nurse, Tobias, point toward a room just steps ahead before resuming his task. The female nurse, Bernadette, tucked the last clipboard back onto the rack then turned toward Emma with a solemn, professional smile on her face. It seemed genuine but this was obviously a place where the staff wasn't going to wear their emotions so openly. "Mrs. Jones, this is Bernadette," Patrice stated. "She's going to take over from here. I've got to head back to my own post, but I'll leave you in her capable hands."

"Thank you, Patrice," Bernadette said with another cordial smile as Patrice nodded and turned back toward the elevator. "Mrs. Jones, we're going to take good care of your husband. I'm sure you have a lot of questions for me and I'll be happy to answer any that I can."

"Right now, I really just want to spend more than fifteen minutes with him. I'll worry about questions later," Emma answered honestly.

"Of course. He's right over here in room 406. I'll give you some time alone and then I'll come back to answer any questions you might think of or help you out with anything you might need. Do you have any family or friends here with you?"

"No – they're all back in Maine. Closest we have to a friend here would be the Park Ranger and his grandmother who helped us out…"

"I see," Bernadette replied but she didn't comment further. This had to be stressful enough to deal with alone without unnecessary commentary from a stranger. "You can go on in. He's still unconscious but it will do him good to hear your voice."

"Thank you," Emma responded with a forced smile as she found herself fighting against a sudden trepidation – her heart nearly leaping into her throat to suffocate her as she stared at the room's entrance just feet away from her. Why was she suddenly trembling? She'd seen him just a few minutes ago and it hadn't been this scary. Maybe it was the seizure that changed her outlook with its unpredictability or maybe it was the very basic fact that she wished she weren't alone right now.

He didn't really look much worse than he had in the recovery room. Maybe it was just the harsh florescent overhead lights that were giving his skin a ghastly pale cast, intensifying the contrast to the deep purple bruising spreading beneath the surface where the failed attempts to secure an IV line had been made. They really looked painful, but of course, they were the very least of his problems right now and if there was one positive note she could see, it was that he was at least breathing on his own, even if it was supplemented with additional oxygen being funneled directly to his nostrils via a transparent tube stretched across his face. However erratic it might be, just seeing his chest rise and fall unaided brought her a little bit of peace.

She tenderly drew her fingertips across his temple, allowing them to drift over his cheek down to the scruff along his jawline, feeling the heat radiating from his body. She glanced over at the numerous electronic screens positioned to his left trying to make sense of the blips, bleeps and numbers displayed and find the one that indicated his current body temperature as she made out ones registering his current heart rate of 76 beats per minute and what looked like his blood pressure. She finally located the number that looked most like a temperature – a number that was fluctuating between 102.3 and 102.4. No wonder he was so warm but what had her somewhat alarmed was the fact that unlike yesterday in the cabin or at Grandmother Bending Willow's home, he wasn't sweating. Did he even know he was so feverish?

"I'm so sorry, Killian…," she whispered. "I wish I could heal you right now and take away all of this pain…" She pressed her lips to his forehead, unable to hold back the tear that fell onto his cheek when the overwhelming emotion flooded over her yet again. Her already bloodshot eyes welled with seemingly uncontrollable tears as she stopped trying to hide them behind the bulletproof façade. They were thousands of miles from home, being stalked by a cunning mercenary and Killian was barely clinging to life at one of the few moments she needed him to hold her more than ever.

Author's Note: The pirate is definitely going to have some rough times ahead of him as they'll soon learn that the physical injury might not be his only battle. This story has the word Superstitious in the title for a good reason and the chapters ahead will start delving into the more supernatural aspects of this tale as we start seeing myths and legends coming together to reveal the true nature of the portal Yzma and Kronk were seeking.

