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spartanguard · 6 years

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Happy Valentine's Day, love!! Hope I'm not too late to request some - ⚡️ - person a and b get into a fight before valentine’s, and both spend the entire day trying to make up with each other. (obv I'm walking into slight angst territory here but I trust you!)

Well, this took me all day. But here it is! It’s not TOO angsty ;)

⚡️ - person a and b get into a fight before valentine’s, and both spend the entire day trying to make up with each other.

canon insert | rated T | 2.2k | valentine’s day prompts

Emma had been looking forward to Valentine’s Day, which was still something she was getting used to, but in the good way. She’d never take for granted the fact that she had someone to celebrate it with forever—someone who was particularly prone to grand romantic gestures, even if she’d told him she didn’t need or want anything over the top.

(She was kind of hoping they’d have another little someone to share the day with, since Henry had left a few months ago and the house was feeling much too empty, but...no luck there yet.)

But her anticipation was replaced with apprehension when she came downstairs that morning, festively dressed in her red leather jacket, only to find Killian sneaking in the back door, head down.

“Hey, what were you doing out there?”

“Um, taking out the trash,” he lied, avoiding her gaze as he moved toward the coffee pot.

“You wanna try that again?”

“Don’t worry about it, love.”

Her mind flashed back to the time he was keeping the shears of fate in the shed out back, and then the situation with the dreamcatcher. They’d moved past both of those, and she trusted him, but something just felt...off. It wasn’t like him to keep anything from her anymore.

“What if I want to worry about it?” she countered, stepping toward him as he poked at buttons on the machine without getting anywhere.

“Is a man not allowed to keep anything hidden around here?” he threw back, just a hint of anger in his voice. “I promise you, Emma—it’s nothing.” I’ll…” he trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Why are you being so evasive?” Tired of him toying with the coffee pot, she reached over and turned it on.

He tossed his head back, exasperated, and sighed. “I’m not; you’re the one seeing danger where there is none.”

“Well it’s nice that you’re able to not constantly be on guard. Sorry I can’t just shut it off like you can.” Not waiting for his reaction, she stormed off.

“Where are you going?” he called after her.

“Apparently, someone has to keep an eye on this town. I’m headed to work; I’ll see you later.”

She kind of didn’t care if the door slammed behind her. What the hell was he doing?

Killian gave a long, low exhale after the door crashed shut. It wasn’t the first meaningless, random spat they’d had lately; they were both anxious for their family to grow, and perhaps subconsciously, their lack of success in that area was getting to both of them.

He hadn’t meant to be short with her, but all he was doing was trying to keep her away from one of the Valentine’s surprises he’d prepared; surely, that wasn’t worth jumping down his throat?

But they both had a long history of betrayal, even between each other, even if they’d progressed far beyond that point. He couldn’t completely fault her suspicion. Still—it stung.

The coffee pot beeped as the brew finished, with one final gurgle that echoed in the silence of the room. Reluctantly, he pulled a mug from a cabinet and poured himself a cup, but then he realized: Emma didn’t have any yet. Or, judging from the untouched box of Pop Tarts on the counter, anything to eat.

She may have said she was going to work, but he knew she wouldn’t get that far without sustenance, so there was only one place she could be headed.

He dug his phone from his rear pocket, pulled up the number, and dialed.

Emma’s anger had cooled a bit on the walk to Granny’s—probably in proportion to her growing hunger and need for caffeine. She really hadn’t meant to go off on him like that; it was probably nothing. Maybe she was just more stressed than she thought? Or maybe just hangry.

The smell of coffee and maple syrup hit Emma as soon as she opened the door to the diner and her mouth was watering.

Emma had barely sat down at the counter when Granny was in front of her, setting down a plate in front of her. “One order of pancakes, with bacon on the side, for Mrs. Swan-Jones,” she announced. “And the coffee is almost done.”

“Thanks,” Emma replied, slightly stunned. “Am I just that predictable now?”

“Eh,” Granny shrugged. “I had warning you were on the way.”

Emma slumped over her breakfast a bit. “He called?”

“Yep. You two fight or something?”

“Yeah, something,” Emma sighed as she cut into the stack of pancakes. “It’s dumb.”

“So I take it he’s not going to be joining you?”

“No, probably not,” she answered. Granny slid over a mug of fresh coffee; Emma took a long gulp, even with it still being hot. “But...can you help me doing something for him?”

“Of course, darlin’.”

After a brief stop at the station, managing to slip in and out before Emma got in, Killian made his way to the docks. The weather was going to be dry enough to get some work done on the ship this week, and with today being unseasonably warm, he decided this would be the perfect time to start. He just needed to double-check some measurements before he bought new sailcloth and rope for rigging first.

