#i know they spent a ridiculous amount on that man's sports coats but it was mainly a spoof

[dudeshusband]

who saw any of those movies and thought they were supposed to serious or good?

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (38/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series. 

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.  

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke​ for being my beta, @imagnifika​ for the cover art, and all of you for being awesome, whether you read this story or not ❤️

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 |15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35| 36 | 37 | 38

-/-

The thing about being a starting pitcher is that Killian rarely plays. It’s every five days usually, and Killian is too competitive to simply be able to sit and watch while everyone else gets to be out there on the field. If it wasn’t absolute murder on his shoulder, he’d be in Al’s office every damn day asking why he can’t be out there.

Understandably, having to watch his teammates play without being able to help has been killing him more in this past week than it did while he was out on injury, and that was actual hell.

Rob did a fantastic job that first night clinching the first game for them by making it nearly impossible for the Dodgers to get on base, and Killian, while he didn’t play his best, pitched a good enough game and had help from Eric’s three-run homerun for them to win the second. It’s simply that everything after that has been a bit of a nightmare.

They lost two incredibly close games in a row in California to tie things up, won the next one, and now they could clinch the entire Series at home in New York.

Tonight.

With Rob pitching and Killian sitting on the bench.

And as much as Killian would love to get to be an active part of it all like he was during the winning game last year, he would give absolutely everything for them to win tonight so that he doesn’t have to get up on the mound tomorrow. The pressure and desire and want  is so damn intense that it makes Killian’s heart ache, but he knows that this isn’t really about him. No part of him could be selfish enough to want to lose today so that he could have the possibility of the glory tomorrow.

That would be ridiculous, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’d do if he wakes up tomorrow morning with a stiff shoulder and he’s got to get out there and play.

Sighing, Killian stretches out his legs to the seat in front of him as a whisper of wind whirls through the stadium to bring in the late October chill. He fiddles with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, pulling them down to cover his wrists where chill bumps are rising, and he wishes that he had a hat on to protect himself from weather, his ears likely red from the cold. It’s only seven in the morning, most of the stadium completely empty except for the maintenance crew and a few people in the offices, but Killian knew that this would be his only time to take it all in with no one around him.

An empty stadium is nearly as magical as a packed one.

He’s spent his entire life building up to things like this. Sure, there were times when he had other goals. He wanted to be a teacher, wanted to get his degree and help others, but that was always the fallback goal. It was never the main one.

Baseball has been his life.

Lately, though, Killian’s been thinking about life outside of the game more than ever. It’s insane because he feels like he’s one of those obnoxious people who only lives and breathes baseball all the time, especially with what’s going on right now, but his mind has managed to find a way to wander elsewhere.

There are saved searches on his phone about going back to Vanderbilt to finish his degree and a sent message in his email to an advisor asking if it would be possible for him to finish in New York instead of having to take classes in person. He hasn’t told anyone that he’s thinking about it, not yet. Telling someone makes it real, and Killian’s not entirely sure that he wants it to be real quite yet. He’s a grown ass man, but change is still terrifying when he’s grown comfortable in his life.

Baseball isn’t forever, though, and while he may still work in the sport later on, he’s not going to be someone who goes throughout his entire life living out the glory days through memory.

Tonight, might be another big moment that defines his life, but the past six months have been pretty life changing as well. Hell, the past year has been.

Things are changing in ways that he wants and ways that he doesn’t, and that’s simply how it is.

“So, we woke up at the ass crack of dawn so that you could sit out here all by yourself?”

Killian twists his head to the side to see Emma standing a few seats over dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, scarf wrapped around her neck and Yankees cap on her head. He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he didn’t even hear her move toward him.

“Hey, love,” he smiles, reaching up and holding out his hand so that the cool tip of her fingers touch his as he intertwines their fingers while she settles down into the seat next to him and props her feet up on the seat in front of her. “I told you that you didn’t have to come with me.”

Sitting here reminds him of another time in San Francisco when he put his heart on his sleeve and willingly handed it over to Emma to crush before they decided that they would give the two of them a go and simply see how things worked out. If she had said no that day, he could have listened. But damn is he glad that she said yes.

Or, well, technically, he was the one saying yes.

Either way, everything in his life shifted.

“I know, but you get all moody and introspective, and I didn’t want you psyching yourself out.”

“I would not do that.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Just a little bit.” His hand flexes against hers, shifting his fingers the slightest bit so that he can get a more comfortable grip on Emma’s hands. “What have you been doing while I’ve been sitting here being introspective and psyching myself out?”

“I was taking some pictures. It’s kind of cool to see the calm before the storm, you know? And then David called me with some work stuff and to give me shit about us making out being all over Instagram, so I sat on a bench and talked to him for awhile.”

“He called you this early? Is he crazy?” 

“I think David forgets that not everyone wakes up this early, and he has no qualms about waking me up. Usually I’m much meaner to him.”

“I’m surprised you’re not being mean to me.”

“The coffee we had at home really works wonders.”

Killian almost opens his mouth to say something about Emma referring to his apartment as home. But only almost. They’re both aware of the living situation, have joked about it to each other and others before, and they don’t need some kind of official discussion about things. It’ll all happen naturally, and when the time comes, they’ll talk about it. For now, things are perfect just as they are.  

Life has been crazy with his injury and then Walsh and Brennan and the aftermath of them being absolute assholes. It’s gotten crazier with the World Series and how much press he’s now getting, both for the games and for his relationship with Emma, much of which is now weirdly being caught on camera. All Killian really wants is a bit of normal here.

The sun continues to rise in the sky, darkness shifting into an orange glow that will eventually turn into bright sunshine that makes it difficult to see without a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose. The grass on the field is wet with condensation, water coating the blades, and if it wasn’t freezing out there, he thinks he’d go out and sit along the edge of the back wall instead of in a stadium seat.

Bringing Emma’s hand to his lips, he presses a kiss to each of her knuckles before pulling their joined hands back down to rest on his thigh.

“I think,” he starts, not entirely sure where he’s going, “that I could stay out here forever. I don’t know…maybe I feel things too deeply compared to everyone else, but this place has always felt like home. I can’t imagine what things would be like if I’d been drafted somewhere else or if I’d never been called up at all.”

She hums next to him, and Killian looks down to see Emma’s thumb rubbing across his knuckles like she always seems to do. “What’s that thing you’re always saying? There’s no such thing as ‘what ifs.’ Not in life and not in sport. What happened, happened.”

“Doesn’t keep me from wondering.”

“It doesn’t keep anyone from wondering, twenty-nine.” Her hand squeezes his again, and Killian’s mind dares to ask once more what his life would be like had he not met Emma. It’s a question he doesn’t want an answer to. “What if my parents had kept me? What if Ruth had never decided to foster a shitty teenager with an attitude issue? What if I had never met Neal or Walsh or Ruby or anyone who has impacted my life they the way they have? What if I never met you?”

“You’d be missing out on the best sex of your life.”

Emma knocks her foot into his as he snickers at his own awful joke. “You’re full of yourself.”

He shrugs. “It happens. And I know. I’m just – my stomach has been in knots over all of this for an entire month. I’m not sure my body is going to make it ten more hours. Or hell, possibly even thirty-six. I’ve had to hype myself up for all of this, and I’m a little…fuck, Swan, I’m exhausted and excited, and I’m scared I’m going to have some kind of adrenaline crash.”

It’s Emma’s turn to bring their hands together so that she can brush her lips over his knuckles. His heart stutters at the movement.

God, he loves her. It’s actually insane how much. Truly, it shouldn’t be possible.

“For one, getting up and coming to the stadium before the sun even fully rises is not something that’s going to help with your exhaustion.”

He twists his head to look at her, and she’s got mischief in her eyes and a smirk stretched across her lips that he has to kiss away. She still tastes like coffee.

“Also,” she whispers against his lips, kissing him again, “you’re not going to crash. Not yet. I know you’re really big on not riding on what happened last year, but you’ve got to do that. You’ve been through this before, and you made it. Those butterflies in your stomach are being felt by everyone who’s involved with this team, and hanging out by yourself the entire time isn’t going to help things. Why don’t we go get breakfast together? Or maybe go back to bed?”

“How about a game of catch?”

“What?” Emma laughs as she pulls back from him with furrowed brows? “I am not playing catch with you. Are we five?”

Killian shakes his head and chuckles as he stands from the seat and begins to stretch his shoulders out, letting go of Emma’s hand and rolling his shoulders back as he laughs at himself.

“We’re twenty-eight. I know you remember your birthday last week. And come on, Swan. I play a game of really expensive catch for a living. It’s part of my job to work on my arm today, just in case, and I need a practice partner.”

“That’s what Will and Eric or August are for.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, reaching forward to tug her up only for her weight to go dead so that he can’t move her, “but they’re not here. You are.”

Emma closes her gaping mouth, and her lips move in different directions while her nose scrunches up so that little crinkles appear around her eyes under the shade of her hat. “Okay, but if there’s one misogynistic quip about me throwing like a girl, I’m breaking up with you on the spot.”

“There’s nothing wrong with throwing like a girl, Swan. It’s pretty badass. But there’s something wrong with throwing like shit.”

“I’m not going to throw like shit.” Killian starts walking over the chairs, easily maneuvering through the stands with Emma following behind him. “But I ask you to remember that while I pride myself in my fitness, it’s in things like Pilates and running or boxing. It’s not in baseball. You, meanwhile, do this for a living.”

“These sound like a hell of a lot of excuses.”

“That’s because they are.”

“There’s no excuses in baseball.”

“I thought it was crying.”

“Fuck no,” Killian scoffs. “There’s a lot of crying in baseball, and anyone who tells you something different is a liar.”

“I can’t believe you just called Tom Hanks, America’s sweetheart, a liar.”

They have to go back through the tunnels to get a bucket of balls and some gloves as well as a few towels to wipe the grass in the bullpen down since it’s wet and neither of them are wearing the right shoes for this, but they do eventually get to the point where he can lightly toss the ball back and forth between the two of them. He’s not going to pitch at full speed, not until he has Will later, but it’s soothing to simply be out here getting a little movement in. He’s been back for two weeks, practicing for four, but it’s still all brand new again to him and shaded under a light that wasn’t there before.

Emma isn’t bad at all. She’s actually rather good, a natural some might say, and he jokes with her that if sports broadcasting doesn’t work out for her, she might take up a career in this. Naturally that gets him an eye roll or two, but she keeps on throwing until the sun is high in the sky and the day has truly begun.

Killian’s ready for it.

Everything seems to pass quickly then. The entirety of the Dodgers team walks out onto the field for their scheduled practice while he and Emma are still messing around in the bullpen, somewhere between still doing a bit of practice and Killian backing Emma up against the wall to make out with her. No one sees them, though, the loud blaring of music startling the two of them away from each other, and Killian presses Emma a little further into the wall while he buries his face in her neck so that he can muffle the sound of his laughter.

He’s not entirely sure that works, especially when Emma is doing the same, but they eventually manage to grab their things and slip inside so that an entire professional team isn’t aware of the fact that he was using the early morning stadium to kiss his girlfriend.

That would certainly have been something.

There is an actual practice that Killian has to attend today, an hour of which needs to be spent with him running on the treadmill and then getting massaged by Archie to work out any knots and kinks in his shoulder and to make sure that it’s not inflamed. Killian is always terrified that he’s going to be told that his shoulder is inflamed again and that he won’t be able to play on a day where he thinks he’s going to be able to. That would completely screw up the lineup, and…No, now isn’t the time to think about that.

Killian tells Emma that he’ll see her later, that he’ll probably come bother her wherever the network has her sitting even though he’s splitting the time in the game between the dugout, the clubhouse, and the suite where his family is going to be sitting. She has to go home and get ready for the day, and even if she didn’t, he very much doubts that she’d like to stick around and watch him run.

And then they’re both off.

Let the game begin.

-/-

“Are you guys going to win today?”

Now, that’s the question of the day, isn’t it?

Killian looks down at Roland who is dressed in head to toe Yankees gear, all his dad’s of course, and there’s a nervous smile on the kid’s face. Roland is almost never nervous. He has that childlike faith in everything even with all of the tragedy in his life of having lost his mom, and he nearly always believes that things are going to work out. There’s no good or bad, just the belief that things will work out the way you want them to simply by the power of wanting them to.

If only it were that simple.

“I don’t know, lad,” Killian answers honestly as he reaches down to pick Roland up, easily putting him on his shoulders as Killian walks him down the hallways to the suite he’s staying in for the game. Roland was in the clubhouse for all of the pre-game celebrations, and the kid heard and saw things that he probably didn’t need to hear for several more years.

A decade, really. Maybe two.

Yeah, definitely two decades. There was some creative swearing.

“Why not?”

“Well, because we can’t predict the future, and the other team is really good too.”

“But I want to win.”

“Me too,” he sighs as he pushes open the doors to lead to the suites. “And everyone is going to try their best. But you know what?” “What?”

“I think if you cheer extra hard, it might help your dad out, okay? He might lose because the other team is good, but you’ve got to cheer him on no matter what.”

Roland’s ankles hit against Killian’s collarbone, and Killian pretends that the bony lad doesn’t hurt like hell when he hits him. “I can cheer really  loud. Like, Grandma says that it makes her ears hurt.”

“If you’re not making Grandma’s ears hurt, you’re not cheering loud enough.”

That sentence pretty much sums up why he’s the best uncle in the world, Killian thinks. It’s basically the equivalent of giving kids a pint of ice cream right before they go back to their parents.

Killian pushes open the suite doors and ducks down underneath them so that he doesn’t knock Roland out. Everyone is situated on the couches and around the tables in front of the TV, and no one pays him any mind as he puts Roland down so that he can run to where Addy, Lucy, and Leo are. He imagines that between the four of them, they’re going to make everyone’s ears hurt from their screaming.

Maybe Killian will go spend time sitting in the dugout instead of in here, but it’s a long game. He’s got time to move around as long as he does make time to study Robin’s throwing patterns against each batter.

“Hey,” he murmurs to Elsa in the kitchen area while she pops a chip into her mouth. “I don’t know that it’s good that you’re playing hooky from work and letting the girls do the same with school.”

“Shut up,” she says in between crunchy bites of food, her hand covering her mouth. “You think that joke is funny every time, but it’s not.”

“It is.” Killian dips his head down and presses a kiss to Elsa’s cheek. “But I fully approve of the skipping work thing, especially when your husband’s lazy ass took the entire week off.”

“He’s supporting his baby brother.” 

“Younger, Els. Younger. I don’t need you encouraging that.”

Her bottom lip sticks out. “But it’s so fun to see your ears get all red with embarrassment.” 

“Every single thing I’ve ever said about me being glad to have an older sister in you and Anna? Yeah, I’m taking all of those back.”

“You can’t.” She swipes another chip through the dip. “They’ve been said, and I keep them all in my heart right next to where Addy told me that even if she got to choose her mom, she’d still choose me.”

“Classy.”

“I know,” Elsa laughs. “Where’s your better half?”

“She’s working.” Killian pinches his brows together. “So we’re not even going to pretend that I could possibly be the better half?”

“Nope. Just like Liam isn’t the better half either. And don’t make some quip about being equals. Just let me have this. I’m already stress eating chips.” He laughs while reaching forward to drag the bowl away from Elsa so that she can’t eat anymore, but she doesn’t let him, grabbing onto it and pulling it back. “I didn’t say to stop me. World Series week is like the holidays. The calories don’t count until my jeans feel a little snug next week.”

“Ahh,” Killian sighs in understanding. “That’s likely a good thing for how many baked goods I’ve sent your way.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the dugout?” Ariel questions as she steps up to them with her glass of water in her hand. “It’s kind of a big game.”

“It’s also kind of the top of the first inning, and I’m not playing.”

“Excuses.”

“A legitimate one. How’re you holding up, A?”

She waves him away and reaches for the pitcher of water. “I’m fine. Eric is the nervous wreck. I have enough confidence in you guys that I won’t worry until, you know, we’re losing.”

“Only worrying when we’re losing? What kind of method is that? You have to worry all the damn time.”

“That’s how you have a heart attack, and I have not suffered eating healthily and exercising so much to have a heart attack this young.”

“This is where Liam would tell you that it can happen to anyone in any age.”

“Where is Liam?” Killian questions as he looks around the suite for his brother only to have him nowhere to be seen.

“He and David are sitting in David’s regular seats because David was complaining about Mary Margaret and Leo not wanting to use them. I imagine he’ll be up here soon when he realizes how expensive food is to buy.”

“They’re such old men.”

“Says the man who was wearing a sweater while drinking a cup of tea and reading in his apartment last night instead of coming out to dinner with all of us.”

Killian sputters a bit as he narrows his eyes at Ariel. “First of all, there is nothing wrong with doing any of that. Second of all, how could you possibly know that?”

Ariel shrugs, mischief in all of her features. “Emma sent it in the group text.”

Of course she did. A man can’t even relax in his own home without being called out for it.

“Who is in this group text exactly?”

“Oh, just me, Elsa, Anna, and Belle. Don’t worry. Not everyone gets to see the embarrassing pictures of you drooling in your sleep.”

He’s going to kill Emma.

Or get his revenge. Somewhere in between those two.

There’s a loud groan from everyone watching the game, and that’s when Killian is reminded that there’s a game going on. He didn’t know that he could possibly forget, but apparently being teased about how he spends his nights will let him do that. When he sees what’s happening out on the field, though, Killian wishes that he’d been able to completely and totally forget about the game.

There are three men on base for the Dodgers, only one out, and one of their best hitters is up to bat.

Fuck.

This is not a good start.

This is a long game, but bad starts can change the momentum of absolutely everything. It gets in everyone’s head. The losing team is convinced that they’re going to lose, that they can’t come back from this, and the team that’s ahead gets all the belief in the world with their abilities.

Momentum shifts are everything, and it’s not time for the momentum to shift. Not yet.

And yet it does.

Robin throws what Killian knows is a good fastball and Rob’s specialty, but Stewart hits a sharp line drive down past third base that Arthur doesn’t get to. By the time that he does, the Dodgers already have two runs, Stewart is on second, and Ferguson is sliding into home before the ball can get there.

0-3 for the Dodgers eleven minutes in.

Shit.

Now it’s time for Ariel and everyone else to get nervous.

And it never gets better. Not really. There are times and chances and shots that have Killian grabbing onto his hair in frustration, but nothing comes of it. Nothing at all. Every single time there’s a real chance, something happens: the Dodgers have an unbelievable get, someone fumbles when the Yankees should have an easy chance at a double play, or every single person somehow forgets how to hit.

Until they don’t.  

Because now it’s the bottom of the ninth, and after an absolutely incredible eighth inning, it’s now 7-9.

They’re only down by two runs.

(Two runs.)

Killian is pacing back and forth in the dugout now exhausting every bit of emotional energy he has left in him. He left the suite the moment that first inning was over, texting Emma and Liam that there’d been a change of plans and he wouldn’t be meeting up with them after all. There was no way that he was going to be anywhere other than with his team when things were going to hell.

Being two runs behind is both nothing and everything.

There have been plenty of times when they’ve come back from a deficit like this. There have been plenty more when they’ve blown a two-run lead. And yet, like fifty-five thousand people in this stadium know, this isn’t any other game. This is The Game, and they’re closing in on the golden hour of chances.

It’s win now or come back tomorrow for one last chance of glory or crushing defeat.

Best of seven means nothing when there’s the possibility of there only being one game left.

“You’re going to exhaust yourself if you don’t sit down,” Robin tells him from his seat behind him on the bench.

Will has just stepped up to home plate, his bat in hand and feet in position, and Killian can’t breathe. His lungs have stopped taking in air.

“How could you possibly be sitting down for this? Is your blood not on fire?”

“I just pitched five innings, mate. My adrenaline high is gonedown. I’m exhausted.”