[shirlleycoyle]

The Training Commission

After the end of a second ultraviolent American civil war, after we’ve placed the state under the guidance of automated systems—well, there’s inevitably going to be a Smithsonian exhibit. Ingrid Burrington and Brendan Byrne’s brilliant new speculative fiction newsletter—which received support from the Mozilla Foundation, and which we’re thrilled to share the first installment here today—collects the dispatches of an architecture critic with personal ties to the bloody conflict who is assigned to review the museum’s new Reconciliation Wing.

The authors explain: “The Training Commission is a speculative fiction newsletter about the compromises and consequences of applying technological solutionism to collective trauma. The USA, still reeling from a civil war colloquially referred to as the Shitstorm, has adopted an algorithmic society to free the nation from the pain of governing itself.” It’s also a hell of a story. There will be six installments in all, arriving weekly—subscribe here to receive the next five direct, as they say, to your inbox. Enjoy. -the ed

From: Aoife T <aoife@stringr.io> Subject: re: This is a bad idea Date: May 11, 2038 3:49 PM EDT To: Ellen Leavitt <leavitt@midatlantic.com>

I understand why you think that would work, Ellen, but aside from generally having no interest in putting my personal life on display like that, I really don’t think me writing a tearjerker op-ed about a traumatizing exhibition display is going to get the Smithsonian to change their minds so much as convince them that the controversy will draw crowds. I’d rather deal with them through backchannels with my mom and sister on board, try to make this all go away quietly before the museum opens.

Thanks for the Kilfe token, I just saw it come through on the ledger. I’ll be running the runnable parts of the draft in my newsletter, I guess. Sorry again to let you down on this. I might have a beat on something interesting soon–too early to say but it means I think I’ll be down in DC for at least another week.

From: Aoife T <aoife@stringr.io> Subject: Some Things Don’t Belong In A Museum Date: May 12, 2038 4:30:58 PM EDT To: subscribers@stringr.io

Apologies that it’s been a while since the last one of these. I’ve been busy, not successful busy, mostly pitching pieces in my new/old specialty. You’d think a contemporary moment so focused on rebuilding America would give some kind of shit about architecture, but uhm, nope.

What follows began as a review of the new Reconciliation Wing of the Smithsonian which a Very Kind Editor cherry-picked me for. It’s good to get paid to visit my hometown because, as my regular readers know, I will otherwise avoid the District like the sweaty American bog it is. I was apparently desperate enough for work to imagine the Reconciliation Wing might not feature an intersection with my own personal history, which, of course, was deeply delusional, and I took myself out of the game in a semi-dramatic fashion. Suffice to say, currently I’m fine but couldn’t really file something this incomplete so I’m sharing what parts of it could be salvaged here.

As seen from the National Mall ferry, the finally-completed Reconciliation Wing of the Smithsonian American History Museum is a major architectural interruption in the capitol’s low-lying landscape of retrofitted and elevated 20th-century buildings–which is ironic, considering how much attention went to making it seamlessly connect to the natural systems of the Anacostia canals. The first new construction project on the Mall since the creation of the DC canal system, the Reconciliation Wing has been subject of curiosity not only as an opening move in historicizing the National Shitstorm (ahem, The Interstate Conflict) but also as a formal progression in post-Capitol architecture. (Unless, of course, you believe that the bare-chested, perpetually shouting hologram of Alex Jones in the rear sculpture garden of the Newseum cannot be topped.)

The wing’s designer, Kay Mangakāhia, was a controversial selection from the Smithsonian and Ashburn Institute’s open call for submissions. An intern at Bjarke Ingels Group at the time, Mangakāhia was notable not only for her age (at twenty-two, she was barely ten at the time the Ashburn Accords were even signed) but her permaculture-infused proposal. The mycelium buttresses and living fungal structures of the Reconciliation Wing are now in high demand, but it took Mangakāhia’s persistence and the algorithm’s faith in her design to reach this plateau. The thriving structure’s delicate complexity and environmental pragmatism reflect the oft-quoted line from Mangakāhia’s original proposal: “survival without poetics is a carceral existence.”