That, and working with his hands would give him some more time to calm down from their tiff—or distract himself from his shame at losing his temper.

He wandered up to the quarterdeck when he got to the ship and was about to re-inspect the section where the ropes were getting worn, but before he could get there, a bundle sitting on the helm caught his attention.

Tied up with bright red ribbon was a hefty length of rope and what looked to be the exact cut of cloth he needed. A tag was hanging from the knot of the ribbon; it looked a bit watery, as if it had been laying outside overnight and was mottled by the morning dew. But in unmistakeable handwriting, it said “You put the wind in my sails. Happy Valentine’s!

He reached into his jacket pocket; sure enough, the notes he’d made with rough measurements listed was gone—but this looked like more than enough for what he needed. Perhaps he needed some lessons from Emma on being sneaky—though he certainly had a few surprises up his sleeve for later.

For now, he had to get to work, if only so he could get to those faster.

Emma couldn’t say she was looking forward to a day of working on her own, but Valentine’s was usually quiet enough that they’d decided to just have one person in today, and she knew how much Killian wanted to make those repairs on his ship. She just really hoped those notes of his were right; she’d erred on the side of caution and bought more when she hit the supply shop yesterday.

Hopefully, he was enjoying himself there; she probably would be bored out of her mind in the empty station, but she couldn’t begrudge him the nice day to be by the sea, especially if they needed a bit of time apart, as they apparently did.

She unlocked the front door and shuffled in like always, flipping on the light to the bullpen and then her office once she slipped inside.

The light overhead shined down like a spotlight onto her desk—or, rather, what was on it: a huge, gorgeous bouquet of roses in a stunning glass vase. Her jaw dropped.

Almost cautiously, she stepped toward them—this was still Storybrooke, after all. She plucked the card that was tucked into the center of the arrangement and was immediately awash in the light, powdery fragrance they gave off—there had to be close to three dozen stems there.

The card bore her name on the front in Killian’s flourishing handwriting. On the other side, he’d written “I gave you one of these on our first date; I’ve done a poor job of keeping up the tradition. Hopefully this covers it and then some. All my love, Killian.”

How had she found such a perfect romantic sap? She stuck her whole face in the flowers then, almost getting high on the scent. She caught a tiny whiff of something slightly musty, too, but familiar.

It smelled like the storage shed. Shit. She’d practically attacked him for trying to hide what he’d clearly intended to be a surprise. God, she was an asshole. She had to make this up to him. She had a few things planned...but what else could she do?

A few hours later, Killian was halfway up the rigging, setting up new lines, when a voice called out.

“Ahoy! Permission to board?”

He nearly jumped at the sound, which would have resulted in a rather unpleasant fall were his reflexes not still trained to grab the nearest piece of rope at the slightest jolt. But it was just Granny.

“Of course, milady,” he shouted back, then carefully made his way back to semi-solid ground. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“To your wife,” she replied, holding out a take-out bag. He could smell the onion rings from here. “She figured you’d be working too hard to remember lunch and wanted to make sure you ate.”

He took the bag from her; scrawled in Emma’s hand, on the top of the bag, was “Sorry :( I love you!”

“You kids alright?” Granny asked, concern evident in her voice. “I don’t like being the go-between.”

“We’ll be just fine, I think,” he said softly as he opened the bag, the familiar shape of a burger wrapped in foil inside. “As much as we appreciate your services, I don’t think they’ll be required much longer.”

“I hope so. If you two can’t make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?”

He had to admit, that kind of sentiment was a bit draining—that everyone only saw them through the lens of “True Love,” and not as a real relationship. But he daren’t admit that to Granny. Instead, he smirked and tossed back, “Why, Madame Lucas—aren’t the lovers lining up at your threshold?”

“Ha. Very funny. Eat up, and don’t break your neck. I’ve got a lunch rush to get back to.” She turned to head away, but he caught the pink blush rising on her cheeks.

Oh, his darling wife; however was he going to make up for the muck he’d made this morning?

As it turned out, they both seemed determined to apologize through various gestures throughout the day, both preplanned and spur of the moment.

At the same time he was discovering a fifth of his favorite rum in the ship’s galley—to go with his burger, of course—Emma found the recently replenished stash of her favorite hazelnut coffee (the good stuff) in the coffee cabinet at the station.

On his way home from the ship, he arranged to have a hot chocolate and bearclaw delivered to her from her favorite cafe in town (don’t tell Granny); upon arrival at the house, a delivery boy from the ice cream shop was dropping off a pint of his favorite flavor, rum raisin.