The ball is launched through the air toward Will, and Killian immediately knows that he shouldn’t take a swing at it.

He does.

Strike one.

“Shit,” Killian murmurs, kicking his foot at a water cup on the ground. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“Funny, Fisher, I told your wife the same thing. Aren’t you supposed to be warming up?”

Killian doesn’t even have to look to know that Eric is rolling his eyes. “I’m grabbing my stuff to do just that.” There’s a warm hand on Killian’s back, and he turns to look at it just as a “ball” is called. “Take some deep breaths, man. We’ve got this.”

“Aye,” Killian sighs, “we’ve got this.”

Strike two.

“Shit.”

Ball two.

Ball three.

Foul ball.

Killian’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he opens it up to see Emma’s name.

Emma: They’re having to censor you on television right now.

Emma: Just thought you might want to know that. Literally every time they show the dugout, you’re cursing. Ruby is getting a kick out of it.

Killian moves to text her back, to say something witty in response, but then the wood of Will’s bat is making contact with the ball and it’s flying gone, gone, gone…

Until it’s caught in the outfield.

Out one.

“Fuck.”

They’ve still got a shot. They have to. And as much as Killian hates cheering for Arthur King and hates that he only got a monetary fine for what he said to Emma and about her, he’s exactly who Killian has to cheer for now as Arthur hits a line drive that enables him to get on first base.

That’s progress.

It’s even more progress when Eric hits a triple sending Arthur into home.

8-9.

Holy fuck.

They might do this. They just might.

Killian still can’t breathe, but this is obviously his natural state now. This is how he’s going to have to live out the rest of his life.

Emma: Okay, now I understand all of the cursing. I’m freaking out.

Killian: Me too. We make quite the pair.

Emma: The best pair. It’s all going to be okay, twenty-nine.

He smiles down at his phone, his lungs taking in a bit of air at that.

Killian: It will be. I love you.

Killian: A frankly ridiculous amount.

“Out,” the umpire yells, and Killian immediately rests his head against the dugout railing, his nails digging into the hem of his sweatshirt as sweat drips down his back even with the late October chill whipping through the stadium as the night fully comes into effect, the sun long since gone.

Out two.

“For fuck’s sake,” Al yells, throwing his hat to the ground and slapping his hand against the railing. “Why would you swing at that, Whale? You could have fucking walked, and then we’d have two men on base with one out. That changes everything.”

It’s not Whale’s fault. It’s not. He messed up, sure, but it’s a team effort. Killian doesn’t always believe that when he’s the one pitching. It’s hard to get that out of your head when you’re being yelled at by managers and fans and people online sending death threats, but it’s true. It’s not one person out there even when it feels like it.

Killian’s going to have to remind himself of that tomorrow.

No.

He can’t go there. They’re not going to play tomorrow. Booth is up to bat, and he’ll get Eric home. Then it’ll be tied up, and they’ll have their shot to close this out right here and right now.

Hope bubbles up in Killian’s chest, his throat closing up with excitement and anticipation, and that lack of breathing thing comes back again as his knuckles go white from the strength of his grip on the railing. When he looks to the right, he sees that Robin’s knuckles are just the same.

They might do this.

Roland and Addy have to be screaming their heads off up in the suite. Killian almost wants to text Elsa or Liam to see what’s happening, but his eyes are glued to the field as August swings his bat at the very first ball.

It’s a fucking foul.

Strike one.

“Come on Booth,” Will shouts out, clapping his hands together. “You’ve got it, man. Be smart about it.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s helping, Scarlet.”

“It is, Professor Jones. I’m a great motivational speaker.”

Killian’s lips stretch into a smile, a bit of calm returning, until the ball flies from the mound again, whipping through the air and curving into the strike zone at the last minute.

August doesn’t swing.

Strike two.

The stadium absolutely erupts then, hands clapping together and feet hitting against the floor while thousands of people scream, a mix of cheers and boos for August. If anyone can handle this kind of pressure, can handle the weight of world on his shoulders and the pressure, it’s August.

Pressure is a privilege.

He’s likely not feeling too privileged right now.

And as suddenly as the noise started, it calms down. While there are still people talking and cheering and making all kinds of noise, Killian can’t focus on any of it. All he can focus on is what’s right in front of him.

One. Two. Three.

Foul.

One. Two. Three.

Foul.

Killian’s stomach flips, his entire hand going white, and Will is grabbing onto Killian’s forearm so tightly that he could break the bone there.

One.

Two.

Three.

There’s a thwack of ball against Booth’s back, and it absolutely flies into the air. It’s flying, and Killian nearly jumps out of the dugout to get a better view of where it’s going. It’s got to be a home run. It’s got to be. That’s where it’s headed, and Killian’s arms break out in gooseflesh beneath the thick material of his sweatshirt.

They’re about to win the fucking World Series for the second time in a row.

Holy shit.

But then the ball dips.

It dips, right at the line of the back fence, and the ball is caught.

The. Ball. Is. Caught.

The ball is caught, Booth is out, and the game is over.

And just like the ball, Killian’s mood dips, every high hope crashing down around him and weighing down on his shoulders while his stomach flips before everything heavily settles in its place. This isn’t how today was supposed to end. They were supposed to come back from their bad start. They were supposed to win.

They didn’t, though. They lost, and even though Killian tries to be encouraging to everyone around him as they all finish up their post-game on-field routines, in his head he knows that they’ve only got one more shot at this.

They’ve got one more shot, and a lot of it is resting in the palm of his hands. Killian has been a screw up for this team so many times before, and he doesn’t know if he can do that again.

He can’t let everyone down again.

The mood is subdued in the clubhouse as everyone strips out of their clothes, just a constant murmuring of curses and complaints. Even Al is quiet when he’d usually be fired up yelling at everyone, a combination of disbarring comments and encouragements, and that may be the most shocking part of it all.

Reporters begin to fill the room as well as agents and wives and the occasional child, and Killian sits in his locker with his head between his legs taking several deep breaths to calm himself down. His heart is beating far too quickly. It’s thumping in between his ears, and that’s not how it’s supposed to be.

It’s simply not.

“Hey.”

The voice is soft and very much Emma’s, and Killian looks up to see her softly smiling down at him, Jeff no longer trailing behind her with his camera.

The smile that stretches across his lips is forced and half-assed, and he knows that Emma can tell. She steps in between his knees so that his head rests against her stomach while her hands brush through his sweaty hair. They don’t say anything else, simply stay there together while Killian breathes in the scent of Emma’s perfume on her sweater and shivers run down his spine at her touch.

He is undeniably a fan of every part of her, but being able to simply be, to exist, with her is one of his favorites. There’s nothing quite so soothing as knowing the person you love will always be by your side no matter what happens.

They lost. They did. It’s what happened, and there’s no changing it.

Tomorrow is the last chance.

It all comes down to the last one.

-/-

-/-

Tag list: @onepunintendid​ @authorarsinoe​ @stunningswan​ @eala-captian @galaxyzxstark @xellewoods @mariakov81 @ultraluckycatnd @royalswan @shey-starsfury​ @superchocovian​ @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @karenfrommisthaven @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @notoriouscs @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog​ @cs-forlife @andiirivera @jonirobinson64 @qualitycoffeethings​ @carpedzem​ @tornadoamy​

[askiisoft]

FAN ART FRIDAY: ALL THE WARRIORS, Part 4

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. For the past three weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the community’s original characters in the world of Katana ZERO—from war heroes to psycho killers, and everything in between—drawn by some the most creative and talented fan artists I’ve ever met. 

Today we salute the last of New Mecca’s “lost generation” in the jam-packed finale to All the Warriors. Those late to the party can catch up on the previous parts here: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Let’s begin.

[WARNING: The work herein is based on fan creations, and should not be considered canon.]

Alpha 7, “Jill” by @daratsugu

She had it all. A sports star since high school, Jill could have made history as a legendary athlete or breathtaking model. But beneath her physique and beauty was a strong heart, one that desired to make a difference in the world somehow. So when government suits approached her seeking peak physical specimens for trials of a ‘radical life-saving drug’, she accepted eagerly.

Not long afterwards, the war began.

Jill’s service record afterwards remains a mystery, given her lackluster communication skills and endemic shyness. But whatever she witnessed on the battlefield, it never blunted her kindness or dampened her faith in humanity. There is comfort in the certainty of her own mortality, and she’s determined to spend her final days doing as much good as she can.

By @daratsugu

—

Gamma 6 by @wpc0123wpc

More well-known than the deadliest assassins and most fearsome mafia dons, one man is famous across every restaurant in Chinatown: the ‘chao fan shen’, or “fried rice god”, known for his slovenly appearance, incredible combat skills, and insatiable appetite for his namesake. Of course, that’s not to say he’s a glutton—Six has developed an extremely discriminating palate, and any chef who skimps on the diced pork or sesame oil can expect a sound rebuke.

If only he paid as much attention in everyday life. Because of his poor eyesight and ever-present headphones, he’s an easy mark for thieves like Gamma 12 or enterprising muggers...or so it seems. Chinatown residents swear they’ve witnessed him pull an executioner’s battleaxe from his guitar case, but surely that’s just Eastern superstition. Right?

By @wpc0123wpc

—

Gamma 22, “TnT” by @_sbserpent

"Be silent, dress loudly.”

ZZ’s selective mutism hasn’t stopped her from drawing the eye of passerby. Her prominent back scars, perpetual bedhead hair, and psychedelic rainbow clothing are almost begging to be ridiculed. Those who know ZZ are smart enough not to tease her about it; others who make that mistake find themselves adding a few splashes of red to her outfit.

Since moving to the Second District, her fashion sense has actually started a minor fad among its population of wealthy young heiresses and bachelorettes, who have begun tousling their hair and wearing multicolored stockings in crass imitation. She’s even been featured in a few street fashion magazines, albeit unnamed. ZZ doesn’t mind the attention, so long as their photographers stay out of her way and keep their mouths shut...

“I warned you.” By @_sbserpent

—

Beta 111, “Gurkha” by @55_yamisan

There may be someone who once said, “I want to go back together.”

There may be someone who once shared their personal space.

There may be someone who didn’t want to die, and someone else who no longer wants to live...

All illustrations by @55_yamisan

—

Gamma 30, “Thirty” by @meto1030​

Just as other Gamma NULLs were violently psychotic or narcissistic, Gamma 30′s disorder was selflessness to a fault, believing any amount of suffering was worthwhile if it made things even a little easier for someone else. As a nurse or aid worker, Thirty could have done so much good, had they not been blessed with extreme reactiveness to Chronos that placed them squarely within a Gamma kill-squad.

Every waking moment was spent in neurosis, desperately thinking of ways they could possibly be of service around base camp, and each rest was filled with nightmares of squadmates buried under rubble or pinned by enemy fire, desperately crying out for help as Thirty fruitlessly crawled to them, trapped in slow motion. 

Once the fighting had ended and a ceasefire declared, the only way Thirty could imagine to be of use was becoming a test subject in the government labs, a position typically reserved for NULL candidates too weak to warrant a number and rank. There, at least, they are shielded from the predatory instincts of other NULL who would not hesitate to exploit Thirty’s altruism.

By @meto1030

— 

Gamma 61, “Geist” by @dawnygoi

Just because you’re living hand-to-mouth doesn’t mean you can’t pursue your passion. Due to their various psychoses, Gamma troopers developed more eccentricities than their predecessors—the most common being increased sensitivity to music. Their preferred genres varied, but a Gamma NULL could be found humming or nodding their head some invisible beat before or after a battle. 

For Gamma 61, his favorite beat was the deafening, breakneck rhythm of his trusty man-portable minigun, and he often burned through hundreds of rounds just to hear its song, filled with the sharpest crescendos and deepest bass. Sadly, it’s a luxury he can no longer afford, and he suffers the indignity of killing his targets with simple knives and other concealable weapons in order to afford his ‘medicine’.

— 

Gamma 33, “Weasel” by @zebdraws

As a legendary rock star once said, “ You see, you don't have to live like a refugee.”

When government spooks are after your head, you have two choices: spend what’s left of your life on the run, or become the biggest musical sensation New Mecca has ever known. 

As a soldier, Weasel was fiercely competitive, treating every ally as a potential rival and going to extreme lengths to win any wager, even if it meant resorting to violence. That never changed after he discovered his love of music, even though his musical talents are utterly dreadful, like most NULL. 

His “invasion” of several high-profile concerts prompted many venues in the city to begin employing armed security to patrol their dance floors, most notably Club Neon. However, the untimely death of DJ Electrohead has skyrocketed Weasel to stardom as Second District clubs scramble to book a replacement act. 

—

Gamma 511 by @Am3002814

On an employment survey for government security, Gamma 511 would fail by every metric: he’s paranoid, meek, and highly conspicuous thanks to his numerous nervous tics that emerge at even the slightest hint of confrontation. Even when mixed in a crowd, he seems to have an uncanny presence that unnerves those around him. Yet his security record is spotless, and none of his charges have ever come to harm. 

So what exactly about 511 sets so many ill at ease? Could it be his shifty gaze, restlessly darting about at strangers’ throats, stomachs, and nether regions? Maybe his constant and profuse sweating, staining his ill-fitting trench coat even on a cold winter morning? Or perhaps it’s the faint “ ゴゴ ゴゴ ゴゴ ゴゴ “  that permeates the air as he walks by with his awkward, loping gait...?

Truly, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.

By @Am3002814

—

Beta 39, by @lyexueyee

Stealth and infiltration is an art, not a science. Beta 39′s brand of assassination involves hiding in plain sight—in a crowd wearing her perpetually tired and glum expression, or standing outside a store with hands on her hips, as if impatiently waiting for someone. She deflects attention so well, no one notices the bent and bloodied length of pipe sticking out of her faux-high school bag. 

“Hey, those are some cute hairpins!” A student on the train remarks. “Nnh,” 39 murmurs.

“Oh, you must be part of the kendo club!” An old woman exclaims, and is met with a half-lidded stare and a deep, echoing silence.

Hours later, a beat cop finds a local mobster dead in an alley behind his favorite bar, bearing signs of blunt trauma and several stab wounds from a low angle. His gun lies nearby, not a single shot fired. No suspects are ever found.

By @lyexueyee

—

Beta 34, “Ephemera” by @BMb_kngw

“What use is a tape that can only be rewound three times?”

That was what Ephemera overheard following his fitness trials and physical examination. The researchers had never encountered his like before: a genetic trait that resisted the effects of Chronos, such that a full dose would only allow him a few minutes of precognition and a negligible boost in reflexes—not even on par with Alpha-class NULL. His training results and leadership scores had topped the charts, but by a twist of fate, he barely escaped being sent to the labs.

Even after being assigned to a frontline squad, Ephemera faced continued stigma. Some refused to acknowledge him as “one of them” at all, and rumors spread that his ‘condition’ was contagious, and merely being around him could sap others of their Chronos abilities. 

The day he was rushed to the infirmary, his leg a bloodied stump, some jeered that any other NULL could have “reset” to undo such an injury. But oh, how the tables have turned. As it turned out, his ‘condition’ also shielded him from any symptoms of withdrawal. He lives now as a free man, one of the few NULL able to truly leave the war behind.

By @BMb_kngw

—

Beta 18, “Gav” by @smugeroni

Actions speak louder than words. Anyone who’s pried into the past of a Cromag War vet knows how bitter and cagey they get, but Gav’s wartime injury lets him dodge questions about his service days and move onto the crucial next step of healing and atonement. Homeless veterans who would otherwise despise those “test tube freaks” are thankful for his constant charity and unreasonably tasty meals.

There are still traces of a fighter behind his gentle smile: his bullet-riddled motorbike lies rusting in storage downtown, and he keeps a gun stowed behind the counter for the occasional mob racketeer. No one knows who steered Gav away from his life as a road warrior—who they were to him, or whether they’re dead or alive—but they take comfort in knowing a man can change, and not always for the worse.

—

Beta 49, “D.D.” by @sapheiri

On her first sortie as a rookie NULL, D.D. envisioned a battle worthy of pre-war action movies: fiery explosions at her back, bullets whizzing past her ears, and jets flying overhead as she charged the enemy lines, firing a gun in each hand. 

Instead, she found a nightmare. The enemy had set traps and laid ambushes everywhere; the laboratory eggheads had assured her that Chronos had made her immortal, but in that desolate jungle her faith shattered. She was found quivering in a muddy ditch, half-deafened by a close-range blast and wearing socks after forgetting to lace up her combat boots.

Instead of being discharged for proper therapy and recovery, D.D. became a test case for second-generation Prozium, designed to deaden emotions and instill obedience. She returned calm and combat-ready days later, and the researchers commended themselves for their success. They would later come to fear D.D. after seeing her in action.

Today, she can truly realize her former action-heroine fantasies, blasting her way past dozens of gunmen with guns akimbo and walking away unscathed. But she can feel no pleasure from it, nor reflect on the horror at the killing machine she’s become. Some say she still wears her boots unlaced to recapture the rush of danger and fear of death from that first mission, something she has now lost forever.

By @sapheiri

—

Gamma 22 by @dodokubobo

An ideal army is a combination of tactical genius and strict discipline. Gamma 22 had neither, leaning entirely on his remarkable aptitude for Chronos and prowess with his twin katanas to propel him through disciplinary headaches that would have earned any other soldier weeks in the brig. Evidently, it worked; drill instructors ignored his constant absence from combat drills and loud snoring during briefings. As long as he got things done, who cared?

This “golden child” mentality has only swelled his ego since the NULL diaspora, taking what he wants and abusing his abilities to do as he pleases. This makes him an obvious target, but many a foe have seen their cunning ambushes and clever traps fall apart in the face of 22′s sheer speed and skill. Among the New Meccan underworld, there is one piece of advice passed down to every aspiring hitman and bounty hunter: “Do not pursue Gamma 22.”

By @dodokubobo

— 

Beta 66 by @temeokopn

Before the cybernet made information widely accessible to the masses, intel had to be collected the old-fashioned way: through spying, stealth, or skullduggery. This was the perfect calling for Beta 66, who excelled at staying out of sight. 

On certain scouting missions, he would wait hours, even days, for the enemy to trip a land mine or succumb to slow-acting poison. And as he waited, he would listen to the sounds of wilderness and scan the night sky through his mask, counting the stars.

In a post-war New Mecca hostile to veterans, 66′s life became a more cloistered affair, surviving as an information broker instead of risking his life behind enemy lines It was only days after his data stream sputtered out that anyone discovered his absence. 

One can only hope 66 found the stars he so loved.

“I go to the stars.” By @temeokopn

—

Beta 9 “Heads” & Beta 10, “Tails” by Jicker

Dynamic duos are nothing new to the New Meccan lowlife, but Heads & Tails are trailblazers in terms of brother-and-sister team-ups. In between sibling quarrels over the superiority of shuriken or grenades, these two clean up mafia hideouts over twice as fast as a single NULL, wordlessly executing well-worn strategies they developed on the battlefield during their first missions against the Cromags; Heads cuts down obstacles to widen her brother’s line of sight or deflects bullets as he reloads, while Tails pins the enemy with suppressing fire as his sister closes the distance with her blade. 

Truth be told, their combined efforts often barely compare to some of the carnage a Gamma NULL could unleash. The difference is that, unlike a Gamma, Heads & Tails can’t be bought, nor bargained with. They can’t be bribed with Chronos or crippled by withdrawal. Whatever their reason for isolating themselves from other NULL, it’s clear that the only allies they need are each other.

“We have a Dragon to slay.” By Jicker

—

Alpha 66 by @ren_hyuga

Stella von Ruthuberia’s regal name suggests a relation to one of the prestigious Old Families, though pre-war records make no mention of her in any aristocratic lineage. How someone of her social status was inducted into the NULL corps remains an even deeper mystery. Some claim her to be an illegitimate heir cast out by her family to die inconspicuously, while a few believe she sought the immortalizing power of Chronos, something beyond what mere wealth could provide.