One can’t say such an attitude pervades the exhibits in the Reconciliation Wing. Upon entry, a flickering series of Extremely Relatable Human Faces projected on black plinths greet visitors. The visages display a fairly narrow scale of emotions between Makes You Think and Slight but Telling Emotional Pain but somehow they manage to be all very specific. No context is provided. Given the purpose of the wing, one might suspect that these are some of the IRL victims of what the museum seems to have decided we’re calling “The First Algorithmic Society.”

Only upon arriving at a small, dim aperture is context provided: the portraits are all visuals generated by AIs developed pre-Shitstorm, let loose to slither upstream into visitors’ phones. They cull contact info, pictures, bank account etc. and put together a monstermash of the type of person you’re most likely to have an empathetic reaction to, then plugged said persona into the the loop, along with the last fifty or so visitors’.

This led to the other journalists in attendance performing variations on the exhausted sigh, since recent years have seen around half a dozen gallery shows in NYC using some version of this shock tactic (though, to be fair, rarely with the technical success of the Reconciliation Wing). While this installation is no doubt supposed to primarily remind visitors of the prevailing ease with which corporations accessed our pocket technological unconsciousnesses pre-Ashburn, it also serves the dual purpose of showing how vulnerable Palantir’s National Firewall is to even ridiculously outdated tech. Hence why the feds keeps running that Don’t Bring Your Phone to China/Don’t Actually Go to China Ever awareness campaign. (It shouldn’t surprise you that Vera’s written about this. Read her shit!)

Next is a long, narrow room skirted on the left by an unbroken screen which features a 1990s techno-thriller code waterfall with, again, no context. On the right runs a series of pictures, videos and artifacts designed to shock viewers into clubsterbomb memories–the remnants of a Google bus retrofitted and weaponized into a battering ram, that famous photo of the National Guard standing down at one of the many early BLM standoffs (everyone remembers the photo, never the standoff), a yellowing final print edition of the Washington Post.

To be fair, the Smithsonian’s only getting a fraction of the archival materials collected by the Ashburn Institute as part of the truth and reconciliation process. (This controversy–the splintering of the archive and intra-federal agency squabbles over it–does not get a mention in the exhibition.) Of course they went with the most bombastic acquisitions. But for all the attempted sensory overload, the wall text and captions are jarringly milquetoast, acquiescing to the kind of both-sides-ism that heavily aided the collapse of consensus truths in the first place. I wondered what kind of exhibit might have emerged had the Smithsonian received the full archives of the Training Commission–side note, has anyone ever actually referred to it as the Ashburn Truth and Reconciliation Council For A New American Consensus outside of official documents? Even Darcy Lawson called it the TC in her fucking victory lap TED Talk last year. When the director of the Ashburn Institute has embraced a term originally coined and deployed by critics of the project it seems like it might be time to drop the formalities.

Presumably, the TC is at least acknowledged in the exhibition. Considering that it enabled UBI, closed (almost) every prison in the country, and effectively automated the office of the Presidency out of existence, it would have to be. But I didn’t get that far.

(Here endeth the non-article.)

As longtime readers already know, I write about architecture and design here, not my brother. In fact, I don’t write about him at all. I have no interest in following in Ciarnán Whelan’s investigative reporter footsteps or reflecting on what happened to him in any public setting. I’m hoping that by the time the Reconciliation Wing opens to the public, a particularly distasteful section of the exhibition will be revised or altogether removed. But to include something so graphic with so little warning, with such a manipulative experience design, and with the gall to strategically place tissue boxes around the space as though that’s an act of mercy? It’s cheap and insulting. It doesn’t deserve to be written about. So I didn’t write about it.

Thanks for subscribing (and reading). Depending on whether a piece an editor’s been sitting on for months ever lands I might have something old-new for you next week.