And then, around dinner time, Killian walked up to the house armed with their favorite dishes from the local Chinese restaurant—just as Emma was pulling up in the bug, laden with their favorite pizzas.

“Hi,” they both said, somewhat awkwardly, staring at the carry-out in the other’s hands. Then they looked up at each other and giggled.

“Shall we?” Killian said, nodding at the door.

“Let’s.”

Seamlessly moving around each other—like always—they set up the food on the kitchen counter, Emma got out the dishes, and Killian uncorked the wine they’d been saving for tonight.

He’d just opened the bottle, and she had just set the plates down, when they turned to face each other and blurted out simultaneously, “I’m sorry.”

“No, love, you have nothing—”

“Oh, don’t even; I’m the one who—”

“Emma—”

“Killian—”

They took in a breath at the same moment, then instinctively moved together, wrapping the other one up in a bruising hug.

“I’m sorry I got needlessly suspicious and defensive,” Emma said, voice muffled a bit by the way her face was pressed against Killian’s chest.

“And I’m sorry that I was cagey and snapped at you; it’s inexcusable.”

“I’d have done the same.”

“That’s why we’re true love, aye?”

“Something like that.” Emma lifted her head just enough to find his lips with hers, and press any other apologies into that. “I love you.”

“I love you, too—immeasurably.”

“Show-off.”

He kissed her again, then laid out a decision. “So, we have two options here: dive into this frankly ridiculous amount of food, or take this,” he explained, grabbing her rear end through her jeans, “to a more comfortable locale. Which would you prefer?”

The decision was easy for Emma. “The food will reheat.” And without any further prompting, jumped up to wrap her legs around his waist and reaffix her lips to his.

They continued to make up several more times that night, in various positions, all across their bed.

(And, the following year, they did indeed have someone else to celebrate with—baby Hope.)

#cs ff #cs valentine's day #valentine's day #my ff #effulgentcolors

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jacewilliams1 · 3 years

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My first combat mission in an F-4 Phantom

My first combat mission in the F-4E Phantom took place in late summer of 1972. It was a few months before the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing “The Gunfighters” deactivated at Takhli Royal Thai Air Base, Thailand, and my squadron moved a few hundred miles up the road to Udorn Royal Thai Air Base. This was my third combat tour, but my first tour in a fighter. I am not a war lover, but it was worth the long wait, a tour that most pilots can only dream about. Every mission was different, whether day or night, in clear or marginal weather; a different county—North Vietnam, Laos or South Vietnam—a different type mission, and a different type of ordnance.

I had paid my dues for this tour by staying in Strategic Air Command (SAC) during the mid-60s, instead of going with the airlines. It was an important personal gamble that paid off after the SAC tours in bombers and tankers and two combat tours in other aircraft, including one as an airborne battle staff officer in a EC-130. I finally got into a Phantom, the world’s greatest fighter aircraft and the aircraft that I flew in some of the best combat missions of the entire war in Southeast Asia.

The “frag,” or fragmentary order of the war plan, the legal instrument that authorized the use of deadly force and those to be killed, called for a low risk, almost introductory supply road cut mission. The target was located on a road in a low threat area of southern Laos. My Phantom (68-326) was loaded with twelve 500-pound Mark 82 “slicks” fused for road cuts. What a magnificent warhorse that aircraft still is. I believe that the F4-E and later model Phantoms with new engines and new electronics would still be one of the best all-around air weapons systems ever made by man. And to this day I have never met or known of a fighter pilot who has done all the things the Phantom is capable of doing. And I suspect that even today our pilots are never asked to reach that goal.

The F-4E was—and still is—an impressive machine.

The Wing policy was that the squadron operations officer (OPS) had to fly back seat with all the new pilots on their first combat mission. And as his luck would have it, my first mission was diverted by “Hillsboro Orbit” (the airborne EC-130 command post) just after we crossed the Mekong river into Laos. We turned port to the northeast, toward Mugia Pass, and crossed the mountains into Vietnam. Our new mission was a close air support for a hot troops-in-contact (TIC) mission in the city of Hue near the demilitarized zone (DMZ), where our troops were engaged in heavy street fighting. This was to have been a first mission milk run, a routine road cut in southern Laos to prove to the squadron OPS officer that I could hit the ground with my bombs and find my way home. But this mission became something much more vital.

It was his luck of the draw to be with me, the new guy on a TIC for his first combat mission, flying the back seat with a pilot who had never seen combat, had never “seen the elephant.” We met only a week ago and now we were circling the center of Hue with a part of his future riding on where my bombs fell.