Since her near-fatal injury and the convoluted grafting procedure that surpassed all previous prostheses, the illusive von Ruthuberia has retreated from the public eye, her estate guarded by patrols day and night. 

However, some say her hermetic existence is merely an act, and amid a vast stockpile of ill-gotten Chronos, she is every bit as deadly as when she first donned her jet-black robes...

— 

Gamma 72, “Nightingale” by @throjnx

Any crime boss worth their salt knew the prospect of having an immortal assassin at your beck and call was too good to be true. It was. The Erlkings, on the other hand, were a two-bit smuggling racket that saw Nightingale as their ticket out of the Fifth District, whose residents could scarcely afford their services or protection fees. 

It worked, for a time. None of the other gangs in their district had managed to snag a Gamma NULL, and they quickly packed up and left once dozens of their number went missing, and police seldom bothered to venture that far out. But the Erlkings hadn’t anticipated how much Chronos Nightingale required nor how pure it had to be, neither of which their supplier could provide. 

When they tried making up the difference using threats and blackmail, there was only one way things could end.

—

Alpha 27, “Nina” by @HihumiHii

Like a spider spinning its web, the labyrinthine catwalks and cramped alleys of New Mecca are the perfect hunting ground for a femme fatale like Alpha 27. Her clientele are exclusive and her fees exorbitant, but her unique skillset is enough to outwit any bounty hunter and even the occasional Gamma NULL. 

Using a vast network of tripwires and strings that crisscross her territory, she can detect activity through the slightest vibrations, from the pounding of raindrops to the footsteps of a potential victim. Most never glimpse their killer, strangled or sliced to bits in her near-invisible webs of razor wire. Others hunt her fruitlessly, unaware she has long since fled.

Outside of contract killings, she frequents the most exclusive social circles in New Mecca to flaunt her mysterious wealth, and is one of the few assassins capable of operating in the near-impenetrable First District thanks to her unsuspecting government acquaintances.

—

Gamma 87 by childrenofgungnir

For Gamma 87, each day is a constant battle between “Life’s pretty OK. I got a steady gig and plenty of the blue stuff,” and “What am I still doing here? We lost the war. I keep this up, I’m going to end up dead.” 

It’s been over half a decade since Charlotte experienced a panic attack or felt stress at the thought of taking a human life, back when she could still count her kills on two hands. These days, it seems to come easier. 

Whenever she sees a penniless Alpha sulking at the bar in withdrawal, she counts her blessings under her breath. But Charlotte can’t help but feel that she’s lost a part of herself in those intervening years—the heartbroken daughter who would have tearfully begged her parents why they let the men in suits take her, instead of the swordswoman who casually sliced them to pieces and emptied their pockets. 

Every time, she stops the train of thought right there. Maybe it’s better this way.

By childrenofgungnir

— 

Gamma 21, “Lil’ Tomato” by @531012733Kyling

There are few things that can surpass the power of effective teamwork, something Gamma 21 and his partner-in-crime Gamma 37 exemplify. Brains and brawn. Long-distance sniping and up-close fisticuffs. Terrible guitar-playing and midnight drag races. 

21 is another in a long line of NULL with an affinity for music but almost no talent for it. Zero’s noisy neighbors can’t compare to the tedium of hearing 21 croon and pluck at the same few sour chords for hours, and his housemate 37 certainly doesn’t seem like someone who would put up with it for long.

For some reason, passerby don’t leave him as much money when 37 is hanging around...

By @531012733Kyling

—

Gamma 37 by @531012733Kyling

While other Gamma troopers favored blades and bullets, Gamma 37 preferred to pummel her enemies with both fists, aided by a pair of high-powered “boxing gloves” that amplified every blow. She scoffed at rookie NULL trying to deflect bullets with their puny blades as her gauntlets easily shielded her from volleys of machine gun fire—that is, until an errant anti-materiel round shattered her glove and nearly took her hand with it.

In the the intervening years, 37 has developed a custom fighting style based around her remaining gauntlet, learning to instead shift her weight and weave between enemy blows to deliver a bone-shattering right hook. She’s even able to use it while riding her motorbike, which has proved invaluable in chasing down targets.

By @531012733Kyling

—

Alpha 12, “Green Demon” by @IDUnknownForte

Whoo, I’ll have to tread carefully on this one. Alpha 12 is apparently a transplant from a Katana ZERO roleplay server, so she likely has lots of existing history that I don’t want to tread on. 

What I will say is that I love the idea of a NULL dive bar like Lucky’s Bar and Grill. On Friday night, all the down-and-out assassins trudge in to their usual seats, get extremely drunk, and yell about how they’d better start getting some respect because they “could level *hic* this whole f*cking city if [they] wanted to”, all while Alpha 12 slowly nods her head from behind the counter and pours out another round. Long live the revolution.

—

Beta 13, “Kata” by @couriervictor

Survival in the Third District is a daily struggle. But for every soldier, there comes a point where survival is no longer enough. 

Working for Dr. Alvensleben brought Kata to this point quickly—watching the doctor run hapless trespassers through impossible deathtraps day after day, hunting down targets for an employer he’d never met in person, and receiving his Chronos syringes via a *clink* in the pneumatic tube and a stilted pre-recorded message. 

With hope of Gamma 9 stumbling into the Slaughterhouse fading bit by bit, Kata considers the consequences of crossing the only man with the knowledge and resources to manufacture Chronos, and whether he would survive...

—

Alpha 19, “Tameiki” by @matowaar

There are few NULL who could claim to know Tameiki to any degree; to most, she was a terrifying, twitchy blur of facial features, zipping from room to room and victim to victim with inhuman speed. Only her closest squadmates, in moments of intense time dilation, could catch a glimpse of her true face, and even then only an expressionless mask resigned to marching alone amidst an army.

Though still communicating chiefly through writing, she has attempted to overcome her unique circumstances through focused training, such as remaining motionless for extended periods or slowing her speech enough to be audible to average human perception. She has even experimented with Chronos withdrawal, testing if the gradual ebbing of time can let her experience life at the same speed as those around her. 

If the ultimate fate of any NULL is to become frozen forever in time, how much longer would that eternity feel to Tameiki...?

—

Beta 12, “Twelve” by @fresh_fren

What’s easily broken is not so easily put back together. 

Since the Cromags didn’t fully grasp the concept of a ‘non-combatant’, Beta 12′s pacifism in the field earned her ridicule from both her comrades and the enemy. While other NULL treated battles as competitive killing sprees, for Twelve each encounter was like an escort mission—an unending effort to protect squadmates who loved nothing more than charging at machine gun nests with a knife. Can you imagine how frustrating that was?

Despite braving death to retrieve her teammates countless times, she was seldom recognized for her courage, and it became disheartening to incapacitate enemies non-lethally only to watch another NULL shoot them in the head moments later. 

Understandably, she hasn’t bothered keeping in touch with her former comrades, and few would believe a kind-hearted pacifist like her was once a veteran, anyway...

—

Gamma 75, “Elvis” by A Dishrag

"Hitting the broad side of a Cromag hut” was a corny insult that floated around New Mecca during the war, but for Elvis it was a job description, one that he was embarrassed to mention during the morning briefings or off-duty get-togethers at the local bar. ‘Tactical demolition’, he called it, but he knew it was an excuse; most of the sheet-metal huts he destroyed could’ve been knocked over by stiff breeze, not a state-of-the-art EMF railgun firing slugs at 4,000 meters a second.

At least they let him keep the uniform and gun when he left the corps, though “let” would be a strong word for it. He simply stuffed the gear into a Sakura Redux X Gaiden shoulder bag and walked out of the barracks, never to return. So far no one’s called him about it, so he figures it’s safe enough to incorporate into his cosplay outfit as long as he keeps the safety on. Right?

—

Gamma 13, “Reaper” & Gamma 14, “Mr. Bomber Glove” by @LoverHigh24

Twice the NULL, twice the withdrawal. It seems some Gamma NULLs, particularly those with complementary skillsets, stuck together in the aftermath of the war instead of turning on each other in their addiction. Rain and Kyle found common ground in their countryside roots, having worked as a team in the final days of the conflict and both sensing the war effort going south.

They’d bid farewell to their neighbors years ago, ready to die as they marched off to war. They agreed they’d be happy enough to see home one last time and spend the eternity lying in their childhood beds, instead of some seedy Third District bar. Yet, as mysterious new shipments of ‘dirty’ Chronos began flooding the market, they find themselves fighting against their former comrades to uncover the source...

—

??? by @Mr_BowerBird

You’re right, spear guy. I don’t know.

I don’t know quite what to make of this guy. His weapon, a Japanese naginata, is quite cool, but last I checked the Cromags didn’t really fight on horseback. His dossier had no name, NULL class, or number. There are no Gamma, Beta, or Alpha NULL OCs I’ve received with the number ‘32′ that was mentioned in his bio. Wish I had more to say, but it feels like I fell asleep in history class and only caught the last three minutes of an hour-long lecture.

— 

Alpha 22 by @nbsmgnm

As an Alpha-series cadet, poor Antonio saw action in the opening weeks of the Cromag conflict—before the NULL program became semi-public knowledge, before the “child killings” were in the Second District papers and protest signs, and long before the introduction of Gamma NULL, who didn’t much care who they killed. 

When an enemy sniper had his squad pinned down from a high forest ridge, Antonio was ordered to flank them while the others drew their fire. Tactically, it was sound: he was the smallest and thus stealthiest member of the team. But what he found was  a Cromag child prone in the grass, barefoot and scanning the jungle treeline with a rifle far twice his size. A boy or girl, he couldn’t tell nor recall afterwards, for the next thing he remembered was being pulled off their mutilated corpse, his fingers around a bloodied combat knife and voice hoarse from screaming. 

His commander patted him on the back and congratulated for a job well done, ignoring the bloodshot terror in his eyes. For weeks after he was plagued by nightmares, his hands awash in red and multicolored eyes, so many eyes, staring from the jungle in all directions. 

His death would later be ruled as a suicide. He would not be the last.

—

Gamma 44, “Luminous” by @hieroparsley

Sometimes, one of the best reasons to keep fighting is for another person—not a partner in crime, but someone to protect. At some point, Luminous was as her ward Anomaly is now: aimless and regretful, fearing for their life but lacking any reason to keep living. Since Luminous took care of the government agents who had tracked Anomaly from her Third District apartment and hacker lair, the two have been evading their watchful eye ever since. 

Sometimes their friendship is marred by arguments over what to do with Anomaly’s data on the NULL project: Luminous seeks to disseminate it to the public, either via the cybernet or print, while Anomaly argues for simply destroying the data, in the meager hopes it will save them from the government crosshairs. But Luminous has seen what they’re capable of; she remembers torching the homes of Cromag ‘collaborators’ even after they housed and sheltered New Meccan troops. Forgiveness is not in their vocabulary.

— 

Anomaly by @hieroparsley

—

And, at last, we’re done. 

Over the past month, it’s been great seeing not only the diverse and interesting backstories various artists derived from the scant details of Katana ZERO’s world, but also the friendships that sprang up between fan artists, drawing tributes of each other’s OCs befriending/antagonizing one another and creating an immersive world of NULL just under New Mecca’s surface. It’s been a magical thing to witness, and I hope it continues

A deep thank-you to everyone who submitted their OC to this multi-series showcase, and I’m sorry if it took until now to see your character featured. I needed to save some of the best for last!

I originally planned this event as a finale for the Katana ZERO Fan Art Fridays, but since people seem to be enjoying them, next week I’ll be returning to ‘theme weeks’ for a regular schedule. 

Truly, we are...”all the warriors”!

By @wqwrppwu

[empresskatariah]

The Kilted Cat: An In-Depth Review

The Kilted Cat is a charming establishment, so charming in fact that to call it a bar seems insulting. As soon as I entered the place it felt as if I’d stepped into another world entirely; the interior is decorated to resemble a classic Scottish pub and great care has been taken to integrate modern technology without compromising the aesthetic. I was immediately greeted by a server, Mika, as well as the bartender, a striking woman named Ciara. The tables were all perfectly clean, but I elected to sit at the bar in order to receive the “up close and personal” experience. A smart choice on my part, for the owner was inspecting some of the equipment and took it upon himself to greet me personally!

Ossian Irvine, who insisted I call him Oz instead of Mr. Irvine, was all too happy to sit beside me and recommend items from the menu. On his suggestion I ordered a 20-ounce Scottish ale, which turned out to be a very wise decision. While I was drinking I noticed some unusually well-dressed customers sitting at a nearby table casting annoyed glances in my direction, as if I had interrupted something important, but Oz assured me my presence was far from unwanted. In fact, he went to speak to the customers himself and they left soon after, apparently having paid for their fare before I arrived.

We resumed our conversation when he returned to his seat, discussing the various difficulties of importing foods from overseas until my order arrived – Scotch pie with a side of neeps and tatties (for my confused fellow Americans: turnips and potatoes). While Oz had recommended I stick to the happy hour menu, which featured items more appealing to American tastes (like fish and chips), I was after the authentic Scottish experience and that was exactly what I received! I have never been so happy in my life to have eaten minced mutton. Both Oz and Ciara applauded my dedication and threw in a free refill of my ale, which was greatly appreciated.

To my surprise, Oz admitted that the Kilted Cat has been struggling to bring in customers, mostly due to its out-of-the-way location and the recent influx of chain restaurants to the area. I was further surprised to learn that Oz opened the Kilted Cat himself thirty years ago and has worked tirelessly to ensure it stays in business. When I gave the interior another good look, I realized that the level of attention to detail and authenticity is truly a testament to this man’s love for his pub. His humility when I admitted as much was endearing; he may be tall and stout, but his heart is undoubtedly the biggest part of him.

For those of you who love sports, you’ll be pleased to know that the Kilted Cat sports four televisions. For those of you who love homey atmosphere and a warm place to go in the winter, you’ll be pleased to know there’s a brick fireplace with several comfortable chairs surrounding the hearth. There’s a dart board, a juke box and crossword sheets to keep you busy during rush hour when the wait might be longer than usual. Oz has acquired a generous amount of curiosities for you to look at from your seat, including mounted swords and shields, animal heads, antique platters and other well-aged curios. The bathrooms are kept clean and there’s a rack in the entryway for you to hang your coat if you so desire.

When I told him I intended to post a review of his establishment, Oz seemed flustered but quickly warmed up to my intention of bringing him more business. I get the feeling the Kilted Cat has gone far too long without decent media exposure; in fact, I don’t recall seeing a single advertisement for the place beyond the sign that drew me in as I drove down the road feeling hungry. I consider this a crying shame! It’s almost as if someone wants this lovely little gem to remain hidden, nestled behind strip malls and fast food restaurants. Curiously, the few online references to the Kilted Cat seem ominous to the point of ridiculousness, anonymous reviewers citing things like “too many eyes” and mentioning some kind of “court,” which I can only assume boils down to some strange practical joke. To those of you spreading misinformation about this adorable place: shame on you!!!

Overall, my final verdict on the Kilted Cat is this: it’s tidy, efficient, welcoming, and the food is excellent. What’s not to love? The service was top-notch and the man behind the magic was a lovely host. If you’re looking for something different, be sure to check out this Scottish-style pub with its trademark wooden sign featuring a black cat wearing a tartan. You won’t regret a cent spent on your time there!

-

Kelly Conway is a self-professed amateur food blogger and restaurant reviewer who focuses on less popular venues.

[kuraiamore]

Gintama fic, Pay your workers fair wage or they’ll start a revolution!!

pairing: Gen

fandom: Gintama

rating: T

summary: Come experience a typical day in the Yorozuya office! Meet the team that makes the magic happen! Find out what it's like to be a member of a fantastic Odd Jobs team!

(In case of emergencies, please head to the Back Arrow button located on the top left-hand corner of your internet browser page.)

(This fanfiction takes no responsibility for any failed expectations on behalf of the reader. Terms and Conditions apply. See your local pro-fanfiction Tumblr post for details.)

notes: Very Very Very belated bday fic for @first-quarter-of-the-moon . This wonderful human being, whose friendship I’m so grateful to have stumbled across in this tiny fandom of shithead samurai, asked for a fic with a pun on the word “glasses”. I’ve no idea if I managed to pull it off, but nevertheless, here it is and I hope you enjoy it even if it is months late<3 <3 <3

ao3 or read below.

It's a quiet day in the Yorozuya office-cum-household-apartment; no jobs, no clients, no day-saving adventure to embark on for one to take pride in one’s life-and-career path as a Can-Do-All, NEET Samurai and Friends Pty Ltd., Odd Jobs™ business. The sort of day where face-planting on the desk for catnaps is considered high productivity and the walk from the couch to the fridge for a well earned snack after doing nothing for an hour is worthy of office-cum-household-apartment bragging rights.

So really, it's like every other day when they're not out disastrously, fantastically doing some combination of saving the world from mad aliens, accidentally joining forces with an assortment of oddball characters who really ought to get some life counselling, travelling through interdimensional planes of existence on ridiculously wacky adventures, or whatever have you, instead of actually, you know, making the required revenue to run a profitable business.

In other words: a standard Yorozuya working day.

At this current point in time, momentarily unaware of the literal office tour taking place for the convenience of this tired narrator, the self-made boss of the Yorozuya is seated at his desk, last week’s copy of Shounen Jump fanned out in a roof over the top of his head. His two young employees-in-training-slash-unofficially-adopted-children are lounging about the main room, one on each of the twin couches framing the apartment-cum-office’s only coffee table. The small, rickety thing has its worn, scratched-marked surface covered with evidence of the day’s work: magazines and dirty tea and coffee mugs. Advertisement catalogues, cooking magazines, idol pop magazines, sports magazines, cars, fashion, home real estate, and everything beyond and in between build up a veritable paper fortress blocking either couch camp from each other.

Odd Jobs™ business, you see; gotta be ready to deal with anything and everything.

As usual on these lazy working days, the trio that make up the Yorozuya spend more time making indulgent commentary on their reading material than actually reading the material itself. Then again, it could only be expected; none of trio have spent any considerable amount of time in school on account of their traumatic backstories which this tired narrator will ask both the beloved characters and readers to conveniently ignore for the sake for easy comedy, and so the expectation that any of them would seriously engage in any real, productive work is entirely preposterous, like seriously, what did you expect, we all know these characters are as dumb as bricks and—

“Hey, some people are trying to read here!” Kagura yells.

“Quiet, Kagura,” Gintoki say, an apathetic tone and expression in his voice and face reminiscent of old men working middle management roles that have no end-of-year bonuses or promotions to look forward to, “the boss is in the middle of important business and needs all his concentration.”

“A proper boss who has important work to do would be doing the work instead of wasting everyone’s time nagging at his employees,” Kagura bites back.

“Well you wouldn't know because you're not a boss, are you?”

“Miss Teen Idol says I am!” Tossing aside the magazine she's currently reading, Kagura tears through the paper fortress like a hurricane uprooting and scattering cities into the skies.

“Oieee!” Shinpachi yells, as his perfectly stacked tower of magazines with Otsuu’s name and face on the front cover, however big or small or scandalously associated, goes toppling over. “Don't worry, Otsuu-chan, I'll save you!”

The broken fortress becomes a battleground, hands and magazines flying as (thankfully empty) cups fall over. It's a battle of speed and precision, Kagura attacking with her rummage-glance-throw-away technique against Shinpachi’s valiant defence in protecting creases and wrinkles from Otsuu-chan’s face.

“Ah-ha!” Kagura crows later, after two minutes of constant barrage. Her arm swings wildly above her head in triumph, the magazine clutched in her hand waving like a banner of victory.