From: Aoife T <aoife@stringr.io> Subject: Deadtech from a Dead Guy Date: May 13, 2038 2:31:58 AM EDT To: Avi Huerta <ahuerta@notall.technology>

Avi,

Did you read my last stringr newsletter? I mean, probably not by now since it just went out like under twelve hours ago and you have a small excellent child. But I can’t sleep, and you’re the kind of person who might be able to help but you also probably should read that first for context. (And, as context for the context, most of what’s below is what I wrote in a fugue state before realizing that I couldn’t send it to my editor.)

So I knew the real reason I got a press pass to the Reconciliation Wing preview wasn’t my bylines so much as my real last name. The press tour minders were practically levitating with morbid curiosity when I arrived. I managed to ditch them, lingering and checking photo credits (nerd) by about halfway through the exhibit. This meant, thankfully, that there was no one around when I turned the corner into the section I had secretly hoped wouldn’t be included: the tragic death of renowned journalist Ciarnán Whelan while embedded with the Last Luddite Revolutionary Guard, declared here by the museum to be a “turning point” in the Interstate Conflict.

I mean, I was expecting some triggering bullshit, but I wasn’t expecting the audacity of how it was delivered. Instead of taking the larger-than-life screen approach with that portrait everyone loves to use of him or a slo-mo attempt to make a snuff film elegiac, I got a fucking push notification on my phone from the museum AI.

“Please be advised that the following content may be disturbing to some,” it read. It turned out that wasn’t a notice to give you a fucking choice, just a preamble before the video started to play and I was fucking thirteen years old again, staring at my palm and a video of my big dumb reporter brother using his “serious correspondent voice” I always made fun of, just outside a New Mexico Facebook data center embedded with the Ludds. People forget how long the broadcast ran before the too-good-for-a-minor-militia “DIY” quadcopter IED actually hit. (This was, of course, the video that was broadcast on Facebook Live, the one that people said Facebook tweaked the algo to downrank when their role in the attack became clear. It didn’t work. As the wall text accurately notes, most people, like me, saw it live.)

The wall displays telegraphed the rest of it, though mostly I’m just guessing from what I vaguely remember seeing spinning on the walls in front of me right before I blacked out mid-panic attack. 90% sure they have a shot of Faraday Fields under construction, which should amuse you; also seemed like they get into the conspiracy theory/ies, which probably won’t.

I woke up in a basement office of the old Smithsonian, somewhere far below the canals. A slouchy middle-aged guy with no hair on his head and a throwback 2010s beard was sitting by the door, scrolling through his phone. “Welcome back,” he said, gesturing toward an ancient percolator with the elan of a long-suffering mid-level bureaucrat. The coffee smelled about as appealing as Anacostia scumwater, but I was too tired to turn it down.

I asked if I’d been out long, a little thrown that the Smithsonian’s idea of first aid was depositing me in an office with some rando who I definitely hadn’t seen on the press tour.

“A little more than an hour. The tour’s over. If you want to see the rest of it I can take you around in a bit.” Eyes a little too steady on me, he took the smallest sip of coffee from a mug which read No Taxation Without Input/Output. “You’re a good writer. I subscribe to your Stringr.”

“No shit, thanks man. What’s your name?”

“I was surprised to hear you took this gig,” he added, “Considering.” My face must have done something because he ducked his head slightly and said, “Sorry. Just came out.”

“Nothing new. Half my subscribers are legacy leftovers. Pity’s a driving force in my economic security, if you wanna call it that.”

His face compressed into a porpoise’s little O. “That can’t be true.”

(It’s true, shut up Avi, it’s true.)

I sipped some of the coffee, letting him know via performative sigh that it was shit. “So what’s your deal, guy? You volunteer to babysit me while I’m unconscious to fanboi out here or is this like your actual job?”

Said guy did some seriously inscrutable facial muscle constrictions, which I studied as an example of how not to behave towards formerly unconscious people. Then he smiled suddenly and said, “I have to get back to work.” He raised his eyebrows, actually raised his eyebrows, and gestured at the door.