There are no really worthwhile personal rewards for killing an unseen enemy in this kind of a war. The very best that can be said is that it is a job that has to be done; hopefully it will be done professionally, with the appropriate level of human detachment. But it was fair in a way. Ho Chi Minh started the shooting, the killing. If you shot at them, they could—and did—shoot back. On the other hand, there is a terrible price to pay for killing the innocent, especially the good guys, with friendly fire.

There is an everlasting mental baggage if you kill your own troops with your friendly fire. Would it be my bombs that would kill the friendlies in the middle of Hue? If it happened, it would be clearly be my fault and my bombs because there was little a back-seater could do but hold on and hope. Killing the innocent and the friendlies would have affected him and me the rest of our lives. We shared a once-in-a-lifetime that day, a bond, an experience that only deadly combat can fuse. I think back now as I write that for some reason there were no thoughts on my part at that time about killing the innocent or our own troops with my bombs. I found the truths about war over time, later in the missions ahead of me, but not then. That was not on my mind for a second—my only concern was to find the target and do my best to hit it.

We both listened carefully to the excited and concerned voices of the Marines and their forward air controllers pinned down on the ground in the city as they tried to talk me to the right building. The target was a small building in the middle of a city of small buildings. We both knew that the target was impossible to identify from the air by the descriptions given from ground level—most of the buildings had the same colors and the same roofs and they all looked alike. I don’t remember one word from the back seat as we circled and looked. Most of the fine details of the mission are long forgotten. I do remember how hard and seriously I looked for that one building they wanted me to hit.

I circled a few times, trying as hard as I could to understand their descriptions of the target—to identify that one building. Hitting the wrong building would mean killing the innocent, or worse, killing those Marines who were fighting for the innocent. I knew that asking them to smoke their positions would give their location away, but I had to do it. It was a matter-of-fact request that they understood and immediately responded to. Their white signal smoke filtered up from the alleys and streets near their general positions. But now at least I could select the best run-in heading to reduce the danger of long or short bombs. Their “smoke” drifted up from the streets and rooftops forming an irregular semicircle that helped me make the final and fateful decision. It also helped me judge the wind.

I finally selected the one building that I thought housed the heavy machine gun and mortar position that had them pinned down. I described the building and a small rice paddy nearby and they said I had the right target. Then I was faced with the next challenge: to hit that building. Why did I decide on the steepest dive angle, and why did I select all twelve bombs to release on one pass, using the tightest bomb release interval possible on the weapons select panel? Was it an unconscious hedge? If I missed the target, there would be nothing left of the innocent or the friendlies to bury or to ship home in body bags. I do not know what made me make a small last second maneuver, “jinking” the bombsight pipper rapidly toward the small rice paddy about one hundred feet at the 4 o’clock position from the building. Some of it was a correction for a wind shear that was making the pipper drift.

It seems strange that I can still remember the shimmer off the brown water in that rice paddy as I dragged the pipper toward it. It seems now after some thought that it was all an almost subconscious act. The thought occurred to me after that mission, and many others, that I was not really trained or prepared properly for what I was doing on that day. Who would be held responsible besides me for killing with friendly fire? I clearly remember holding the dive run longer than necessary. I also remember holding down on the red round pickle button long after all the bombs were gone, until my right thumb hurt so bad, the pain told me to release. I remember the rapid succession of little thumps while in the steep dive. The thumps caused by the bomb release ejector racks firing almost instantaneously, releasing all twelve bombs.

It was bombs away in a tight pattern, like a swarm of black hornets heading at a steep angle downward toward the middle of the city. I recall the wonderful feeling of release and the sensation of man-and-aircraft-as-one, after the jink, into a graceful pull off the bomb run into a beautiful arching cloverleaf maneuver. A maneuver in full afterburner that had me for a moment looking straight up into a cool blue sky with small, bright, puffy white clouds. The Phantom and I were indeed one at that moment in time, one of my unforgettable moments: a feeling pilots know of and can fully enjoy.

Then back to business, a hard G pull back to inverted flight to look over my left shoulder so I could see where the bombs hit. I paid no attention to the rapid loss of airspeed as I pulled up into an almost vertical recovery maneuver over the city. I had never seen that many bombs go off before. But it was too late; all I could see was a huge, growing cloud of dirty brown and black smoke, dust, dirt, parts, and pieces rapidly tumbling and flying in all directions, billowing up from where all twelve bombs hit.

Hue was the site of fierce fighting, both on the ground and in the air.