Gintoki yawns without bothering to cover his mouth. There's an empty cup of pudding on the side of his desk that he eyes mournfully. It had been the last one in the fridge, now serving as an ineffective paperweight to last month's overdue gas bill. He’ll have to go buy more soon, lest he suffer from sugar withdrawal. Maybe some of those new jelly-filled chocolate bites he saw at the convenience store too while he's at it.

But then again, a new ice cream parlour had opened two weeks ago, just twenty minutes away by foot from the Yorozuya office.

And he also dimly remembers a commercial from last night's re-run of My Pretty Kitty Takes Over The World, featuring some wildberry confectionery shaped into wearable cat ears.

Gintoki’s still daydreaming sugar-coated dreams when Kagura smacks her magazine onto his desk. The wave of air that comes fanning out from the two-page spread is so violent, it tickles his nose and sends his fringe billowing out around his face.

“Here!” Kagura points to the page she's opened up, revealing a blazing red title asking, ‘Are you Beauty, Brains, or Brawn? Find out your best attribute to win over the Man and Job of Your Dreams!’

Shinpachi joins them at the desk, scanning the heading with a frown. “Why is it ‘Man’ and ‘Job’?” he wonders aloud. “Since when did relationships and careers have anything to do with each other? They’re are totally different things.”

“What are you talking about, Shinpachi? Don’t you know that dealing with men is a full time job?”

“That's right,” Gintoki agrees, nodding along, “men are scum.”

“Yup, yup. They're a parasite on the industry of life. Oi, boss, you should give me a raise for all the effort and overtime I put in dealing with the scum in our workplace.”

“Sorry,” Gintoki says, “the agreement of the contract you signed stipulates that wage raises can only be considered after gaining a minimum of ten years’ experience in your working role.”

“Oh,” Kagura says, complete lack of understanding on her blank face. She shrugs. “Okay then.”

“Wait but we never signed a contract!” Shinpachi says, perplexed.

“What do you call that then?” Gintoki says, throwing his thumb out behind his shoulder.

Shinpachi follows the invisible line to a copy of one of their old advertisement flyers stuck on wall behind the desk. It's instantly recognisable, featuring three handprints and one paw print haphazardly framed around a picture of the Yorozuya team.

A prickly, tingly feeling rushes through his chest—it might be bad business manipulation at its best, but Shinpachi can’t find it in himself to argue against that. He clears his throat.

“In any case,” he says, “the quiz is clearly making the mistake of lumping the two together!”

“Now, now, Shinpachi,” Gintoki interrupts, back in that deliberately overemphasised, sagely, rather quite condescending tone, “it is merely your youth and inexperience with adult matters that make you think that way. You see, the office or workplace romance is the most intense and thrilling romantic experience the ordinary human will have in their measly lifetime. Therefore when a person takes on a job, they’re investing not just in their career and financial stability, but also in the promise of a lifetime partner. That’s what people mean when they talk about being married to work!”

“Gin-san, I don’t think that’s what that means at all, and anyway, you’ve never worked in an office or workplace with other people in your life!”

“You wound me, Patsuan. How do you think I got this far, CEO of my own business with one hundred percent employee loyalty at the prime young age of twenty-eight, if I didn’t have a lifetime of experience dealing with the intricacies of workplace liaisons, huh?”

“Gin-san, you have two underaged employees which I’m sure counts as child labour exploitation, and you never paid the registration fee for the business registration application. I’m pretty sure that the Yorozuya is technically an illegal operation.”

Immediately, Gintoki turns around and closes the window blinds. The room goes quiet as the possibly illegal boss and his two employees glance furtively around them to make sure they hadn't been overheard by any men in black suits who just happened to be creeping around for no reason other than the wacky slice-of-life genre specification.

“Oi, oi,” Gintoki says after a moment, with a shaky laugh, “don't joke about that, Shinpachi-kun. What kind of role model would we be to all our lovely viewers watching and reading us if they thought we were an illegal business? Sunrise would have our heads!”

“It's okay, Gin-chan,” Kagura goes to reassure him, “the only people watching this sketchy anime and reading its sketchy fanfiction are probably sketchy people themselves already.”

“That's right!” Shinpachi adds helpfully, though his neck still cranes around as if looking for hidden microphones and cameras. “Besides, even if we were illegal—which we're not!—then they would still know better than to waste their time coming after us. We're so poor, we wouldn't be able to pay the bail out money anyway! If anything, they should be targeting those multi mega corporations that do way more sketchy stuff! Like tax evasion!”

“And Amanto discrimination!” Kagura adds.

“And killing the environment!”

“And disrupting the view with their giant billboards!”

“And taking advantage of the working class to fuel their corrupt profits!” Shinpachi cries in heated passion, slapping his hand on the table.

“And increasing the price of pudding by ¥240 so Gin-san can only afford to have his sugar intake three times a week instead of four!” Gintoki joins.

“Um, Gin-san, that's not—"

“Down with capitalism!” Kagura cries, jumping back onto her couch and rising one fist into the air while her other hand still clutching the magazine waves it again like a great banner. “Come comrades! Let us take down the abominable bosses and factory managers who exploit the good-hearted working citizens!”

The magazine gets rolled up and becomes a baton which now points accusingly towards the Yorozuya boss. Gintoki looks to his left, and his right, and seeing no one on either side of him, points a finger to his own mug and mouths, “Who, me?”

“Rise up!” Kagura continues with her impassioned call, turning back to her audience of one. Shinpachi hears the call solemnly, eyes burning with the bright rage of workers’ rights. “Rise up and take down the evil corporations and greedy CEOs and business owners who use their money to hoard all the good things to themselves and never leave the sesame-flavoured subonku for the common folk!”

“Well if someone didn't spend all their money on monthly pork barbeque bun sales, they might have enough left over to buy sesame-flavoured subonku whenever the stores have them in stock!”

“But Gin-chan, two pork barbeque buns for the price of one!”

Shinpachi coughs delicately. “You have to admit, Gin-san, it is a very good deal.” Aside to himself, he mumbles, “they’ve saved me more times than I can count,” and hopes Tae never finds his stash of frozen pork barbeque buns he sneaks out at midnight when dark matter dinners prove too much for his stomach to handle.

“What are you two, video game characters who can only revive their health with pork barbeque buns?” Gintoki grouches, then leans back on his fake leather and plastic desk chair. “Ahhh, but really, society is scum. All those flashy, money-grabbing advertisements and media turning the free-thinking man into a mindless drone. Bah!”

“Well,” Shinpachi hedges, fidgeting with the Otsuu-chan NekoNeko double spread special open in front of him, “maybe it's not all so bad…”

“Eh? Don't tell me they've caught you already, Pachi-boy! Those sirens, always luring in the innocent cherry boys with their wily charms and pretty faces! Cover your ears, Shinpachi, before you drown!”

Shinpachi’s face turns bright red as it always does when reminded of his cherry-boy status, like soup that someone put beetroot in and left on the stove for too long so all the vegetables became a mushy red mess like a bloody murder scene like someone dropping a basket of actual ripe, red cherries.

“Like the bright flag of revolution!” Kagura adds to the overly extended and entirely nonsensical metaphor, waving her magazine again even though the front cover is yellow.

For all the embarrassing state of their being, the fantasies of cherry boys cannot be underestimated: in a split second, Shinpachi finds himself in the grip of a fervoured daydream where he's leading the pop idol revolution, Otsuu’s grateful, adoring eyes centred upon him from her Queen Idol throne made from glittery microphones and album awards, while he stands bearing her image and flag upon the conquered mountain of her rivals’ platinum albums and singles. Shaking himself free of this intoxicating dream takes truly the will of only the most stout-hearted and tenacious of samurai, but Shinpachi has always been deceptively strong, underestimated as he is by his otaku appearance.

“No, that's not what I meant!” he says vehemently, crossing his arms over his chest. “It has nothing to do with cherry boys, or rather, not only to do with cherry boys! Yes, the capitalist market may be a money-grabbing, exploitative, manipulative, marginalising machine"—he takes a deep breath here, having run out of air after his string of long, multisyllabic words—“but you can't deny that it's also given some people the chance to achieve their dreams, and in that way, helped inspire others too!” He gazes lovingly at his Otsuu spread, conveniently ignoring the headline to the side exclaiming, ‘Otsuu production company bankrupt?! Employee scandal!!’

“Ahhh,” Gintoki says in a bored, dry voice, “that was sure quick of you to swap sides there, Shinpachi. You went from glass half-empty to glass half-full in, what, less time than it takes for a teenage boy to hide his dirty magazines when his mum unexpectedly bursts through his bedroom door. What, you playing double glasses or something? Doubles G’s? Is that what you're into, Shinpachi?” Gintoki tuts, shaking his head. “Teenage boys are so greedy, always thinking more is better. No wonder they make such good prey for those dirty media companies. It's okay, Shinpachi, you'll learn, you'll learn.”

Shinpachi splutters, the thought of double G’s such a force against the foundations of his feeble cherry boy mind that he cannot pull out his defences. Taking advantage of the moment, Kagura jumps in with a question.

“What are you talking about, Gin-chan?” she says. “Shinpachi has always had two glasses. Like a pair of glasses! G. G.!”

She crooks her thumbs to her forefingers, touching the tips together so they make a pair of circles just the right size to peer out of, and presses them to her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a group of broke university students break out into a flashmob, a chorus of ‘G’s and ‘baby’s rising up while a crowd of people just trying to reach the end of the street look on in confusion.

“Bless you,” Gintoki says, while Kagura continues to blink owlishly out of her literally hand-made glasses.

“My glasses look nothing like that,” Shinpachi complains to Kagura, because that is far safer than remaining in the grips of a Double-G dream. (Already he has had to discreetly wipe away the trickle of blood from his nose while Kagura and Gintoki were busy fooling around.)

“Of course not,” Gintoki reassures, “your glasses look like those cheap, mass-produced products that break and fail you right when you need them.”

“Well maybe if you actually paid us a living wage, I could afford brand glasses if mine offend your sensibilities so much!”

“For someone who’s only just over legal working age, you sure have high expectations!”

“You're not even paying me minimum wage, I could report you, you know!”

“Oh yeah? Report me to who? The boss?” Gintoki snorts, waving a dismissive hand.

Shinpachi’s nostrils flare, eyebrows drawing together in an angry line.

“I'll report you to… to… to the industry union!”

Gintoki laughs an evil, corporate laugh. “What industry union? The Odd Jobs union? Ha! Good luck with that! Even if one existed, it would never get anything done because its members would be too busy looking for odd jobs to make their daily living!”

Kagura’s eyes flash. “Pachi-boy, let's start a union!” she says, though what a fourteen year old alien would know about industry unions, the never-ending battle for workers’ rights, petitions, rallies, strikes and other various union organisation stuffs remains an unanswered question. Still, one couldn't fault her enthusiasm.

Unexpectedly, in utter abandonment of his straight man role, Shinpachi jumps onto the idea.

“Yes!” he says. “We can invite all the other Odd Jobs teams from the anime crossovers we have! ‘Odd Jobs’ is such a well known and overused trope, I'm sure there will be plenty who will want to join us!”

“The Odd Jobs industry revolution!” Kagura bellows, arms spread out wide like she’s presenting a magic trick. “Led by the Yorozuya!”

“O-Oi!” Suddenly faced with a revolution and overzealous employees, Gintoki has no idea what to do.

Luckily for him, right at that moment, the phone rings. Its noisy call goes on for two ring cycles, cutting through and silencing all conversation in the room, before Gintoki wipes out a hand to pick up the receiver. Suddenly Kagura and Shinpachi are pressed right up against his side, intense looks on their faces as they eavesdrop on the call, union revolution promptly forgotten at the prospect of a new job.

“Hello, you've reached Yorozuya Gin-chan, how may I help you? Yes, a job? Right now? You're desperate? Of course, of course, that's what the Yorozuya are here for! What exactly…? Yes. Uh-huh. Uh-huh, of course, yes.” As he listens to the job details, Gintoki catches the gaze of his employees and does a fist pump in the air. Kagura and Shinpachi grin at him and return the gesture. “...Yes, just leave it to us! We'll be down there before you can blink!”

With that, he hangs up the phone, pushes back his chair and stands, grabbing his bokutou and slipping it into his belt with a smooth motion.

“Alright, people!” he says, turning around to look down at Kagura and Shinpachi. “We've been called and now we got a job to do. Tell me: Are the Yorozuya ready to put their all, to go beyond, plus ultra—"

Shinpachi sighs; of course they couldn't get away without referencing another anime. He hopes at least with fanfiction’s grey legality, they won't be sued or have to cop another lecture about copyright laws from Sunrise.

“—to deliver the best Odd Jobs service to our dear and valuable clientele?”

“Yes!” comes the enthusiastic response, Kagura and Shinpachi standing with straight backs bearing their pride and excitement as a true Yorozuya member.

Gintoki cups his hand over his ear, leaning forward. “I said, are you ready?!”

“Yes!”

A short, approving nod. “Alright. Yorozuya Gin-chan, move out!”

[somecrazylads-a-blog]

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name -  Patrick J. Finch / Fenrisulfr / Fenris / Hróðvitnir / Vánagandr Eye colour -  Ice blue; looks much paler than it actually is when he’s looking directly into sunlight; looks like actual ices due to the parts in the iris where it looks like cracks in the surface of a frozen pond Hair style / colour - Blonde, something between wavy and straight, too short to really be wavy, but not straight enough to be straight; usually just fixed with a quick hair ruffle and rarely properly styled; only gels his fringe back during gala occasions. Height -  178-9cm, 5′8′‘ apparently, I never claimed he was tall <w< Clothing style -  Casual things, usually. He does not like suits even though the suit him (heh), but he doesn’t like wearing all too loose stuff. So he usually opts for a cardigan, a sweatshirt, or a flannel worn over a t-shirt. He likes black but can often be seen wearing other dark colours such as dark green, or grey, can be often seen only wearing trousers that are dark in tone, and never will you catch him wearing jeans, he hates jeans. He’s always wearing long-sleeved things due to... reasons. And he also loves hoodies, but to cuddle in rather than wearing them out and about. He never leaves home without his black coat. Best physical feature:  His eyes. Piercing pale blue, can give the feeling of having all your secrets exposed to him, or like you’re the only thing that matters in the whole entire world. He has incredibly expressive eyes, and they speak for him even when he doesn’t want to. He’s also got pretty eye-lashes to make looking up from below them a sight.

LAYER TWO : THE INSIDE

Fears -  Captivity, solitary confinement, anything that means he’s trapped has no control over the situation and is left alone with his own mind. Guilty pleasure -  Anything that is ridiculously sweet and sugary. He cares about his teeth and keeping them clean and strong (as a wolf, they’re his pride and joy), but sometimes he just really needs to bite into a jelly bean or one of those sugary worms or those really long red thingies that I can’t find the name of. Biggest pet peeve -  Miscommunication and misunderstanding stemming from miscommunication. It’s so easy to open someone’s damn mouth and just talk about things (even though, really, looking at his behaviour, he’s a damn hypocrite), and it’s incredibly frustrating to watch relationships fall apart because someone heard something but didn’t care to ask. Ambitions for the future -  None, none he can really talk about. Patrick lives his life ‘carpe diem’ style. He rarely plans ahead, and when he does, it’s not for the future, but just for the success of a deal or the enjoyment of screwing someone over.

LAYER THREE : THOUGHTS

First thoughts upon waking up: It’s probably the purest form of frustration leading into resignation. Waking up for him means another day he has to spend being alive, in which he has to do things that don’t matter, and has to live on pretending he’d rather not. So his first thoughts aare usually spent on that, on getting himself out of bed, on a bit of self-pity to indulge in. Then he sighs and gets up. What you think about most: Life. Living, dying, actions that matter, actions that don’t. Looking at the past, and looking at the future. He thinks about humans, thinks about choices, thinks about how they go about their life, thinks about the way he’s similar to them, about the way he isn’t. He thinks about what he can do to make being alive a bit more interesting in that moment. What you think about before bed: If he can help it, nothing. He likes to not think when he’s going to bed, but to just watch. He watches the world move. And tries to not think. What your best quality is -  Patience, probably. He’s willing to wait to understand a motif, he’s willing to wait for people, for an answer, for the right choice. He’s been alive for so long, the only thing he’s impatient for is Death.

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER ?

Single or group dates -  Single. To be loved or respected -  You can’t really have one without the other, otherwise, something would be lacking. But respect before love, because he doesn’t want to be loved before he is respected. Beauty or brains -  A healthy combination of both, but he doesn’t mind if the brains exceed the beauty. Dogs or cats -  Cats, which is also his Celtic zodiac sign atm.

LAYER FIVE : DO YOU …

Lie -  Yes. In some cases, he lies as a default. It’s both a defence mechanism and an actual rational tool to survive. On one side it’s compulsive to protect his heart, on the other he works in the supernatural and illegal world so, being always honest there would be idiotic. Believe in yourself -  He believes in his mental strength, in his skills at his job, and his strength as the Fenrisulfr But he does not believe in his emotions or heart. Believe in love -  He’d like to. Want someone -  Not up until very recently. Or actually, since always. But it’s an unattainable dream that just makes him frustrated.

LAYER SIX : EVER BEEN …

Been on stage:  Yes, he was a theatre kid. Done drugs:  No, but it depends on who you ask. Changed who you were to fit in:  He’s a con-man to survive as an informant, he’s been involved in heists and the hunt of people who owed debts, so... I’d say, yes.

LAYER SEVEN : FAVORITES

Favourite color -  Red, I think, which surprises me. He rarely wears it. Favourite animal -  All of them, he’s a big animal guy. Favourite movie -  I can’t say! Maybe something fantastical like Narnia or LOTR.  favourite game -  Fifa because there’s no plot and he can enjoy a sport he likes.

LAYER EIGHT : AGE

Day your next birthday will be -  February 16th How old will you be -  Technically 31, but he’s stuck at 29 so- Age you lost your virginity -  Still a virgin. Does age matter -  It matters most in relationships and the amount of pressure you can put on a person.

LAYER NINE : IN A PERSON

Best personality - There’s too many to pick from, but he enjoys warm people. People who can see the good in others without being too in your face about their optimism. People ho understand what it’s like to be hurt and respect your boundaries even if they do’t understand them. People who are gentle but not a 100% forgiving. Best eye colour -  He’d like to say he doesn’t, but brown. Best hair colour -  Darker colours as well. Best thing to do with a partner - Be with, physically. Be in each other’s presence, talking maybe, confirming one another’s existence without feeling pressured to.

LAYER TEN : FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love - nothing completely I feel -  frustrated and resigned at the same time, desperate. I hide -  everything. I miss -  not knowing who I am. I wish -  I could put an end to this.

Tagged by: @circumspects I SAW THIS THREE YEARS LATE I’M SO SORRY Tagging: @littlcstarling  @dcmnation @intergalacticxmisfits @pvlchritudine @haebxtna @inkedxwings ;3 for whoever you prefer!

[everlark-your-own-adventure]

Mockingjay Manor - Ch 1

Revived from the dead after a wee bit of technical difficulty... Welcome to round two of everlark-your-own-adventure!

We kick this round off in style, courtesy of the hilarious and talented @burkygirl (with an assist from @xerxia31). You have 48 hours to vote on the direction of the next chapter of the story (until noon EDT on Thursday, August 31st). Remember: vote in the comments, not in the tags! And don’t forget to spread the word by reblogging. The more fans playing this game, the more fun it will be!

My skirt is crawling up again. I twitch it back into place and shift uncomfortably in my chair in the lawyer’s office. I’m not sure why I’m here, really. Haymitch Abernathy was my uncle, but mostly he was just an annoying pain in my ass who spent family diners criticizing my decisions from the other side of his highball glass.