“Well,” I said, standing a little unsteadily, blowing on and sipping the rough coffee one last time. “Thanks for the hospitality, I guess.” I watched him watch my right hand replace the coffee cup. I was pissed at myself that it couldn’t stop trembling, and I was pissed at him for noticing it. “You know whoever designed that section on my brother?”

“No.”

“You know who approved it?”

He thought about that a second. “Yes.”

“Do me a favor and tell them it’s manipulative and crass? That no one fucking needs to relive that?”

He nodded once, looking down at his coffee. I left before he could put his foot in his mouth again. Outside, in a arcing, narrow corridor I turned to see the name on the door: John Temblaine Paulson.

Shockingly, my phone had already synched up with the Smithsonian’s wayfinding platform, which guided me up two separate elevators then shunted me out a service exit onto Mangakāhia’s rhizomatic terrace. I took about three steps before palming my juul out of my bag and putting it to my lips, automatically clicking the button and drawing in hard before realizing that I had clicked no button and was drawing around an object which was definitely not providing me with a long-overdue nicotine hit.

It was a USB stick. The kind you might use in, like, 2008. Dead tech, and it looked it: scarred light purple shell and a connector skewed so hard I doubted its operability.

Avi, you are well aware that I have a fairly disordered work/home/personal life, but you’ve known me long enough to know my bag is always ordered. And never have I put a USB stick in my bag. Never have I, as an adult, even used a USB stick, much less carried one on my person. So John Temblaine Paulson had, quite obviously, stuck it in there.

Recalling his idle phone-scrolling when I came to and the inscrutable creepy expressions, I concluded the guy probably filmed me passed out in his office chair as some weird sex thing, then put that video on the USB somehow and left in my bag to taunt me.

Which, as I type this, sounds kind of insane but I was also coming off a blackout induced by re-watching my brother’s livestreamed murder, so logical conclusions weren’t exactly in reach. Plus the only thing in my stomach at that point was that shit museum coffee.

As I returned to the museum entrance the elderly docent who’d processed my credentials two hours ago welcomed me with a smile that demonstrated she’d completely forgotten who I was. “Lemme tell you about the kind of people you got working here,” I spat. “John Temblaine Paulson, that weird old pervert, how could you just let him–”

“John?” said the docent.

“–scoop me up like I was a puppy or something like small and stupid and throw me over his shoulder like a sack of onions or whatever he did, maybe he used a handtruck–”

“Paulson?”

“–and just spirit me down to his little serial killer sanctum and video me while I was passed out in his shitty little Federal-ass stiff-ass chair–”

“Temblaine?”

“Yeah, don’t even try to tell me you don’t know him.”

“Of course I know him, dear. He’s in Iceland for the month.”

That set me back, my jaw going while my brain stopped, and, luckily, nothing more coming out of my mouth. The docent smiled at me like she was worried I might be about to stroke out. “There’s no one in his office then?” I mumbled.

“Oh, that should be locked,” said the docent, but she was catching up and looking all concerned. “Were you there? In Mr. Tembaline Paulson’s office? Did someone take you there?”

And here, embarrassed and out of it yet suddenly aware of my own behavior, I was saying things like I’m confused, I think, apologies, you don’t remember who I am do you? and backing out of the lobby. With the docent oozing concerned utterances in my general direction, I fled through Mangakāhia’s rhizomes and caught a ferry back to the sliver of shipping container I’d reserved on the Marion Barry Inlet (of course I didn’t tell my mom I was in town, fuck’s sake). Wrote the article, cut off the part marked HAZARD PERSONAL SHIT, sent the other chunk to Ellen, fell asleep for three hours, woke up, wrote Ellen an email saying the article was shit, and then she said no it wasn’t but yeah she couldn’t run it, and then spent the rest of the night listening to the arrhythmic thud of water against the container hull and hating myself.

I tried to clear my head this morning by heading up to Air and Space. I know, I know you fucking hate that place, but my childhood nostalgia still beats out my discomfort at imperialist propaganda. It’s one of the last places in this city where I can actually space out.