It is an everlasting image, three tons of bombs slamming into the city at over 500 knots. Bombs fused to go off deep in the ground exploded together, throwing tons of dirt—and thousands and thousands of pieces of debris—into the sky, then raining down everywhere. What was once a building and the enemy was all part of a giant, ugly, brown billowing cloud. Many of the pieces were already hitting the nearby rice paddy, making splashes like hail from a great Midwest thunderstorm. The debris rained down on the city and splashed down in that pond of shiny brown water that was just a moment ago in the middle of my gun sight. I recovered from the inverted position without a thought or concern about the nose high altitude and low airspeed. We circled and there was a long uncomfortable silence on the radio.

It was as if all of us, those on the ground and in the air, all held our breath at the same time—an eerie silence. The giant dirt cloud finally settled and the verdict came in with a rebirth of the radios. The forward air controllers and radio operators talked to each other and to me with excited voices. All in a glorious confirmation, each voice confirming to me and to each other that they were still there, still alive. As faith and luck and maybe some skill would have it, all twelve bombs, the first I ever dropped in combat, were right on target.

Only now does it occur to me that maybe a part of the excitement I heard in their voices was a relief. We all survived, and they would not be sent home in body bags or with missing body parts. My OPS officer and I would not have to live with the nightmares of killing the friendly. In retrospect I think it was fate, somehow confidence, good luck, and a big relief. That long ago mission eventually faded into all the others. Some of the others were just as exciting, but none as rewarding. Mostly there was the haunting reminder, during the early missions, that I really was not trained or prepared for what I was doing and there would be no time or person to train me in the middle of combat.

There is no substitute for being the best, and the cheerleader stuff we were exposed to was just that—cheerleader stuff—which is OK for football but no substitute for substance and performance. Some of our pilots are the best. And many more can be the best, but only if demanded to be by our leadership. And that is where the fault lays, dear Brutus. For all of us to be the best we can be, our leaders must lead by example.

This story is dedicated to all those who wanted to be the best, but of whom it was never required.

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eirabach · 7 years

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Heathens [4/14]

Summary:

After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

Best love and gratitude as ever to my betas @katie-dub and @phiralovesloki and to my wonderful artist @seastarved - and to everyone who’s been reading along and especially to those of you who’ve left comments! I know there’s a lot of incredible fic out there right now to keep up with and I’m so grateful you’ve chosen to spend a bit of time on this one!

That said, I’m sorry about this...

This chapter 4k. Rated E for smut, some violence, corporal/capital punishment.

Other Pairings Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two or here on AO3

(@killian-whump ... here we go.)

Chapter Three: Sparks

She’s held the heart before, squeezed it tightly between her fingers, her face screwed up in rage as she watched the Evil Queen pant and writhe before her. It had made her feel powerful back then. Almost indescribably so. Justice had been just one clenched fist away, victory in the war she’d never known she’d been born to fight a half second from being realised.

Now when she picks it up, holds it carefully in her trembling hands, the tiny vibrations of each beat send tremors to a her very core, her face white and terrified in the reflection of its dark centre.

Rumplestiltskin’s blade glints up at her from the chest as a single tear drops to mar its shining surface.

He’d kept it, and she doesn’t know what that means.

He’d kept it from her, and she’s oh so afraid she does.

From across the room she hears Killian stir, his voice gravelly with sleep as he rouses enough to realise she’s not there.

“Emma?” he grumbles, and she makes some sort of sound of acknowledgement that she intends to be non-committal but comes out more of a sob. He sits up, and she imagines the way his brows will furrow to see her sitting so far away even though she can’t draw her eyes away from what feels so much like a betrayal. “It’s cold love, come back to bed.” She shakes her head, another squeaking little sob escaping, and she hears the moment his bare feet hit the floor, feels him approach her shaking form. “Emma?”

“What is this?” she says, her voice a brittle little thing that cracks with every syllable.

He pauses, close enough that she can feel his intake of breath as he sees what she’s holding, but his voice is light and almost unrecognisable as he answers.

“It’s a sea chest,” he says. “It’s full of things. Isn’t it a little late at night to be requiring an inventory of my belongings?”

“Don’t be facetious,” she snaps. “You know what I mean.”

“Forgive me. I thought your observational skills were a little more advanced.”

“You kept it?”

“Of course I bloody well did! Why wouldn’t I? Emma, I didn’t mean for you to find - ”

“The Evil Queen’s heart? This? You decided to just, what, hide them for a rainy day?”

“Well, I thought it would be bad form to let it get lost, Swan. What would you have had me do? I couldn’t -”

“Why didn’t you tell me - trust me? Is that what you ‘couldn’t’ do?”

“I thought - nevermind what I thought. I was certainly in no position to be returning it before she was banished. I did what I thought was best under the circumstances.”

“And this?”

She gestures to the dagger, something she cannot explain preventing her from picking it up - a sort of darkness that clings to it and makes her breath come sharper whenever she looks at it. Killian’s expression turns darker too, his eyes flashing. The ship begins to rock beneath them.