So when his lawyer called after his funeral and said my presence was needed at the reading of his will, I was floored. At best, Haymitch only tolerated me. Why in God’s name he’d leave anything to me while that crazy wife of his had her claws firmly clenched on the wallet where he kept his dotcom millions was a complete mystery. I’d immediately decided not to go. The lawyer could call me later.

The reason for my change of mind is sitting right beside me, holding my hand and projecting an aura of confidence while Effie, Haymitch’s wife, covertly sneaks glances in our direction and thinly veils her irritation at our presence.

Peeta convinced me that it was disrespectful to not attend the reading if I’d been asked to be there, but honestly, I think he just wanted a front seat to the drama. The corner of his mouth twitches every time he catches Aunt Effie staring at us. If she was only looking at him, I’d understand. My boyfriend, with his brawny physique and golden hair, looks hot in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, but he’s devastating in his navy sports jacket, white shirt and orange tie. He shifts in his chair and winks at me. The shit. He’s loving every second of Eff-zilla’s reaction to our attendance.

I don't have time to give him the flinty-eyed stare of death he deserves though, because Haymitch’s lawyer, Plutarch Heavensbee, enters the room. Aunt Effie immediately dissolves into paroxysms of grief, bawling into the shoulder of her “best friend” Seneca Crane. Her blonde updo bobbles as her surgically altered chest heaves. It's ridiculous. The man is in the ground. It makes no sense to pretend she loved him more than she loved his money at this point. Then again, Aunt Effie has always been all about keeping up appearances.

Peeta leans over to me. “How much do you wanna bet Seneca knows Effie’s natural hair colour?” For putting that revolting picture in my mind, I ignore the lawyer's presence and shoot Peeta the death glare on full power. He just snickers.

Plutarch pats Aunt Effie on the shoulder as he passes by and then settles down at his desk before perching a pair of reading glasses on the end of his bulbous nose.

“Ah, yes, let's see. The Last Will and Testament of Haymitch Harold Abernathy. I, Haymitch Harold Abernathy, being of sound mind and body, declare that this is my last will and Testament.” Heavensbee reads through all of the preamble that appoints him as executor and gives him the ability to pay any outstanding debts, defend the estate from lawsuits, blah, blah blah. I tune most of it out, but Aunt Effie is definitely listening, batting her fake eyelashes at the lawyer who continues to drone on. Peeta’s eyes glaze over as well, his thumb idly stroking the back of my hand.

Heavensbee clears his throat bringing all eyes back on him. The red tips of Aunt Effie’s fingernails clutch at her purse.

“To my wife, Euphemia Trinket Abernathy, I bequeath the home we shared on Merchant Street in Capitol City, and all of its contents.” Aunt Effie beams and Seneca wraps his arm around her and gives her a squeeze. Plutarch continues. “All of my remaining assets including stocks, bonds and properties are to be liquidated with the exception of Mockingjay Manor, located at 1212 Seam Street in Panem. I leave fifty percent of the liquidated funds to my wife as this is the amount I would have been required to pay her upon our divorce.”

A squawk of outrage fills the room. Aunt Effie jumps to her feet. “He cannot have been of sound mind when he made this will. I will contest it!”

Plutarch levels a stare at Aunt Effie that has Seneca shushing her and urging her back into her chair. When she’s quiet again, he resumes. “I also leave my wife a copy of the results of an investigation by Boggs and Jackson Private Investigation Services and I remind her that the dining room table is mahogany and deserved better treatment than it received in those photos.”

Aunt Effie’s hands are shaking when she accepts the envelope from Plutarch. When Seneca tries to console her, she slaps him with it. Peeta bites down on his lip while his shoulders shake in mirth and I slap my hand over my mouth, unsuccessfully feigning shock and laughing behind it instead. Aunt Effie doesn’t notice. The woman is so angry, I swear she’s grinding her teeth into sharp points.

Plutarch turns to me. “I bequeath Mockingjay Manor to my favourite niece, Katniss Everdeen, along with five hundred thousand dollars for its repair and restoration. Should she be successful in so doing, the remaining fifty per cent of my estate, less the renovation money, shall pass to her. If she refuses my offer or is unable to complete the restoration in six months, the remainder of my estate shall pass to my wife.”

Peeta is whispering to me excitedly, but I can’t hear him. My heart is in my throat. Half a million dollars. A house. More if I can renovate it in six months. My mouth is full of cotton and my mind is whirling. Aunt Effie swirls towards the door in a cloud of perfume and fury. The woman needs a cape. Or a broomstick.

“You will be hearing from my lawyer, Plutarch,” she threatens.

Plutarch, who is holding the door for her, sighs. “Effie, Haymitch’s estate is worth well over a hundred million dollars. You have been very well provided for, and if Katniss is unsuccessful in her project you will receive it all.” She harrumphs one last time and then she’s gone.

By the time Plutarch reaches my side I’m having a fully flown panic attack. Peeta is rubbing my back and reminding me to breathe. Fifty million dollars? What the hell am I going to do with that much money? Right now, I’d be lucky to have fifty bucks in the bank.

Plutarch hands me an envelope. “Here is the deed to the house and a letter from your uncle. I suggest you read it over, and let me know your decision.”

I don’t open the envelope until I get to Peeta’s car.

“That was crazy. Are you feeling better?” he asks.

My head is still shaking ‘no’ when I rip into Haymitch’s letter:

Sweetheart,

We’re enough alike that I’m sure you’re still processing my decision to leave you the house. It’s true that you’re my favourite. I wouldn’t have given you so much grief if I didn’t like you. Mockingjay Manor was my first home, purchased with my first wife Maysilee, who died before you were born. After her death, I closed up the house and walked away. I need you to go back there and make things right for me. You’re the only person I know who’s strong enough to see it through. Take the boy. He’ll help you survive it.

Stay alive,

Haymitch

It’s just like Haymitch to write a letter like that. I’m not even surprised that he cooked up this kooky plan, just that he dragged me into it. I hand the letter to Peeta, who reads it in silence.

“What are you going to do?”

I tell him the only thing I know for sure. “We’re going to fix it.”

----EYOA----

“I used to be a werewolf, but I’m alright now-ow-ow-ow!” Our friend Finnick leans out the window of the car to howl at the full moon hanging high in the sky.

“Finnick, put your head in the car, are you crazy?”

“Not today,” he laughs, but gets back inside. “How much farther to this palace you inherited?”

Peeta checks the GPS. “Almost there.”

“Thank fuck,” complains Johanna, our other friend, who’s sharing the backseat with Finn. “Remind me again why I’m here?”

“Cause you’re hoping that when I’m a millionaire, I’ll share,” I remind her.

Johanna nods knowingly. “Ah yes, that is exactly why I’m doing this.”

Peeta turns onto Seam Street. “Watch for 1212, will you?”

The houses are older, but well kept, set far back from the road and surrounded by trees and gardens. The numbers jump rapidly. Eight hundred. Nine hundred. High on a hill, I spot a large white mansion with Grecian-style pillars and a manicured lawn that slopes gently toward the road. Rose bushes dot its landscape, their cloying stench wafting through the car’s open windows. Then the road bends sharply to the left, and the streetlamps disappear, leaving only the crappy headlights of Peeta’s ancient Jeep to cut through the gloom. “What the hell?” Finnick stops his song to curse. Peeta slows down to a crawl as the lights glint off a huge iron gate ahead of us in the darkness.

“I think this is it,” Peeta murmurs. Four moss-coated numbers hang precariously from the ornate but unlatched gate. One-two-one-two. He takes a deep breath before pulling through the entrance and down the driveway.

A huge manor house emerges from the shadows ahead of us, easily large enough to hold ten of the houses I was raised in. Unlike the other houses on Seam Street though, it exudes an air of abandonment and neglect. A deep shudder runs down my spine.

“Feels like something out of a Hitchcock movie,” Johanna grouses, but her normally acerbic tone has been tempered by obvious discomfort. I can’t help but agree. This place is definitely creepy.

The Jeep rolls to a stop at the base of a wide stone staircase, overgrown and crumbling in places. “Well,” Peeta says, and even he sounds apprehensive. “Here we are.” But no one moves. For several long moments, we all stare out the front window at the mansion on the hill. Once upon a time it must have been a beautiful home, with its wide porch and gorgeous stonework. But now it’s a wreck, dark and foreboding.

I’m starting to doubt that Haymitch left me this place because I was his favourite, and wondering if instead it was his idea of getting one last laugh at my expense. “I don’t know about this,” I mumble, finally giving voice to my unease. Beside me, Peeta huffs out a half laugh.

“Come on, Kat. We drove all this way. Let’s at least look around.” He sounds even less convinced than I do. Neither Finnick nor Jo are jumping in with encouragement either.

I could turn back now, pocket the restoration money and forget this crazy idea entirely. Five hundred thousand would go a long way with the simple way Peeta and I live. But if I do, then Effie gets the rest of Haymitch’s millions, which she definitely doesn't deserve.

It's a tough choice. Do we check out the house, despite my trepidation? Or do I forfeit a chance at fifty million dollars and get the hell out of this place?

[semicolonthefifth]

CROSS Ch6 - Call On Me (& I’ll Be There)

“You’ve had yourself a good rest there, Mr. Cross?” The Mayor asks, moving a bit to the side to allow Jason out from the doorway.

Jason tiredly replied, chuckling a bit, “Yeah. Had a good rest, I guess.”

“Wonderful!” The mayor laughed, “See, I was right to leave you under Ms. Collier’s expert hands. One of the best people we’ve had the privilege of living here, and a helpful hand in just about every circumstance. That woman is a miracle worker - a great addition to our lovely town! Oh, and what a town it is, Mr. Cross!”

He waves his hands, in such an exaggerated way that it was like a show performance. Rasmussen, with a confident smile and a pump of his hands, stepped back as he continued on, “Now I know you’ve had an unfortunate impression, but let me assure you that you’re under some good care. Few ever get a chance to be tagged along by yours truly, so consider yourself lucky! I know every good man and woman that lives in this here great town, and I’ve been with Blondie ever since it’s creation - and I’ve long held the title of mayor, because I’ve done and made it so great! So let me tell you, Mr. Cross, that despite what misfortune you’ve had, you’ll be coming into a much brighter, and greater place that’ll - guaranteed - see to that your needs are tended to. Now don’t that sound like a great deal?”

“The best deal I’ve ever had.” Lies Jason, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Excellent!” The mayor excitedly replies, “Then how about a quick tour? Shall we?”

With that the mayor starts proudly marching out.

Jason Cross follows along out of Ms. Collier’s home and onto the open dirt road that crosses through Blondie. Upon exiting, he discovered that the building he was leaving was a two storey tall hotel made of wood and metal sheets, with Collier’s home being at the very end of a long row. He gazed up, not only seeing a porch where several townsfolk stood, but also the Aurora sun shining down on him. Jason turned back to the surface, and gazed out to the rest of Blondie. There in the late morning, Jason could see the town much livelier than last night. He looked around the area - taking in the sights and personality of this Aurora town.

Blondie’s people had a certain fashion to them. Many of the men wore old minder’s jumpsuits, either cut, tucked, or modified to their own personal style. Sometimes he could see someone having shorter cut sleeves, or with top zipped down to let their skin breath more. Some of them had additions such as belts vests, desert coats or reinforced work pants. The women were much similar, with few sporting around a dress. There were some girls that wore a head-scarf or a hat to keep themselves covered from the sun, and others had on a poncho made from the same cloth material as the jumpsuits. For a lot of them though, there was that western aesthetic creeping into their attire, something that dug into Jason a certain way. He watched them all, either going about their own business or making some leave out from the town for an errand.

The town of Blondie itself was laid out like a T, with stamped down road cutting through two lines of buildings of varying heights, and the Saloon at the very end accompanied by two other structures. At the other end of the town was the storage-house, keeping safe all the food for the town behind 4 stone walls and a set of locked doors. Towards the West was a single guard tower, aimed right where the Black Road was, and was high enough to overlook the whole town and then some. Surrounding the town were various tents and small wooden houses - providing homes to those who can’t fit in the hotel. Of the buildings that lined the road, Jason could spot a good variety of shops and services.

As he scanned the town, Jason was then brought out of his thoughts by a loud smack on his shoulder, followed by the much louder talks of the mayor. Rasmussen grinned from ear to ear, and his glasses reflected a harsh light at Jason as he spoke up towards the man,

“Ain’t a town like Blondie! It’s a grand celebration of a colorful time in Earth history. A damn beaut’, don’t you agree?”

Jason shrugged, trying his best to bury an annoyed grimace that was about to come out. “She sure is.” He plainly commented.

“Ab-sol-utely!” The mayor exclaimed with sheer pride in his voice, “She is my pride and joy, almost like a daughter of my own. Built her up many years back with the help of some mighty fine folk. We bought off several shipments of wood and stone from Moresatta - sunk in a lot of money and left ourselves damn near broke, but it was worth it when we worked the nearby mines. Made a fortune three times over what we spent, and that was in the first year alone!”

“I’m familiar with the history.” Jason states, continuing as he dryly adds, “Didn’t the mines go empty though?”

“Psh! They ain’t empty!” The Mayor shoots, doing his best to keep a grin as he starts walking - with Jason following suit. Rasmussen continues, with hands brought up to grip the folds of his coat in a showy fashion. His tone was like a snake-oil salesman making his deal, but that almost seemed unintended. “Despite those nasty rumors, Blondie ain’t out of the mining business just yet! We’ve taken some missteps, sure, but with difficulty comes a chance to learn. We’ve slowly transformed this town and made it something that if possible - though unlikely - can last beyond the mines. We’ve invested into trade, and into establishing ourselves as one of the key stopping points from here to the big city. Like a lot of the best towns on the Black Road, we can adapt to face all odds that this planet throws at us!”

“Take, for instance, our many shops!” He declares, waving towards the businesses that line the road. Jason takes a moment to look them over, seeing a decent variety - which Rasmussen is all too happy to point out. “We’ve got your much important trade shop for all your many needs! Everything and anything is brought here, so much so I’ve had to grant Mr. Creedy extra room in the back just to store it all!” He laughs, almost forced but Jason was unsure if the guy was putting on a show or was that convinced of his ‘material’. Jason glances at the shop, with dusty windows with various scavenged or bought items being showcased. He could almost see an elderly couple doing inventory inside. Then Rasmussen continues,

“That right there is the Church of the Old Faiths. Wonderful place it is, to be personally honest with ya. Rented out to some good folk preserving the scriptures, and they hold a weekly group study and mass for the town. I’ve been there twice in the time they’ve been part of Blondie, and each time I come out happy to have let them here!”

The church was just a regular wooden shop lot, but in place of advertisements were signs informing passerbys the schedule of weekly mass, prayer groups, and teachings. At the door was an engraving of the Earth, and orbiting around it were all sorts of symbols: crosses; crescent moons; stars of varying pointed ends; and other such strange figures Jason couldn’t understand. As he and the mayor walked by, Jason could see an old hooded man in white, brown and black cloth robe walk out - with a hat dangling a ridiculous amount of metallic trinkets hanging off the brim. Jason walked a bit faster upon seeing that.

“Finally, for this little tour!” Rasmussen states with the highest of glees. “Our very own butcher’s shop! I can tell you, Mr. Cross, that Blondie’s lizard meats are freshly cut and expertly served for the best taste you can get! So that when you and your friends come to Blondie, the first three things that’ll come to mind will be: mines, drinks, and meat! You’ll be sure to have a taste, right?”

Jason comments, smiling truthfully, “Already had sir, and I got to admit it was certainly a welcome treat”, which prompted a glorious ‘excellent’ from the mayor. Jason then gave a quick glance at the butcher’s shop as they continued walking up the road. At the moment the place was closed, with a sign on the door telling it so. Looking through the windows he could see a selection of wrapped meats, all showcased before any passerbys.

 Eventually the two men stopped, just a short walk away from the Saloon where a small crowd is gathered. Jason could make out a sea of concern among all the faces there, with every man and woman talking amongst themselves - about the fight, the deaths, and the man who was there. Past the crowd he could see the bartender inside, sweeping away all the mess while he’s accompanied by Frankie and Charlie - who each give a glance at Jason, but are unable to meet him without going past all the townsfolk.

His attention is pulled away when Mayor Rasmussen lets out a sigh of frustration, “Ah dang it. I thought I told those folk to let it be. Didn’t mean to let you see this...”

Jason looks down at the Mayor, cocking his brow a bit as he talks plainly once more, “You thought we weren’t gonna talk about last night or something?”

“Nah, that ain’t it.” Rasmussen states, his excitement lost in place of some genuine concern, “Folks here ain’t had much experience with the uh… nastiness of the Black Road. Our wonderful town here has had the great fortune to be far enough aways from the banditry and violence spread out across the Road. I’ve seen to that and, might I add, have done a good job of it. Unfortunately that has left our people scared and confused of what to do in light of last night’s events.”

In a bit of honest sympathy, Jason says out calmly, “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean to bring any trouble here - really.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. Just a fact of life here.” Rasmussen replies, sighing greatly out of displeasure this time around. “Still, it’s a problem our town ain’t prepared to face. I’ve been trying to settle things down and calm everybody, but they’re all caught up and afraid of what’s going to happen. We got some folks saying they’ll be another attack, and that kinda talk gets in the way of the peace we got here.”

Jason is silent for a moment, thinking over the situation. He takes another peek at the crowd, feeling responsible for what he has brought to them. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel terrible about last night’s event before, but the sight of the people worrying about some bandits bothered him. Blondie was quiet - too quiet. Everyone here had gotten soft, and it didn’t seem like they were in the right attitude to deal with the more serious threats from the Road. To Jason though, this wasn’t a serious threat. A couple of gun-toting bandits? It’s not so different from what he’s faced before in his work. It would only be fair, for what these people did for him, to make sure they’re not threatened by this gang.

After some thinking, Jason says out to Rasmussen, “Tell ya what.”

Rasmussen looks up at Jason, as the young man continues.

“You guys did well enough to help me - I should do right on you all the same. I’ll handle your bandit problem.”

The Mayor’s lips curl and stretch into a grin, as he asks aloud, “You serious?”

“Serious as can be.”

Immediately, and with utter excitement, Rasmussen pumps his fists and starts to dance, all while he bellows out a tremendous, high pitched, “YEEEE-HAW! Now that right there is what I’m talkin’ about! YEEEAH-HOOOO!”

Jason began to scrunch up his face with the feeling of cringe building up. Seeing this short, pudgy, brightly-dressed man dance and scream brought memories up to Jason of his more youthful days: when he and his brother once bagged a difficult bounty that got them running across the road for three days straight. When they eventually caught the bastard, he and Fred decided for once to let out a “yee haw” like in the old videos. The roped up crook stared at them like they were a bunch of freaks off an asylum and right then began to laugh. Fred stared daggers at the man, while Jason gave him a punch to knock him out.

His attention returned back to the present when he saw Blondie’s mayor dancing still, with his knees bent and spread wide as he hops in place. Eventually he calms down just enough to stop dancing, but he’s still talking in full volume,

“Now son, normally I don’t get to Yee-Haw’, but damnit is this not the perfect opportunity for a Yee-Haw! I’m just loving what I’m hearing, and it’s such a pleasure to have you do this for us! This town is blessed to have someone of the Crimson Cross here, and we’ll be eternally grateful for you coming forward the way you did.” He calms further, no longer shouting but instead now enraptured with what he’s imagining, “I can see it now: you and your crew… riding from the hill-top to take the fight to those bandits! Revolvers and rifles shooting out every which way - had I the chance, I’d love to come with you for such a spectacular sight!”

Right then Jason urgently interrupts and covers his ass, saying, “Better I just handle this on my own, sir. A gang like this doesn’t need every member of the Cross coming in to deal with it.”