You’ll be shocked to hear this is directly related to Ciarnán taking me there routinely as a key part of Big Brother Babysitting. Specifically, the museum’s second floor, where an exposed platform lets you look down on various high points of colonialist engineering. There’s a glass partition that I’d press against, as if there was nothing between me and the immense sun-drenched lacuna beneath us, Ciarnán at the ready just in case the glass shattered under the stress of my little form.

For just a minute, fingers dragging the smudging glass, now knee-height, looking down at the overlit off-season emptiness, I felt like I just might fall, like I just might be pulled back.

When I returned to the world somewhere around the Drone Wing, my phone buzzed insistently with one of FBUS’ all-hands alerts. Automatically I obeyed and was rewarded with not-John Temblain Paulson’s face enclosed in a little blue box. “Ashburn Institute staffer found dead in Potomac.” As my eyes blurred the images and my upper back instinctively scrunched into a defensive hunch, my hand curled around the USB stick still shoved in my pocket, fingernail scouring it again and again as if that might reveal whatever was stored inside.

So: can I come visit? Whatever this guy wanted me to see was apparently important enough to fake his way into the Smithsonian, and if I hand the USB to the case workers I’ll probably never find out what’s on it. You, on the other hand, have an oracular way with the dead tech, and who knows, maybe it’ll have some fun dirt on our New Algorithmic Society we can send to a real journalist or whatever. I mean, it’s probably not real spooky ops shit. But if it is, it’ll at least be interesting, right?

A

The Training Commission syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[babygirlgiles]

personal life rant below the cut, I guess. tw: abuse, trauma

Wow, I just??? Have so many??? Things??? Going on???

Like I’m actually sitting in bed with Chopin nocturnes on the bluetooth speaker on the brink of tears because my life has been the perfect shitstorm of everything all at once. And it would be fine?? If it wasn’t??? For my mother???

For context, in the next ten days I have four papers and three job applications due. Normally, that would be stressful and I’d be beyond burnt out by the end but yeah, it’d be manageable, I did basically the same thing earlier in the semester so I’m not too concerned. I cut my family out of my life completely about a month ago but let’s be real I probably hadn’t talked to anyone in my family for about a month before that. It’s been hard but tbh at the same time it’s bizarrely easy to bury my guilt prob because the joy and relief at not having to interact with people who abused me throughout my whole childhood, who actually had no business raising not just me but multiple children (not just bc shitty abusive people but??? poverty??? like abject poverty that).

(Let’s not all forget my therapist said last session that she was able to get in contact with the three different trauma therapy programs that rejected me and they all said it was because I was actually too traumatized. Like that shit is embedded too deep for any kind of short term program, no matter how intensive. Literally what kinda fuckin PTSD have you gotta give someone to where a program run by some place called The Victims of Crime Association is like nah)

ANYWAY. My mom used my school email (my whole ass school email that she probably had from years ago but whatever) to email me and be like “Why are you cutting me out of your life? Can you at least give me an explanation? Don’t you at least owe me that?” And like??? No. I don’t owe you anything. And I moved on.

But that night (Sunday) I had fucking rough nightmares and I mean I woke up screaming and then cried for a while and just decided to stay up until my alarm. Just reliving the actual physical pain of being beat up constantly, plus the constant fear and instability like... even writing this right now my breath got short and I feel anxious. And my dream brother said that things had only gotten worse since I’d left and that my father had broken his jaw-- which, like, I am guilt-ridden now.

Also I thought I was going to die at work today like I thought my heart was going to give out from the sheer horribleness of it all. Okay, so I’m in a one-on-one with my boss (I hate this person with an actual fiery passion, btw, and have for a while so that’s nothing new).They don’t know details but they know that I’m involved in some kind of situation that involves me being under school and police protection. For example, any information about me is on lock down. Like, a fellow student or even a professor can’t look up my school email and if they were to, for example, call the Registrar and ask, I’m immediately alerted.