“Insurance.”

“Against what.”

“Against him,” he shouts. “By the gods, Emma, do you really not realise what he’s taken from me - what he’d take again in a heartbeat? I can’t - I can’t risk that. I can’t risk you.”

Emma laughs, short and humourless.

“So you’ll carry on with your vengeance? You want to be with me so very, very much you’ll darken your very soul? Excuse me if I don’t swoon at your feet!”

“I don’t mean that I - ”

There's a terrible crash from above, followed by some ungodly wail that sounds as though it comes from something more beast than man, and the ship rolls wildly to port. They stop immediately, both of their attentions drawn to the window as lightning cuts the sky asunder, the crash of thunder followed by the unmistakable sound of tearing fabric and the terrified footsteps of stampeding men.

“Stay. Here,” Killian grits out, already reaching for his leathers.

Emma scowls, attempting to snatch them away before he can pull them on. “You've no right to tell me what to do!”

“That's where you're wrong,” Killian spits, turning away so that he can finish dressing swiftly out of the heat of her glare. “I'm the captain of this ship and you will obey me or face the consequences.”

“Oh, and what are those exactly?” she snarls in return as he heads for the hatchway. “Going to make me walk the plank? You are a pirate, after all.”

Killian pauses, and for a moment she swears she sees his shoulders slump, his whole body seeming to curl in on itself before he stands straighter than ever, not turning back as he says, “If that's what you think, your Highness, then there's nothing left for me to say.”

He's gone before Emma can formulate a reply, the hatch slamming shut behind him.

She stands, slack jawed at his audacity in the cold, damp air he's left in his wake. From above she hears him shouting orders, his voice clipped steel even through the deck that separates them, and she doesn't know if its rage or misery that's building within her. Her magic is stoking the fire until she's desperate to do something. Anything.

The ship pitches hard, sending her flying onto her already bruised knees as the voices above grow harsher, louder, Killian’s no longer chief amongst them. She grabs her duffel bag and stuffs it with a shirt or two, a couple of pairs of breeches, and, almost without thinking about it, rests the heart of the evil queen on top, tucked neatly between a couple of oranges.

This is familiar, at least. Running. Even if she’s no idea where she’s trying to go. She never has done, except to towards him. And where has that gotten her?

Happy, whispers her heart, furious, as she swings the bag over her shoulder. It got you to a place where you were happy.

Her brain just scoffs. Perhaps happiness was never in the cards for the Saviour after all.

She takes one look back at the bed, at the still rumpled sheets from where their legs had tangled together, and, swallowing hard, heads for the hatch.

The storm cracks overhead, the ocean a wild, roiling maelstrom of a thing that sends men and equipment thundering from one side of the ship to the other as she dips and rolls, helpless against the will of the gods. Emma struggles to even see straight against the lashing rain, the world a strange white-dark mix of screaming men and shearing wind. A flash of lightning half blinds her, sending her scuttling back for the bowels of the ship, before a large, cold hand grabs her by the collar of her shirt and drags her fully onto the deck. She clings to the arm that curls around her belly like a lifeline, every possible sin forgiven as the world comes apart beneath them.

“Now that's more like it,” hisses a voice in her ear. “Wondered if you'd stay below like a rat, Princess.”

Emma growls, a swift elbow to her would-be captor’s solar plexus giving her enough space to free herself, spinning to face him and wishing fiercely that she'd thought to bring her sword.

“Now now,” tuts the large man who'd watched her earlier, one meaty fist clenched over his abdomen, his soaked hair dripping into his eyes. “Is that any way for a lass to treat her captain?”

“You're not my captain,” she spits, setting her feet further apart as the ship continues to roll.

“Is that so?” He sways with the ship, his expression uncannily calm considering the disaster around him. “Seems we've had a vote in your absence, lass.”

He stands aside, gesturing for her to look past him with a mocking little bow.

The mainmast is tilting alarmingly, ropes whipping freely in the wind, and at its base, sodden and bloodied, tied with tarred oakum and with a sword held to his throat:

“Killian?”

There's no way he can hear her over the raging storm, but his eyes meet hers all the same, ice blue and more furious than she's ever seen them.

“Let him go!” she demands, whirling on the man on unsteady feet. “Let him go right now!”

He grins, his hand on his cutlass, and shakes his head.

“Now that's not how it works on my ship. You'll be following my orders.”

“I will not!” Emma spits, just as a grey-faced sailor slides helplessly across the deck between them. The man doesn't even flinch at the cries that follow his final drop into the waves. Emma swallows hard as the ship lists further and further to port. “You need him,” she says, her eyes flicking to Killian to see him still watching her. “Aren't you afraid?”