“Right right…” Replies Rasmussen, calmer now but still delighted. “Well, thanks nonetheless. You be safe now, alright? Oh, and better you explain this all to the folk over by the bar… better to hear it from a hero like yourself than their mayor. That ought to calm them down.”

“Sure…”

With that, Mayor Rasmussen leaves off to his post - trotting down the dirt road with an excited skip in his step. Jason watched, feeling absolutely relieved to no longer have that guy at his side. Then, with a quick turn, he heads off towards the crowd.

The crowd were still chatting amongst each other, with few and growing taking notice of Jason as he started to get close to them. One by one, then five and ten, began to turn their heads towards the tall, muscular man that was standing before them and the bar. Charlie and Frankie looked on too but were unable to do much with the crowd still between them and Jason. For a moment everyone had quieted down, and Jason could get a good look of their faces once again. The fear was present, among other expressions of concern and frustration. This kind of violence is far too uncommon for this place, and they’re all demanding something be done with it - especially when it’s hit about the only source of entertainment for miles.

Right before Jason could get a word in, a women among the crowd speaks out, “M-Mr. Frederick, Sir?”

The name felt like a sharp pinch at Jason’s side - a reminder of last night’s events, and of a whole lot more. He is unable to say anything before more people begin to speak aloud. 

“Frederick!”

“Frederick Cross, Sir!”

“Frederick, what can you do about these bandits?”

“The children can’t sleep when we’ve got dangerous men coming over!”

“My farm’s vulnerable, Mr. Cross! Can you help?”

Eventually it turned into a ringing sound, and Jason’s eyes twitched as he was starting to get overloaded with all the questions and noise. He stretches his arms out, trying to signal everybody to calm down for just a moment. Still they squabble and chattered,  trying to out-speak each other in a frenzy of concern and fright. Jason sighed, took a deep and yelled out, “Alright ya’ll, listen!”

The chattering stopped, and so did the ringing.

He gives them another moment to dwell in the silence, making sure nobody tried to let out another word. Satisfied, he thinks for a second on how to proceed before finally speaking in a calm yet confident manner.

“Ok, now that I got your attention, I’m here to tell you all what you need to know. The name’s Frederick Cross, and I’m currently on the job of fixing all this. You guys don’t have anything to worry about, because you guys have a professional on duty here. Now the two guys that came here: they’re done and dealt with as of last night. As for their gang, they ain’t gonna be a problem.”

“How’re you sure about that?!” Cries an old lady from the back. Many mutter the same, either on their own or with their loved ones alongside.

Jason answers, “Because I know these guys, ok? I know how a lot of these gangs operate, and what signs to be worried of - and what I saw here wasn’t worth worrying about. This is just some small, up-and-coming gang that is trying to make it big. They probably have about 10 to 15 members at the most, and not a lot of experience in between the lot of them.”

“But sir! How do you know that?” A man calls out, wondering.

“Simple.” Jason starts, explaining, “If they were big then they’d have come here already. I have a lifetime of experience with these gangs, or raider bands as they’re sometimes called. I’ve faced against a lot of the bigger ones - going around with crazy names like REDS or Jozies. Those gangs mean business, and they’re not one to just send a couple guys to do their businesses when they can send a whole lot to get it done right. Of course, I know they ain’t big because they don’t at all look the part. These small gangs are very common, and they like to stir up trouble just to make a name for themselves. They like to come to towns like this, especially in the middle of the night while everyone is asleep - because they know they can’t deal with everyone here, in the likelihood that they’ll be armed and ready. Not to mention they only had one gun between the two that came last night, so they probably don’t have much to arm themselves. So from how I see it… these guys aren’t a problem. Not for you, and certainly not for me, because I will be dealing with these guys for what they’ve done.

The crowd murmur among themselves, many a lot calmer than when they arrived. Right then Jason closes his statement, “Now I promise you folks: I won’t stop until I dealt with this gang and made sure you’re all safe. You can trust in my word as a Crimson Cross that I can finish this job.”

Some smile, feeling safer now. They take his words as a great relief, with many beginning to move away - all while giving their thanks and best wishes to Jason as they pass him by. While some are still a little unsure, their nerves have surely lost their stress. However, an elderly man walks to Jason and asks of him,

“Frederick Cross, is it?”

Jason looks to the man, is silent for a moment, and answers not long after, “Just as I said.”

The man nods slowly, looking up to the young Cross before he says out, “Many know of you and your brother’s adventures, sir. You done a lot of us settlements plenty of good, more than the government even. We don’t doubt your skills one bit. They call you a master gunslinger, a tracker and a man of good wisdom. I think I can speak for a lot of us here that… we’re honored to have you here in Blondie. We hope you’ll do us well in protecting this town.”

Jason gasps a bit though hides it well. His smile perks up, and he says with a slight chuckle and righteous tone, “Well sir, it’s just as much an honor to help. I’m sure if we had my brother here, we’d do even greater at it.”

Then the man frowns a bit, replying with a shrug, “Perhaps.”

Before long he leaves, and so does everybody else. Not much else is said.

Jason’s smile drops slowly, and a tiredness comes to his eyes. He can feel something trying to come out, but he shoves it down. Squashes it. Buries it, and pats the dirt for good measure. He resumes his walk towards the bar, feeling almost the same way he did that night when coming in.

As he steps up to the bar, he’s greeted by both Frankie and Charlie, the former of whom gives a happy shout of, “Hey hey friend!” before meeting Jason halfway with a great, big hug. Jason’s smile returns a bit as he does the same to his friend, as Charlie directs a look of happiness and relief at the man. They hold on for a moment before letting go, with Jason giving a pat onto Jason’s uninjured shoulder. He laughs aloud,

“Finally awake from the dead, eh?! You been out of it for some time, thought for a moment you’d be sitting this one out.”

Jason tsk’d, a slight cocky smile on his face, “I ain’t letting a fight like that put me out of the job just yet. Shoulder will have some issues for a while, but some more rest and I’ll be good as new. Now what’re you two still doing here? Should you be off onto the road or something?”

Frankie laughs some more, pulling Charlie close and pointing him over, “Well me and this fella weren’t in the mind to be leaving soon. We still got the road to Moresatta left, but in the meantime we figured it was better to see you off first and maybe help around a tad. Charlie here was quite insistent to see what other trouble you’ll be getting into.”

“That true?” Jason asks, half surprised, other half… delighted?

Charlie nods, still looking uncomfortable from being held so closely. “I came here to see the stories and history of this planet - and what’s better than actually seeing it in motion? If you don’t mind, of course. I’d be honored to capture it all for my collection.”

Jason’s features soften as he seems to smile more genuinely this time around. He brings his hand forward to offer a shake to Charlie, who almost excitedly takes it though tries his best to be polite in the end. Meanwhile Frankie lets Charlie go, standing back to give the two guys some room. Jason states, “Well, happy to have you along Mr. Wills.”

They soon let go, with Jason saying out, “Now that’s all settled, how about we give the bar a look? I’ve got a feeling we could get something out of it before I make the drive out.”

Frankie and Charlie agree, following Jason into the bar as they approach with slow steps. Jason takes the lead in entering the building as he confidently strides and retraces the steps he took after the fight. Frankie is more lax, keeping close to the walls to overlook everything while Charlie does his best to stick close to Jason.

When they enter, the group is given a sight not much different than what they left behind. Some of the blood had been mopped up, and the two bodies taken away. Tables and chairs all over had been stacked or moved to allow more freedom to clean the mess. The music-player from before was still running, back on the sort of music that best fit this place. Currently it was playing “Call on Me (& I’ll Be There” by Floyd Tillman - or so Jason remembers. Meanwhile, much of the knick knacks and antiques have been moved away, either to be scrubbed off of blood or to allow more space to better wash the walls. The bartender from last night is in the middle of the main floor, moving another chair away by the time the group entered. He takes a moment to notice Jason, letting out a gruff exhale before putting the chair down onto the ground.

Jason looked back at him, a bit wide-eyed at the moment. Charlie was a bit more nervous coming back, as memories of last night come back to both of them and the not-so-thrilled owner. It was at that moment that Jason was able to really look at the man, seeing as he was no longer just a face in the background.

The bartender’s face spoke of hardship: a thick, angular jaw and cheeks, wrinkled from years of harsh sunlight and with a bushy, dark grey beard that went every which way but up. The same coarse hair was seen in his brows, that covered up an intense, almost ever-constant glare. Covering up what little hair he had on his head was a white cap, looking a bit brown from age and dirt.

His body was built with strength, but some of it had been lost. His arms were bare and muscular, but sagging in areas. His bartending apron hung proudly from his shoulders, and underneath was a miner’s jumpsuit, with sleeves rolled up. Near the collar was an interesting sight: a set of military patches from the UROE, neatly stitched for personal flair.

The two men stared at each other for a long while, with a heavy silence building between them both. Eventually Jason, with a strong sigh, broke the silence with a comment, “Just want to start off by saying…. That I’m really sorry for what had happened to your bar. I promise to pay back the moment I can. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think I’d have dealt with those so well if it hadn’t been for your collection there.”

For a moment the bartender simply stared back in silence before replying back in an old, strong voice, “Well, if anything, I’m glad that you dealt with those men… Jason.”

Jason coughs a bit before speaking out, “Oh… look, I was a tad drunk and--”

“And nothing.” Interrupted the bartender, his voice commanding discipline yet was done so calmly. “Now I appreciate you stopping those two strangers and saving the lives for your friends and I. However, I don’t like you lying to the town on your name, especially when it holds so much weight for a lot of folk. These people have a lot of love for the Crosses - we ain’t seen ‘em in many long years. So you best understand how serious this whole matter is.”

Jason felt guilty right there. It was like he was back in the farm, being scolded by his own father. It felt all too familiar, and hurt much the same. Once the man was done talking, Jason asked softly, “Are you going to tell them?”

The bartender shakes his head, “Nope.”

“No?”

“You are gonna tell them.” The bartender states. “If you know what’s good for you and this town, you ought to come clean and tell them the truth. It’s the best choice you can make.”

Jason tsk’s, wincing a bit from a light but sudden head-ache. He sighs, settling on saying to the man, “That’ll come when it comes. Right now I’m set on helping however I can, Mr…”

“Duke. Just Duke.” The bartender says, shrugging as his calm behavior is left unchanged. “If that’ll be, then that’ll be. So is there anything you are looking for?”

“It already looks like you cleaned up a lot so far. I was hoping to find any signs of whatever gang these guys belonged to - maybe how they’re dressed would give an idea.”

“Well, you’re going to have some problems with that”, Duke explains. “Couple of our men here came around and dumped the bodies far off. No clue where though, but the wild must’ve taken them away soon after, as they were gone by morning. Now I did get the chance to grab something off of them - a patch and their knives. I have no idea what it means, but you’re welcome to check them out on the table corner over there.”

Duke points over towards a far off corner of the bar, and sure enough on the surface lay two knives that belonged to the gangers, and a patch torn from a jacket.

Jason gives a nod to the man and heads over, with Charlie and Frankie following suit.

With careful hands, Jason held one knife up to inspect it:

It was similar to the other in many ways. The blade was serrated, short and thin, with an indent of some poker cars and a snake on one side. The smooth wrapped leather handle had a red tint, with metal pieces colored with copper. Aside from the blade there was nothing of interest in the handle.

As for the patch itself, there was plenty of details to read: it was shaped in an oval with the image of a white wooden coffin wrapped by two snakes against a black background. The snakes were colored with stripes of green and red, and the coffin was marked with the red initials of “C.C.”. Then, circling around the image was the name of the band, written in a sharp font: “Stone Groove Aces”.

Jason put the knife down, sighing a bit as he tried to collect his thoughts. He thinks aloud towards his friends, “Don’t remember anybody called the ‘Stone Groove Aces’, so very much likely a brand new gang. The initials on the coffin in this here patch don’t leave me a lot to work with, though I’m inclined to believe it means ‘Crimson Crosses’ - maybe a personal grudge. It doesn’t really give me an idea on where or how to find them.”

Frankie chimes in, “I can count better the number of gangs that don’t outright hate you better than the ones that do, Jason. Hell, I’m surprised there isn’t a gang simply called the ‘Crimson Cross Haters’.” He chuckles a bit, while Jason smirks a little at the thought.

Charlie meanwhile takes the second knife carefully into his own hands, examining it himself. He slides his fingers at the knife’s blade, looking very closely at it. Before long he gives his own theory, as he then feels the grip. “This has more the look of a cooking knife than any proper weapon.”

Jason shrugs, “So? Gangs here often use stuff like that when they’re short on supply.”

“Ok, but why both?” Charlie ponders, “Obviously they’ve been customized, so why would they settle on a style of knife like this? There might actually be a purpose to it, maybe in connection to their origins or some mentality. This handle material is also pig leather. Soft and rich, but not suitable for tools compared to other forms of leather.”

Jason and Frankie side eye’d one another, as Jason then directs his look back at Charlie and asks, “Now how would you know all that?”

Charlie looks at them both, a little nervous now that he’s under the spotlight. He then explains, as he puts the knife down. “Told you, I’m from Tyrell. Plenty of good colleges over there. I personally did some studying on agriculture and goods - alongside general logistics and trade. I’ve never put the actual work on account of the environment there, but I learned a great amount thanks to their libraries. They’re very informative, by the way. You can find a whole lot of different subjects and material, in fact they had a whole wing dedicated to crops and field wor--”

“Settle down there, friend. We got the picture.” Jason interrupts, chuckling some. He grins, remarking, “Well thank God… we’ve got a college man here. Ain’t we lucky.”

Frankie shows a more toothy smile, “And a chatterbox to match. Keep him close, Jason - with any luck, maybe you’ll come out of this with more an actual brain than you were given.”

“Shut up.” Jason says softly, smiling.

Charlie chuckles a bit as well. “Oh please. I was just excited to learn something that connected with this place and all. It’s always been a fascination.”

“Well now you’re living it.” Jason comments, taking the knives and patch before walking away. Charlie takes it in, smiling ever more before he excitedly follows after.

Jason gives a wave towards Duke as he walks, saying aloud. “We’ll be heading out! I think we might have something on this.”

“Alright! Now you two best be careful out there!” Duke calls out. “No telling what that gang will do once they find out about this.”

“Won’t be much trouble. You got something to defend yourself with, right?”

Duke nods, reaching over to the bar and grabbing from behind it: the shotgun from last night, now cleaned up of any blood or grime it once had. Jason turned back for a moment to see it, surprised to see it again. He almost wanted to ask for it back, but knew it was better that someone like Duke ought to keep it just in case. With that, Jason waves and so to do Charlie and Frankie. The group exit out from the bar and walk around to the back where both Jason’s car and Frankie’s truck are parked.

Frankie’s truck was a large vehicle, with an armored front and a space back covered by a thick tarp. With 6 wheels and some modifications, the thing is able to shoot straight through the Black Road and onto Moresatta and back much faster than most cars. It was the perfect machine for Frankie, whose job was to taxi people across the whole desert. However right next to the truck were two luggages - Charlie’s luggages.

Charlie rushes over to collect them, all while Jason stops to talk with Frankie.

“Can’t come along, Frankie?”

Frankie is a bit more serious now, speaking with less of a smile. “Got the call from the company awhile back. They want me on the road A.S.A.P., no excuses. I asked to stay long enough to see you off, but that’s as long as I could go. You can take our friend’s luggage along, meanwhile I’ll be busy on the road for some time.”

“Sure you can’t come back any time?” Jason asks, a bit saddened.

“I can, but you’re going to have to call it in later - and on when I can come back, that’s a tad beyond me. I’m sure you can settle things on ya’ll own just fine though. Don’t knock yourself down too much Jason. You’ve faced off worse before this, and I know this won’t be much a challenge for you.”

“Thanks for coming along anyways, friend.” Jason holds his hand out, but Frankie instead goes in for another hug. He grips tight, giving a couple friendly pats to the back, before moving back to give Jason some air. All the while Jason smiles, happy to have had Frankie along for what time he could get.

Frankie walks to his truck, whistling a tune as he does so.

Turning to his car, Jason sees Charlie trying to carry his luggage over to the car. He takes a glance at the hood, seeing something before calling out, “Hey uh… is this blood I’m seeing?”

To which Jason shouts back, “Don’t mind it! Just… press the release on the underside, you won’t miss it.”

He almost starts to make way for the car, but is approached from behind by a soft cough and a familiar, feminine voice, “Mr. Frederick.”

Jason turns, seeing Samantha Collier - back with a wicker basket containing some wrapped goods: meats, bread, and bottles of water. She holds it over to Jason, giving him a gentle smile that develops a pleasant feeling inside of him. He takes a moment to register the kind act before slowly accepting it, all the while Samantha speaks to him with a soft tone of voice,

“Thought I’d leave you with a gift. A little something for the road.”

“Well that’s very nice of you, Ms. Collier.” Jason chuckled dumbly, before collecting his senses back and saying more politely, “Thank you for helping me. Still, much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it.” She replies, “It’s not everyday you help save a hero.”

“Yeah…” Jason almost breaks his seriousness for a moment there, keeping his smile.

“Though I hope to someday meet your brother. From what I hear of those stories everyone talks about, he sounds like quite the exciting man. If you ever come across him, tell him that Samantha would like a meeting. If he’s up for it.”

She leaves with a bow, waving the men away as she turns towards the town. “Stay safe, and thank you for helping us here.”

Jason Cross stands there, hands held tight onto the basket - feeling his heart skip a bit, and a warmth building in his cheeks. He feels proud and happy for a moment, and for the first time in a long while, that he was Jason Cross.

Before long he joins Charlie in the car, and at that time Frankie had already driven off for the Black Road. He gently places the basket in the back seat before driving himself to the Road as well, and away from the town of Blondie.

Jason leaves the town, feeling much happier than when he came in.

[talesofmundanemagic]

Gertie gets her license

Gertie looked up at the entrance to the Skyline stadium. Normally, when she was in the sports arena of the magical city above the clouds, it was to see a game of basketball with virtually no limits on magic, or a gladiator battle (with safety spells implemented and a healer present), or a dragon presentation.

This time, all the bleachers had been pushed back into the walls, and the floor was lined with little sound-proof cubicles. Inside each was a mini kitchen set up via magic, and a proctor waiting for their examinee.

It was the day of the Enchantment Apprenticeship License Exam.

The exam was an international event, spanning across more than seventy locations throughout the twenty countries that recognized the exam as a fitting qualification for an apprenticeship. All over the world, hopefuls were taking the test that Gertie was about to embark on.

Gertie checked herself in for the afternoon test block she had signed up for. It was right after the lunch break in the test schedule - there was no way she was risking the license she’d been working towards for the last two years on a cranky proctor who was daydreaming of macaroni and cheese.

The man at the sign-in table took her cellphone and backpack to be locked away and gave her her assigned cubicle number. Gertie thanked him, took a deep breath, and descended the stairs to find her testing spot.

She had stored plenty of power in her keychain accessories, practiced her planned enchantment hundreds of times, and wore her lucky cloche hat. It wasn’t magical - that wasn’t allowed in exams - but Gertie always did well on tests when she wore it. She was ready, she told herself. She would be fine.

“Miss Mallon?” asked the woman standing in her assigned cubicle with a clipboard.

Gertie nodded.

“I’m going to scan you for magical objects.” She held up a wand to do so.

“I have my keychains, for power, since I’m not a witch,” Gertie said, pulling them out for the proctor to see. She had written this on her application, so it wasn’t a surprise.

“Set them down there.” The proctor nodded to the table where a whole slew of potion ingredients sat.

Gertie did so.

The proctor took her wand and did a quick scan from the floor, over Gertie’s left shoulder, head, right shoulder, and back to the ground.

She then waved the wand over Gertie’s keychains, testing them for any enchantments as well.

“Looks good. Let’s get started.”

Gertie picked up her keychains again and put them back into her pocket.