Because of the actual literal protection I am under from the actual, literal government, my case manager here suggested “hey, maybe having a Facebook isn’t the best idea?” and it makes sense bc even though I never use it, even if I like accidentally check-in somewhere yeah that’s fuel to the fire. So I did what the school administration did and deleted my Facebook. So flash forward actual, literal WEEKS and I ask my boss a question. “Check the Facebook,” they say, with Facebook clearly open on their desktop (mind you this is the same boss who was two hours late to a meeting yesterday that was ultimately rescheduled to today that they were 45 minutes late to AGAIN). I say I no longer have Facebook. This does not come up again for actual WEEKS.

Flash forward weeks AGAIN. Today in my one-on-one this boss tells me I should really make a new Facebook so I can do work with it. I explain (for the 100000th time) that I cannot bc LITERAL POLICE PROTECTION. They tell me to use a fake name and use the work logo for the profile picture and like, yeah, sure, guess I could. I tell this boss that it would actually make me so uncomfortable though because, even though I know it’s safe, it would really fuck with my paranoia.

But this self proclaimed radical queer tells me that it’s an unfair distribution of labor if I don’t spend the 3 minutes making my own Facebook events and that I should then give it a try. Because fuck my peace of mind I guess. Anyway, later in the meeting they say that we should come together as a staff to help me the event I just created and organized (not with any of the space reservations or people coordinating mind you, but with the DECORATING) because it would be a fair way to distribute the labor. But it’s too much to ask for someone to make two Facebook events for me so I can keep the small thread of my sanity? I have never understood true anger until that moment. But whatever, I guess.

So yeah, I’ve felt on edge basically since. Here are a multitude of examples:

Had more nightmares last night and this morning when I was walking down the hall to the bathroom I was so scared I actually had to remind myself that I was safe over and over.

Bad OCD habits cropping back up (oh my fucking god if only I could tell you how dirty my hands have felt for absolutely 0 reason the past few days). 

Been snippy and irritable to people around me. I got drunk for the first time in... months the other night.

When a girl said something stupid in class today (and it was actually asinine, she said that white flight was “a return to community values” like okay, sweaty) I couldn’t stop myself from actively grimacing and I don’t normally have this much of an issue not being an ass.

When someone said “have a good day to me this morning”, I wanted to snap back for no good reason (when I looked a little further into this thought I turned up “I don’t deserve happiness” as the reason which is wild like classic 2011 Elliot bullshit.

But let’s be real. Okay, sure, maybe these are some small examples of little fuck ups triggered by weird circumstances but normally this shit doesn’t affect me at all. I go days without thinking about it lately, especially not having contact with these people. It’s just been the perfect shit storm of shitty papers plus shitty job plus shitty mother.

I think on the whole though I’m really happy. Like, I’ve been able to recover from a lot and create a full and meaningful life for myself. I take care of myself in a multitude of ways. I’m just gonna list some here so I can like finish this 20 page venting essay no one will read and then feel better.

I go to the gym and then exercise in healthy ways

And then after exercising in non-maladaptive ways, I eat meals to replenish

I go to sleep at a reasonable hour every night so I can go to the gym and then have a good day

I light all the candles in my room so it smells good. I also keep my room tidy because it makes me feel good

I listen to soothing music

I am studying a subject that I love and having thoughtful conversations with my professors and fellow students on the material and honestly it’s the best

I work with two researchers and not only do I #makemoney, I get to look into super interesting stuff

Also I’m loved by my friends and adults in my life so that’s pretty lit

Top surgery is basically right around the corner

So it my name/gender marker change

T is going great!!

I shower everyday which may seem like a small thing but that’s some #NewYearNewElliot shit

I take my meds (what a concept)

I don’t drink myself into a coma four nights a week anymore like wow??? Sobriety???

I’m going to finish with a degree I want, surrounded by people who love me, very soon and that’s 10/10

Anyway, this will pass and it’ll be fine so yeah.