He laughs, a wild, terrifying thing that screams of madness.

“About the storm? Nowt but a squall. I've got more important things on my mind.”

It happens in slow motion, except, of course, it doesn't. He advances on her, his teeth bared, as she struggles to keep her footing on the now awash deck. Her magic spits and fizzes, helpless, as her attention is dragged from his feral grin, to Killian, to the sword at his throat.

She can see the strain in Killian’s shoulders as he tries to free himself, the whites of his eyes as he turns them on her - wide and bright and terrified - and she tries to say she's sorry. Tries to tell him she loves him, really and truly, for good and for ill, but the words won't come and even if they would the storm would take them.

Perhaps it's for the best, then. Milah told him she loved him, and then died on this deck. She died, and now she'll die, and there's nothing for it, no point to anything but to close her eyes as the man reaches for her with one meaty fist. The last sound she hears a chorus of strangled gasps and, above it all, Killian calling her name.

She never sees the wave that takes her.

For years his nights were haunted by dreams of that last storm under Silver, the one where the ship fell away beneath him in an unnatural marriage of fire and flood that had echoed through every brine-corrupted breath he’d struggled to draw.

Eventually those dreams had faded, replaced by the horrors of Neverland and the dark, flashing eyes of a demon, by the memory of Milah’s last breath, by Liam. He’d almost come to forget that night - a good sailor never fears the depths after all - and eventually all his dreams had become softer. Sweeter. Emma’s presence alone enough to send his fears skittering away to the dark corners of his mind.

It makes their return a thousand times more painful.

He think’s he’s the one screaming, and maybe he is, rage and terror combining in an unholy roar as he uses his whole body weight to tear at the ropes that bind him from reaching Emma as her pale, terrified face disappears behind a wall of water. The Jolly Roger echoes his pain as the sea crashes over her deck and drags all in its path to the depths. Munitious men are reduced to flotsam, their death cries that wet, warbling infantile sob of a child for its mother.

He briefly spots the one who'd slit Wilkin’s throat, sees the slow, dark, spread of the stain across the rear of the man's breeches as the ship howls in agony, her spine cracking over another great wave.

And then. Nothing.

His throat feels as though it’s full of needles that dig deeper into his flesh as he retches and heaves against a belly full of salt water, his back and arms protesting sorely from where they’re still tied to the splintered remains of the mast. It was ballast, he thinks, spitting bile. He’s been saved by those that would have killed him.

Perhaps he’ll appreciate the irony better when he can breathe.

He blinks against the bright light of dawn, his eyes stinging, and by the gods, how long has he been out?

Emma will be worried. Emma will be furious. Emma -

This time, it’s not the seawater that sends him retching, panic making his heart pound uncomfortably as he struggles to get to his feet.

“Easy there, mate.”

There’s a man at his shoulder, short, swarthy and poorly dressed, his face a mixture of shock and the wry expression of a man who’s seen most everything before. He runs rheumy eyes over the mast and the firm knotwork keeping Killian in place, and tuts lightly as Killian strains away from him.

“What in seven hells happened to you?”

Killian stares at him, wild eyed.

“Bachelor party gone wrong, mate, what the hell do you think?”

“No need to be salty,” says the man brightly, and he slaps Killian’s shoulder so hard he almost stumbles back into the surf. “I’d say you’ve had a lucky escape.”

“Lucky?” Killian spits, rounding on the much shorter man and baring his teeth. “I'll give you lucky. Untie me from this thing this moment or I'll make you wish your mother had been a nun!”

The man sneezes, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and shrugs.

“Ain't got a mother, and what's in it for me?”

Killian leans over as far as he can without overbalancing, his face only inches from the man's as he hisses. “Now. Or the only thing in it for you is a head start.”

“All right, all right,” grumbles the man, pulling a blunt flick knife from one of his threadbare pockets and hacking away at the knots. “No need to be rude.”

“Have you seen my ship?”

“Only this bit,” the man says, knocking his fist against the stub of mast as it finally falls away from Killian's back. “Lucky escape, I’d say.”

“Lucky,” Killian breathes, shaking the cramp from his wrists as he stares out across the waves, the dark smear of the retreating storm still malevolent and black at the horizon. His ship, his livelihood, Emma, all ghosts in its wake. “I think I need a drink.”

He needs ten, perhaps twenty, the numbers fading together in a burn of cheap rum and bitter regret as he watches the ruffled skirts and wide red mouths of the whores who pass him by. His thick-tongued refusal of their affections, the snatching away of the hand they'd forcibly pressed against their damp, hot skin have led to their giving him a wide berth, leaving him to stew slowly in a pit filled with misery and rum.