Her proctor read from a clipboard. “Your self-selected enchantment is the Floating Bag. We have provided you with everything you will need. You have an hour and a half to complete your enchantment. Begin.”

Gertie went straight to the stack of equipment in the corner. She chose a cast iron cauldron that was the same size she’d practiced with in her dorm room. She put it on the stove and cranked the heat to medium.

A bottle of cloud extract was sitting, tall and with a no-drip spout, on the back corner of the table laden with ingredients. Gertie picked it up and coated the bottom of her cauldron with the wispy white gel. Next, she measured out the moonflower pollen, according to the recipe she had memorized, and put it in the extract to sizzle.

While that was going, she started chopping, skinning, and grinding everything she needed. Gertie had found the electric mixer and was whipping up cream from winged cows when disaster struck.

The pollen in the cauldron started popping.

Gertie dropped the bowl of whipped cream onto the table and stared at the pollen that was jumping out of the cauldron. What was going on? She put a splatter screen over the top of the cauldron to keep the pollen from escaping, and picked up the jar she had measured from.

She felt her ears roaring as she stared at it blankly.

Moonflower pollen, aged ten years, the label read. Ten years.

She had been practicing with five.

The pollen popped so high the splatter guard jumped before settling back.

She glanced up. The proctor was taking notes, frowning.

Gertie grit her teeth until her head hurt. She could fix this. She didn’t know much about creating new spells, so she wouldn’t be able to change the actual incantation to suit this new recipe. But maybe she could add something that would counteract the effects of the extra aging.

The test had provided her with more ingredients than she needed, to throw her off in case she hadn’t memorized the right recipe. Maybe something they had given her would actually help.

Gertie glanced over the plethora of ingredients. Snake venom, no. Pie crust, what would that even-? Rice? Yes! Plain old rice! A common ingredient in underwater potions, it normally would do the exact opposite of what Gertie’s enchantment needed.

But normally, she would have used the right pollen.

Carefully, after triple-checking the label, Gertie measured out the proper amount of rice to counteract the aging of the pollen and poured it into the pot.

She turned up the heat and added the rest of the ingredients.

Gertie left her potion to boil and turned to chop up the last item - lavender.

After that was done, there was nothing to do but wait. Well, wait and clean up the space. That was what the provided sink was for, after all.

Once the chopping boards, bowls, knives, and peeler were all clean, the timer rang.

The next step was to soak the bag that she was enchanting in the potion.

But before she did that, Gertie sprinkled the lavender into the mix. The aroma of the herb filled the cubicle, chasing away the odd scent of burnt pollen and silkworm saliva. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Gertie prefered the smell of her enchantments to not render the objects unusable.

Gertie killed the heat on the stove and dropped her bag in.

She stirred it into the potion with a wooden spoon, drawing power from her keychains as she spoke her spell clearly, since the proctor would grade on pronunciation.

The potion glowed a clear and brilliant green. Perfect.

Gertie used the spoon to fish the bag out of the potion.

There was one last step. Gertie took a deep breath. She used this specific spell every morning when she dried her hair after getting out of the shower. There was nothing to be nervous about, and yet her heart beat so rapidly she thought it would stall.

“Dry,” she commanded in the magical language of Gnaang, flicking the bag and sending the potion flying into the sink, coating it green.

Gertie quickly set the nozzle to rinse the basin, and then held out the dry cloth bag for the proctor to inspect.

The proctor looked at her watch.

“Twenty-six minutes early,” she said, taking note. “But you didn’t wait for it to dry naturally-”

“I’ve tried letting it, like the recipe says,” Gertie quickly said. “I can just barely do it under the time limit. But I had to try using the drying spell, just to see, and it works! The bag still works.”

The proctor looked over her glasses at Gertie. “And why does it work?”

Gertie took a deep breath to keep herself from rambling. “Because the spell imbues the power from the potion into the bag itself, in this case,” Gertie said. “If the potion coating the bag was necessary for peak performance, it would have to be air dried.”

“Correct.” The proctor wrote down some notes. “Now, let’s see if it works. I noticed your mistake with the pollen, but the rice was clever. It should have helped.”

The proctor took the bag and said, “Float,” in Gnaang, releasing the bag in midair. It hung there, as if it had been placed on a table.

The proctor took a step to the left and the bag followed. To the right, the same thing. She started walking away, and the bag floated after her.

The proctor nodded thoughtfully, taking down notes. “You still didn’t follow the recipe, I’m afraid,” she said.

Gertie’s heart fell. Surely her final score would be impacted for not following the exact steps in the approved recipe.

“We both normally get a fifteen minute break before the next part of the test. However, that would be at the end of the hour and a half, which there is still twenty minutes of. Would you like to wait a full thirty minutes or...?”

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Gertie admitted, anxious to get on with the next part of the test.

The proctor smiled. “Fifteen minutes then.”

Gertie found the bathroom. Her hands shook as she washed them.

One down, one to go.

She returned to her cubicle and sipped water until the proctor returned.

“Alright. Your first enchantment you were able to practice. This one, you have not. We’ve given you all new ingredients.” The proctor gestured to the table. There was no over-aged pollen in sight. “Follow the instructions, use your intuition, and you will hopefully be fine. You have one hour. Good luck.”

She handed Gertie a piece of paper.

Glowing Orchid Encased in Glass, was the recipe title. Sure enough, a beautiful purple orchid sat in a pot in the corner of the mini kitchen’s counter.

Not a very creative recipe name, Gertie thought.

Then she glanced down at the three separate sections of the recipe.

“Balls,” Gertie muttered, and grabbed three separate cauldrons from the corner. All three went on the heat.

She only had an hour and a half to make three different potions? It was madness.

Even more ridiculous was that they didn’t give her the whole recipe. They gave her bits and pieces, and she needed to rely on her potion know-how to complete the recipe.

The first thing under the title was Step 1: Make a coolant, with a list of ingredients and their measurements.

Gertie remembered the word coolant. She had spent a lot of her time watching various potions videos online to try to prepare.

Coolants are the easiest potions in the world! an online potion maker had proclaimed. You just put all your ingredients in the pot, put the lid on, and boil it for thirty minutes until everything’s combined. Then you shove it in the fridge to cool it down and it’s ready!

Gertie measured out all of the coolant’s ingredients and threw them in the cauldron on the back burner of the stove and put the lid on. She set a timer for thirty minutes, and let it do its own thing.

Step 2: Combine the following ingredients to make the clear syrup base for the luminance potion.

This was the potion that would make the orchid glow. Gertie racked her brain - potions that emitted light could be tricky. There were lots of variations, but all needed to be done at a precise temperature to determine what color it would be. Since the recipe specified clear, it meant the lowest of the available temperatures.

Just remember the eight eights, she remembered her potions textbook saying on the subject of potion color. Eighty-eight for black, seventy-eight for purple, sixty-eight for blue, fifty-eight green, forty-eight for for yellow, thirty-eight for orange, twenty-eight for red, eighteen for clear.

Gertie took a deep breath and grinned in relief.

She measured tiny crystals of lightning salt into a cup to pour into the final cauldron and an equal amount of starfruit seeds. She added the required teaspoon of moonshade - a sticky golden syrup - and filled the rest of the cauldron with water.

She stirred it diligently, checking on the nearby coolant with eyes only. She had to keep the glowing potion constantly moving, while checking the temperature on a thermometer and adjusting the stove accordingly to keep it at eighteen degrees.

Finally, the potion for the glow started to thicken and form sparking bubbles.

“Yes!” Gertie fist pumped.

Step 3: When the syrup has begun to bubble, let it boil on the stove for fifteen minutes.

Gertie set a timer for fifteen minutes, and sat down for a moment to catch her breath and read ahead in the recipe.

The fourth step was about adding something to the luminance potion, so Gertie skipped over it.

Step 5: Choose the proper incantation to melt the glass.

Choose the proper…?

Gertie turned the recipe sheet over. On the opposite side was a list of spells. At least they were all in Laux, a language she knew. Of course, this was not a coincidence since she had provided the accredited board with a list of her capabilities when applying to take the test.

Gertie took a deep breath and began translating the spells to the best of her ability. Three she ruled out of being a part of this enchantment altogether - they mentioned eggs and things that weren’t on the ingredients table. One she discovered, upon translating, was for when she had finished brewing the luminance potion. She circled that one for later.

There were three that mentioned glass. One was clearly the end of the enchantment, as it meant the equivalent of “Halt.” The two others were trickier. They were very similar, longer spells, both dealing with the glass. One did have the word for “liquid” in it, so she put a star next to it in the hopes that she was right.

Both timers rang that their potions were ready and Gertie re-read step four.

Step 4: Once the syrup’s bubbles have begun to stack, add one fourth teaspoon of star spider venom and let the potion rest for four minutes.

Gertie stared at the instruction. Venoms were pesky things, very reactive. Usually recipes mentioned not moving the pot, putting on a lid, and using a timer to measure exactly the amount of time it needed to sit.

Gertie checked the clock to see how much time she had left. Twenty minutes. Great.

She returned to the luminance potion. It had boiled so much, it looked like an ambitious bubble bath.

“Bubbles stacking on themselves, check,” Gertie said.

She had no choice but to listen to her intuition, even if it was wrong. She added the final ingredient - the venom of a star spider - and clamped the cauldron’s lid down. She set a timer for four minutes exactly and one for three minutes and fifteen seconds to remind her to come back, and turned her attention to the shards of glass she had been provided with. She needed to magically melt them.

Gertie poured them into the last cauldron she had put to heat on the stove. She spoke the enchantment she had chosen over the glass, and watched as they melted instantly.

“Awesome!” Gertie triumphantly slipped on cauldron mitts, took the mix off the stove and set it next to the provided mold for the final sculpture.

The mold itself was a sphere with a flat bottom, so that the eventual decoration could stand upright. It was made of magically imbued silicone, so it was even more resistant to the heat its contents would bring.

Suddenly the smell of smoke filled the air. Gertie stopped and looked over at the stove.

No, Gertie thought. No no no no no.

The coolant.

She had completely forgotten to take it off the stove and put it in the freezer.

Gertie ran to the stove and looked in the pot. It was crusted black. Nothing was salvageable. She put the entire thing into the sink and ran cold water over it, trying to stop the smoke at the very least.

Gertie stared at the running water, trying to figure a way out. What was she going to do? There was no way she could make a whole new potion. It needed time, not only to combine but to cool. She felt like she had been turned to stone, her heart trying to beat out of her chest.

The three minute and fifteen second timer for the luminance potion rang, and Gertie took a deep breath. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

The proctor made a note, but Gertie didn’t have time to think about her opinion.

Step 6: Remove the luminance potion from the heat and cast the proper incantation that will stabilize it for use.

When the four minute timer rang, Gertie pulled the cauldron off the stove, opened the lid, and spoke the spell she’d circled from the list, the one she hoped would render it stable.

The potion started glowing a solid white color, like she had trapped a star in her cauldron.

Gertie let out a deep breath. That was a very good sign.

She assembled the leftovers of her prepared ingredients that she had made into the first coolant potion. There wasn’t enough to make a whole potion, so a third of the original recipe’s portion would have to do.

She stirred the ingredients together on the stove, trying to force everything to melt as quickly as possible in lieu of it boiling together. When it finally became a thin, watery potion, she took it off the heat and poured it into a metal bowl to suck the heat away. She put the bowl into the freezer, and turned back to deal with the rest of the recipe.

“Five minutes,” the proctor said, checking her timer, a nervous edge to her voice.

Gertie balled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms. Fine.

She opened the freezer and put her hands on the bowl. She could still feel the heat emanating from the potion.

“Chill,” she said in Laux, feeling the power drain from her keychains and flow through her hands. The temperature in the bowl went down. But it wasn’t cool enough.

“Chill,” she said again, gritting her teeth as she started to feel dizzy from using magic so quickly twice in a row.

Not enough.

“Chill!” she shouted, and the heat vanished from under her hands, nearly numbing them.

She took the bowl out and placed it next to the luminance potion, trying not to lose her balance. The coolant didn’t even slosh, it had thickened so much from the cold.

Gertie pulled over the terracotta pot that the orchid was in. She snipped its stem so that it was short enough to fit inside the mold and, taking a deep breath, dipped the flower into the luminance potion.

As the instructions read, she immediately pulled it out and shoved it into the coolant, hissing as steam flew out from around her hand. Could that be a good thing?

She had to spin the stem around to coat the flower petals completely. Since she’d made only a third of the proper amount, what was left barely covered the bottom of the bowl.

Gertie lifted the orchid free. It glowed with the pure brilliance of a perfectly brewed luminance potion, shifting between the various purples, whites and yellows of the flower that were picked up by the potion.

The proctor smiled and wrote on her clipboard.

Gertie would have danced in place, but she didn’t have time.

She took the glass mixture, still melted and waiting thanks to the spell, and poured a bit of it into the mold, so the orchid would be floating in the middle. She placed the orchid delicately, and managed to pour the rest of the glass in around it. At the last minute, she remembered the final incantation she had singled out - this one mentioning “not wilting”. The heat from the glass seemed to dissipate, leaving the orchid beautifully fresh.

Gertie put down the heavy cauldron and took a moment to pant.

“And halt,” she said in Laux, completing the enchantment.

The glass hardened instantly.

And the proctor’s timer beeped.

Gertie heart caught in her throat. She hadn’t turned out the sculpture. It wasn’t done. She hadn’t finished.

“Take it out of the mold,” the proctor said.

Gertie looked over at her, dumbfounded.

“I’ll mark you off a point for not finishing it in the time. But turn it out. I’m going to grade it.”

Gertie took the quite heavy mold and turned it over. The glass held steady.

She pulled the mold free, peeling it away from the glass. And there it was. Her little “glowing orchid encased in glass.”

It was quite impressive, she had to say. Beautiful even. A good way to end her exam, even if she had failed.

The proctor took a deep breath, as if to calm herself from the excitement of Gertie’s scramble to finish. She hovered around the table, looking at the sculpture from every angle. She pulled a small camera out of her pocket, took a picture of the top of her clipboard and one of the sculpture.

Gertie waited, shifting awkwardly in place. Her head cleared a bit, despite how she had drained herself by spending so much magic.

The proctor checked over her clipboard, wrote some notes, and finally said, “Very good, Miss Mallon. If you just go back to the area you found the sign-in desk, there will also be a sign-out desk. There, they will take your picture and you will receive your license. Your sculpture will be mailed to your registered address in a week’s time. If you have any other questions or concerns-”

“I passed?” Gertie clarified, not believing her ears.

“Yes,” the proctor said. “Of course.”

Gertie thanked her and walked in a daze to the sign-out table. She managed a smile for the photo, and received a printed license within minutes.

Holding it in her hands, reading the words, Apprentice Enchanter, under her name, suddenly made it real.

She whooped, holding the license triumphantly in the air.

Upon receiving her backpack and cell phone, she immediately dialed Bridget. “I did it!” Gertie shouted. She heard different voices cheering from the other side.

“We’re all in your room,” Bridget said, a laugh in her voice. “We have cake and sodas. Get back down here!”

“Awesome!” Gertie said. “I’m on my way!”

She dialed one more number as she headed out of the stadium.

“Demetrius’ Enchanted Hat Emporium, Demetrius speaking,” came a bored voice from the other end.

“D?” Gertie said excitedly.

He paused. “Gertie, tell me you have good news.”

Gertie grinned so hard her face hurt. “I do.”

To her surprise, Demetrius laughed in relief. “I knew you could do it!” he said.

“Thanks,” Gertie said, flattered, but itching to ask a very important question. “So, when can I start as your apprentice? I’ve been looking up different hat enchantments. I was thinking an expandable hat might be a good place to start. I know that top hats are generally the favored model, but to me that just makes it less incredible that you can fit all that stuff in. My choice would definitely be porkpie, or a-”

“Uh, Gertie, I have a customer.”

“I don’t believe you,” Gertie said.

“Just go celebrate. We can talk about all this during your next shift.”

“My last shift stacking boxes,” Gertie shot back.

“Yeah.” The pride was unmistakable in his voice. Demetrius hung up before he could embarrass himself any further.

As Gertie got in the elevator back down to Wespire, her ID was required. Normally, her magical passport filled this purpose.

Not this time.

Gertie dramatically held out her enchanter’s license to the scanner.

Gertrude Mallon, Apprentice Enchanter.

[jodiwalker]

The Bachelorette finale: Romance is Dead, But Reality TV Lives On

Two roads diverged in an ABC wood

And sorry she could not travel both

And be a polygamist with TWO engagement rings, long she stood

And stared down a life of (alleged) mediocrity

To where it stood in the Miami sun, under the looming presence of Olga;

…

I shall be telling this with a sigh

For at least the next week until Bachelor in Paradise premieres;

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and Rachel—

Rachel took the one most traveled by,

And that…has made all the (terrible) difference

My apologies to Robert Frost and 6th grade English teachers everywhere, but it simply had to be done. Rachel's explanation to Bryan as to why she would be choosing to accept his marriage proposal (as constant torrential winds whipped her edges and lashes into a fury, while simultaneously numbing her recently shredded heart), is that she has always gone for the complicated, challenging man, and turned away from the easy choice in the past. And that has not worked out for her. So here, on the altar of ABC, and with literally only one option in front of her, Rachel is choosing the easy route this time: the man who wants to propose to her without exception, the man who does not challenge or complicate her life. Rachel is choosing the road most traveled by.

And that has really fucked up her Bachelorette legacy.

Watching Rachel's 3-hour finale may have been stone-cold torture, but that was only because it contained one of the realest moments ever seen on this contrived reality show purportedly about romance. Given the choice between a man who would potentially give her that once-in-a-lifetime kinda love but wasn't ready to propose that once-in-a -lifetime kinda commitment, and a man who was prepared to propose to her from the moment he met her when she still had 29 other boyfriends and he only knew her name, Rachel — the self-assured, luminescent, beloved, successful attorney from a wealthy Dallas family — chose the bro that was a sure thing to get her an engagement ring.

I’m not saying it’s the wrong choice. I’m saying, Rachel lived out the plot of The Notebook and she chose James Marsden over Noah. Because The Notebook is a movie and this is real life. And reality clearly states: for monogamy to live, romance must die. [Ed Note: But if you're married and reading this, your relationship is probably the exception! Definitely!]

In that moment, Bryan was Rachel's second choice, and no amount of Instagram posts sponsored by Dunkin' Donuts Cold Brew are going to convince anyone of anything else. There are lots of people who fall passionately in love with someone and think they're going to marry them, but it doesn't work, so their now slightly hardened heart falls reasonably in love with someone else, and that's the person they can make marriage work with. The caveat here is that most people don't travel those two journeys at the same time until they reach a fork in the road with one path labeled, "Once a Girlfriend, Always a Girlfriend Ave," and the other, "Fiancé to Bryan, Former Contestant on UPN Gameshow The Player Street."

We’ll get to what Rachel’s ultimate choice means for the status of her #blessed life, but let's put it off a little longer by focusing on some other, slightly more hopeful points of this season's all-to-real conclusion:

The Glow Up of Eric

What a difference a beard makes! I think every single person who watched The Bachelorette this season had a complicated relationship with Eric's physical appearance. At times he was boyishly handsome; at times he resembled a young, broader Steve Buscemi; at times he was hella fly; at times — those times usually spent in tiny, ornamental scarves — he was utterly goofy. But most times he resembled that episode of The Office where Jim tries to convince Dwight he's a vampire by flipping up the collar on an oversized coat. Because Eric wasn't always shown to be the zen-like sweetheart hottie that he is now, but he was always, always, wearing a winter coat with a big ass collar.

But post-Hometown Eric was a different Eric. Yes, he still wore a lot of (thick?) crew neck t-shirts with sport jackets, and then, inexplicably, with a pea coat over that, but beginning with that first nicely-fitted Canadian tuxedo in Baltimore, post-Hometown Eric just generally looked more like a grown ass man. And when he returned to the Chris Harrison's Loveseat of Terrors during his After the Final Rose segment, it became clear…

Rachel broke Eric's heart and made him a man. For real, he looked like he could have been in the singing group Boyz II Men, and he definitely looked like he could make love to you, like you'd want him to. Further, he looked like a man who can grow an excellent beard and weave a narrative about love and opening your heart and growing that makes you punch out one thousand heart eye emojis to your best friend while furiously googling "eric bigger bachelorette trainer baltimore phone number or email address."

Everyone—seriously, everyone, even Neil Lane who got like a two seconds of airtime—came out looking like a loser in this Bachelorette finale, except for Eric. Glow on, baby, ya did good!

Evaluating a Few of the Other Rejects from Men Tell All So We Can Continue to Put Off the Painful Inevitable

Kenny, I love you. I cried when Chris "Plus-We-Got-Bloopers-Comin'-Up" Harrison told your daughter that you were going to Disneyland. But what in the fresh Men's Wearhouse hell is this?

Kenny. The tie! Kenny?!

Kenny's outfit choice was unfortunate, but hey, the man has has been a dad for 11 years — the last time fashion was his top priority, I guess he would have been wearing decorative dog tags and a Von Dutch hat. So I can cut Kenny some slack. You knew who I will cut zero slack?

Dress for the gross, racist, sociopathic persona you want…because it looks exactly like the gross, racist, sociopathic persona you already have. I don't know why Lee insists on wearing this teal shirt so much. Maybe he thinks it brings out the height in his Something About Mary jizz hair? Maybe he thinks it distracts from the fact that he sent out insanely racist and misogynistic tweets and has yet to apologize for them, and now his apology is just saying that he wants to "learn"? Here's an educational tip, Lee: don't wear a three piece suit where the third piece is from a different, somehow even uglier suit, where the overall combination comes together to make you look like a mortician’s apprentice at a family-run funeral home in Reno where something seems just a liiiiittle off about everybody.

But I'm really not the expert to advise on these matters. No, for that let's turn to Anthony, a master in both three-piece-suits with unorthodox shirt-color choices and racial rhetoric.

"I think you're just saying ‘I've been a bad person,’ but you're not acknowledging the kind of invisible racism in your mind. You may not be doing it intentionally, but it's still motivating your actions. The racism that is ingrained in your actions to the point of invisibility is still pushing you to behave in a certain way towards Kenny, towards Eric, towards me that you don't even recognize. So, are your actions motivated by racist thoughts that are implicitly embedded in your mentality?"

For the record, Lee's response goes a little something like this:

And finally, dear Dean, whose clock on being this franchise's It Girl began running out the moment it started ticking — time is a cruel friend, Dean. You'll learn that when you're old enough to spot your first laugh line.

I still love Dean, but this really ridiculous blazer has me nervous that he might grow too thirsty for his own britches post-Paradise. But at least those britches aren't also navy camouflage.

That, and the fact that he wasn't a dick to Rachel, at least, gives me hope.

Define…Engagement

Okay, there's no more putting off the inevitable. The episode preceding the finale ended on a cliffhanger because suddenly it became clear that Rachel and her hot co-boyfriend Peter were at an impasse. As of the Fantasy Suites — which is to say both his second-to-last solo date with Rachel and his fourth-ever solo date with Rachel — Peter was not sure if he would be ready to propose to her after just six weeks of being aware she existed. See, he believes, “Engagement is marriage. I want to do it as many times as I get married, which is once." And Rachel believes that getting engaged in the next two simply days means, "cultivating a relationship and seeing if it can work outside of that."

This is the one place that Rachel is just crazy-wrong. She is defining a committed dating relationship, but she is assigning that definition to something else entirely. The hardest part of watching this finale is that Rachel was so good at being the Bachelorette. She was smart and thoughtful and in control. What I wanted out of Rachel as a Bachelorette was for her to be different, for her to grow beyond the vehicle she chose to ride in on her “journey to love”...

But Rachel Wasn’t Different

Rachel told Eric's Aunt Verna [ed. note: long live the queen] that, yes, she was the first black Bachelorette, but she came to the show looking for one thing — love — and in that way, she should be exactly the same as the 12 Bachelorettes that came before her.

And that might have been the hardest pill to swallow while watching Peter and Rachel have a lash-destroying, sweater-ripping breakdown as they realized that they loved one another, but they simply couldn't make their wants and their needs match up. In the end, Rachel wasn't any different than the 12 Bachelorettes that came before her. She might have seemed better than the show, and she surely was too good for a lot of the dudes the show provided her with…but she and The Bachelorette shared one goal that overrides all of that: this journey for love ends in an engagement with a Neil-fucking-Lane diamond, and you can either get on board with that or get the hell off of the love train, ya'heard?

So Rachel chose Bryan. Which hopefully felt like a fairytale ending for them, but to everyone else, it kind of felt like the end of love and romance and passion and maybe the franchise. Watching The Bachelorette is supposed to be an escape, but hearing Peter tell Rachel that not choosing to meet him in the middle would be choosing a mediocre life, and then watching her do it was all too real. (He later apologized at After the Final Rose. Rachel insisted she was living her best life. The audience wept.)

As I ruminated upon the disillusionment of romantic love as I know it though, my subconscious reminded me that oftentimes during Rachel's journey for love© I found myself thinking of Des and Des' Bangs journey for love© in season 9. Those comparison's never made a ton of sense at face value because when it came to being the Bachelorette, Des managed the job with all the aplomb of a crumpled napkin whereas Rachel was a confident and assured polygamist leader.

But both women ended up in the same place. You may recall Des weeping on a dock for somewhere between four hours and four calendar years because Brooks the Secret Mormon realized he just wasn't as into her as she was into him. She was running toward the altar and he was all, "This has been super fun Des, but I'm going to have to scoot on back to Salt Lake City now." And that was really tough on Des, the human equivalent of a Lip Smackers. Then all of a sudden, as if the scales of Bad Boy Mormon Brooks had fallen from her eyes, Des realized that she was free to be fully in love with Boring Regular Boy Chris who came from a family of — I kid you fucking not — chiropractors.

And do you know what? Those two mediocre kids have lived happily ever after. Both Des and Rachel seemed to want one thing really, really badly, but in the end, maybe they actually needed another thing. And that thing was free chiropractic adjustments for life and not a handsome, well-adjusted former model (in both cases, I swear!)

Of course, I have a hard time believing that this Bryan and Rachel can go the distance until they get a handle on his mom's whole Lysa Arryn vibe, and his whole robot-made-of-plastic vibe. But sometimes…sometimes, mediocrity is built to last — I truly believe that Toyota Camrys will be all that survive the looming world apocalypse.

Part II: The Next Bachelor

The most disappointing part of what was truly an emotionally grueling finale experience was not even getting the climactic relief of finding out who the next Bachelor is. Now, I understand the predicament ABC is in—there's no perfect candidate from Rachel's crop, probably because they took up valuable space of what could have been non-Bryans who were willing to propose after four weeks with numbnuts like Lee and Lucas. So let's assess our options:

Peter and/or Dean

The most obvious options for the next Bachelor are Dean and Peter. The former was a favorite all season because he quickly revealed himself to be a hot Precious Moments doll with a heart of gold, and the former was always hot, but in the last analysis revealed himself to be someone who is aware that this process is bogus and while it might create a romantic adventure full of blimps and Greco-Roman wrestling simulations, it does not set couples up for long-term success.

Unfortunately, both Peter and Dean's greatest strengths are their greatest weaknesses, as well. Peter's use of logic in not wanting to propose to Rachel if he wasn't prepared to marry her, made him a more attractive candidate to as the Bachelor, but it also made him a worse one. As Rachel pointed out in their After the Final Rose segment, Peter might not be cut out for the speed of this this process. As I would like to point out, Peter definitely wasn't cut out for this process, and Rachel's comment was definitely fueled by still being in love with him and being defensive about choosing Bryan by default. Gasp, oh yes I did.

As for Dean, the main problem seems to be that he's going on Bachelor in Paradise, which is like starting with wine, moving to tequila shots, and then trying to go back to wine again—it's not going to be pretty. The best thing about Dean being the Bachelor is that he would mess up so much. He is very young and very sweet, and needs to do quite a bit of, let's say, self-work before he holds the hearts of 30 women in his clumsy Ken Doll hands. And being the woke young thing that he is, Dean said as much to The Hollywood Reporter: "I’d say I don’t think I’m ready yet, at this point in my life. Of course, I would never immediately dismiss any offer, but I think I’d really have to sit down and really think about it."

So, my I present for you consideration that Dean and Peter be the Bachelor together??? Not like when they made the dudes vote between Kaitlyn and Britt, and then Kaitlyn won, but not by a lot, so like half of the guys were still there to date someone else. That was really stupid. [Ed. Note: this probably would be too.] But as everyone knows, the most beautiful love affair to come out of Rachel's season was that of handsome male bonding between Dean and Peter. And they complement each other so well! Dean could help Peter loosen up a little; Peter could help Dean get in touch with his emotions; Dean could help Peter experiment with florals; Peter could help Dean not experiment quite so much with florals. And they could have totally separate groups of potential women sister-girlfriends, and no one would ever have to get in a fight, they could just support each other and everyone could be happy.

Eric

Eric would be an excellent Bachelor, his only problem is that the editors didn't reveal his fun personality, and he didn’t reveal the full extent of his hotness until way too late in the season. I just don't know if he has the popularity. Also, I know ABC is scared to cast a black Bachelor again because they haven't yet realized that pretty much the only adjustment that needs to be made is not purposefully casting racist potential suitors to stir up racially-fueled drama. Which seems like a pretty easy fix!

A Semi-Famous Person's Brother

The Bachelor already has a storied history in this arena. There was Aaron Murray's brother Josh Murray; the much more famous Aaron Rodger's (estranged) brother Jordan Rodgers; and most importantly for our purposes here, Jerry O'Connell's brother Charlie O'Connell was cast as the actual Bachelor simply because he was Jerry O'Connell's brother. Like, Zac Efron has a brother who's in his mid-20s and already has a Buzzfeed article devoted to how cute he is. Doesn't Scarlett Johansson have a twin or something? I don't know, I'm not a casting agent, just find a reason to get someone random and hot on here so we don't have to keep swimming around in the same tepid pool of candidates!

A Nostalgically Semi-Famous Person

Listen, I'm just trying to think outside the box here. Like…what's Trey from Laguna Beach up to these days? He was cute with a budding career in trucker hat activism. Maybe a non-Ashley-Parker-Angel member of O-Town? Where’d that guy from Brink! disappear to? I'm pretty sure Ephram from The WB's Everwood is still out there somewhere? I think we're onto something here…

Bachelor: The Next Generation

I'm just crunching some numbers here, and if current contestant Kenny has a daughter that's 11, then a contestant from the original season of The Bachelor 15 years ago could reasonably have a child that's 25 or 26 now. It's not a real suggestion that said hypothetical offspring should be the next Bachelor…but it's worth noting that one day, in the not so distant future, someone will come onto this show as a contestant…whose parent was a contestant before them. It happened on American Idol, and it will happen here. Swear to me, dear reader, that we’ll make it out before that happens...

K, see you next week for Bachelor in Paradise, pending how awfully they handle the Corrinne/DeMario situation! It will probably be pretty awful!!!

[therightnewsnetwork]

The Solutions Are Sitting Around a Campfire, Not In Congress

“Our Miserable 21st Century” is the headline on a recent piece in Commentary, not to mention a pretty good summation of the general mood these days. Economic malaise, an opioid crisis, climate change, spiking crime rates in major cities, a political atmosphere that’s about as chummy as a prison riot…

Nobody should dismiss these grim signs of impending societal collapse, or the many others that, while equally important, have not yet received sufficient attention. (I refer of course to the use of “concerning” as an adjective—as in “The president’s behavior is very concerning”—along with the appalling, yet apparently proliferating, belief that “to include” is a suitable replacement for “including.” It isn’t.)

At the same time, it is possible to make too much of our current troubles. A little perspective is in order.

One way to regain that perspective is to spend a few minutes on HumanProgress.org, which tracks the generally meliorating conditions of human existence over the short, medium, and long term. It is filled with data showing how much better things today are than they once were: Hundreds of millions of people have climbed out of poverty. Literacy rates are rising, the gender wage gap is shrinking, child mortality is falling. Air travel is both cheaper and far less dangerous, food is more plentiful, malaria deaths have plunged, and on and on.

If your learning style is more experiential than data-driven, then you might try spending a few days with a Cub Scout pack. Few things are as likely to restore your confidence that everything is basically OK.

To begin with, you will not hear word one about President Trump. That in itself is a blessing. Because no matter how you feel about Trump, the topic is guaranteed to enrage: Either you are enraged by what the president is doing, or you are enraged by all the people who are enraged by it. The man must be the country’s No. 1 salesman for hypertension medication.

You also won’t see any strife over identity politics. Eight-year-old boys don’t care if you’re an immigrant or black or white or Asian or Muslim or evangelical. They just don’t. As comic Denis Leary once put it, “Racism isn’t born, folks, it’s taught. I have a 2-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps. End of list.”

And you won’t see any class divisions. One boy’s family might live in a trailer park. Another’s might live on Park Avenue. Nobody cares. What they care about is making sure their Pinewood Derby cars come in right at the regulation weight limit of 5.0 ounces, so they will overcome the forces of inertia and friction and get rolling down the track more quickly.

This is a matter of intense focus and concern (though it is emphatically not “concerning”)—especially to the parents, some of whom have devoted far more time than any grown person should finding ways to add a marginal amount of velocity to a block of pine sitting on four plastic wheels.

The parents also spent untold hours sitting around dinner tables planning Cub Scout events, and more untold hours at those events, to keep the momentum going in an organization that exists for the simple, old-fashioned purpose of teaching kids how to be better people: better students, better stewards, better children to their parents, better citizens of their communities.

And to keep that momentum going they’ve gone on campouts where they stood in the cold rain eating scorched eggs and raw bacon around a campfire with a ridiculously high smoke-to-BTU ratio, complaining about all the sleep they didn’t get thanks to lying on a bed of jagged rocks.

Some of them, if they were Boy Scouts, share stories about how different camping was when they were coming up. None of this fancy high-tech gear, microfiber jackets with water-beading technology and headlamps brighter than an airport runway. Back then you had a smelly wool coat and a flashlight that weighed six pounds and emitted a glow so faint it wouldn’t impress a lightning bug. There weren’t any bathroom facilities, you had to use the outhouse—or dig your own latrine.

Then there was that time when the troop hiked six miles through the woods and had to put up the tents in a downpour, and nobody could get a fire started so there was no way to cook dinner and everyone huddled inside their sleeping bags, shivering and hungry and miserable, and didn’t do much of anything until Brian Schneider barfed inside his tent. There was a long silence, and then somebody more hungry than the rest called dibs: “I get the big chunks.”

While you’re telling that story you look around and realize none of the boys has touched an electronic device for a day and a half. They’re all running around in the woods with sticks, building forts and having swordfights. And you think, it’s not just this bunch of kids; this is going on all over the country. And it’s not just the Scouts but church groups and 4-H and Big Brothers Big Sisters of America and sports teams and too many others to name. None of it created by Washington, none of it imposed by executive order. Just ordinary people, doing their part.

You look around and you realize: One of these days these kids are going to grow up and take over. And things will be just fine. Maybe even more than fine.

This column originally appeared at the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

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[patriotnewsblogger-blog]

The Solutions Are Sitting Around a Campfire, Not In Congress

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The Solutions Are Sitting Around a Campfire, Not In Congress

“Our Miserable 21st Century” is the headline on a recent piece in Commentary, not to mention a pretty good summation of the general mood these days. Economic malaise, an opioid crisis, climate change, spiking crime rates in major cities, a political atmosphere that’s about as chummy as a prison riot…

Nobody should dismiss these grim signs of impending societal collapse, or the many others that, while equally important, have not yet received sufficient attention. (I refer of course to the use of “concerning” as an adjective—as in “The president’s behavior is very concerning”—along with the appalling, yet apparently proliferating, belief that “to include” is a suitable replacement for “including.” It isn’t.)

At the same time, it is possible to make too much of our current troubles. A little perspective is in order.

One way to regain that perspective is to spend a few minutes on HumanProgress.org, which tracks the generally meliorating conditions of human existence over the short, medium, and long term. It is filled with data showing how much better things today are than they once were: Hundreds of millions of people have climbed out of poverty. Literacy rates are rising, the gender wage gap is shrinking, child mortality is falling. Air travel is both cheaper and far less dangerous, food is more plentiful, malaria deaths have plunged, and on and on.

If your learning style is more experiential than data-driven, then you might try spending a few days with a Cub Scout pack. Few things are as likely to restore your confidence that everything is basically OK.

To begin with, you will not hear word one about President Trump. That in itself is a blessing. Because no matter how you feel about Trump, the topic is guaranteed to enrage: Either you are enraged by what the president is doing, or you are enraged by all the people who are enraged by it. The man must be the country’s No. 1 salesman for hypertension medication.

You also won’t see any strife over identity politics. Eight-year-old boys don’t care if you’re an immigrant or black or white or Asian or Muslim or evangelical. They just don’t. As comic Denis Leary once put it, “Racism isn’t born, folks, it’s taught. I have a 2-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps. End of list.”

And you won’t see any class divisions. One boy’s family might live in a trailer park. Another’s might live on Park Avenue. Nobody cares. What they care about is making sure their Pinewood Derby cars come in right at the regulation weight limit of 5.0 ounces, so they will overcome the forces of inertia and friction and get rolling down the track more quickly.

This is a matter of intense focus and concern (though it is emphatically not “concerning”)—especially to the parents, some of whom have devoted far more time than any grown person should finding ways to add a marginal amount of velocity to a block of pine sitting on four plastic wheels.

The parents also spent untold hours sitting around dinner tables planning Cub Scout events, and more untold hours at those events, to keep the momentum going in an organization that exists for the simple, old-fashioned purpose of teaching kids how to be better people: better students, better stewards, better children to their parents, better citizens of their communities.

And to keep that momentum going they’ve gone on campouts where they stood in the cold rain eating scorched eggs and raw bacon around a campfire with a ridiculously high smoke-to-BTU ratio, complaining about all the sleep they didn’t get thanks to lying on a bed of jagged rocks.

Some of them, if they were Boy Scouts, share stories about how different camping was when they were coming up. None of this fancy high-tech gear, microfiber jackets with water-beading technology and headlamps brighter than an airport runway. Back then you had a smelly wool coat and a flashlight that weighed six pounds and emitted a glow so faint it wouldn’t impress a lightning bug. There weren’t any bathroom facilities, you had to use the outhouse—or dig your own latrine.

Then there was that time when the troop hiked six miles through the woods and had to put up the tents in a downpour, and nobody could get a fire started so there was no way to cook dinner and everyone huddled inside their sleeping bags, shivering and hungry and miserable, and didn’t do much of anything until Brian Schneider barfed inside his tent. There was a long silence, and then somebody more hungry than the rest called dibs: “I get the big chunks.”

While you’re telling that story you look around and realize none of the boys has touched an electronic device for a day and a half. They’re all running around in the woods with sticks, building forts and having swordfights. And you think, it’s not just this bunch of kids; this is going on all over the country. And it’s not just the Scouts but church groups and 4-H and Big Brothers Big Sisters of America and sports teams and too many others to name. None of it created by Washington, none of it imposed by executive order. Just ordinary people, doing their part.

You look around and you realize: One of these days these kids are going to grow up and take over. And things will be just fine. Maybe even more than fine.

This column originally appeared at the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

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