Of course he ended up in a brothel.

Men like him, alas, always do.

It's a down at heel sort of place. The women wear smudged kohl and strained smiles as they simper and preen their way around the bare wooden tables, and the clientele are boisterous and loud, their bellies fat with drink and their eyes bright with the promises of the flesh to come. Except, that is, for the older man at the end of the bar.

He's staring into a long empty tankard, his eyes hollow, and Killian wonders if he sees his own reflection in the leather bound pirate the way Killian sees himself: lost, bone tired, willing to throw their last coin into the drain just to forget.

He’s not sure when he last felt pity, not sure what to do with it. Emma gave him this, he knows, it was she who made him into a man who could see beyond the limits of his own darkness.

It’s Emma’s legacy, Emma’s faith in him that hangs like a millstone round his neck as he struggles to force away the truth. Another drink, maybe. Another two. Anything to stop him thinking.

Her eyes had been open, he remembers. They’d been wide and frightened and fixed on him, and he’d been helpless to save her. Useless. Worthless.

Three. Three drinks.

He taps a coin on the table to attract the attentions of the barman - a sallow faced youth with gap teeth and a sly smile - and nods towards the other man.

“What's he drinking?”

“Nothing much,” scoffs the lad. “Never does. Seems he forgets this is a place of business.” He looks down at the gold coin between Killian’s fingers, and grins. “Not like you I'll wager. Girls not caught your eye?”

“I'm not here for a girl.”

The boy’s eyes light up, and he leans over the counter until his face is mere inches from Killian’s.

“Well, we can arrange an alternative that suits,” he says breathily, his tongue darting out to dampen his lips. “For a price.”

Killian merely stares, the coin held slightly tighter in his fingers. For half a moment he considers it - would consider anything if it would quiet the roaring in his mind even for a moment - but then he thinks of Emma, flushed and angry and beautiful and dead, and he knows he won't. Instead he plasters a false smirk over his face and presses infinitesimally closer just the watch the colour rise in the lad’s cheeks.

“I want to buy that man a drink. And three more here, lad, while you’re at it or I'll show you what kind of business I'm in.”

“Oh promises, promises,” sighs the lad with a scowl, but he turns to fetch the rum bottle regardless. “He’s no fun though, you're wasting your time there.”

“I’ve plenty to waste,” Killian grumbles, throwing back the first glass almost as soon as it’s placed before him. “A lifetime of it, in fact.”

The boy shrugs, moving down the bar to drop a tankard in front of the other man. “From an admirer,” he says with a sneer, but the other man barely moves, only the flicking of tired blue eyes from tankard to Killian to show he’d even heard. The barman rolls his eyes and stamps back down the bar to pour Killian’s second drink. “That’s gratitude for you.”

Killian flicks the coin across the bar top, and concentrates on the rum.

There’s the sound of breaking glass and a bellow of laughter from somewhere behind him, a group of men who are well into their cups and enjoying every moment by the sounds of it, and it sets his teeth on edge, his knuckles creasing white around his third glass.

There’s a squeal, high-pitched and indignant, and then the slap of flesh on flesh followed by another roar of laughter. He turns despite himself, some long buried memory of a long gone tavern rising within him as he hears the clatter of crockery against the floor, only to see one of the quieter girls - fresh-faced with golden hair - flung over the knee of a man with long greasy hair, her skirt rucked up around her waist as he slaps the back of her thighs with the flat of his hand, his companions cheering.

“Now don’t squeal, pretty,” the man says, his grin exposing the blackened stumps of what once were teeth. “Clumsy girls must be punished!”

Maybe he thinks of Emma. Emma as he’d first known her, serious-faced and weighted down with trays of drinks, her corset laced high and the dagger strapped to her thigh. Maybe he thinks of Milah. Tired and sad and desperate for an ounce of kindness. Maybe he thinks of the kitchen girls, young and silly and giggling their way through his secret, patient lessons. Their delight as they learned to write their own names, to trace the letters in the books he takes them.

Maybe he doesn’t think at all, but his hook’s at the man’s throat nonetheless.

“I’d let her go, mate, if I were you. Make the smart choice.”

The man pauses, his body stiffening at the feel of sharp steel against delicate skin, and the girl slithers off his lap, tugging her skirts down and bolting for the upstairs without a backwards look. The tavern grows silent, the only sounds the harsh breathing of the man at his mercy and the metallic sweep of sword from scabbard.

“Smart choice might be getting the fuck away from me, mate,” growls the man as his companions draw their weapons. “Seems you’re outnumbered.”

Killian smiles.

“Oh good.”

He shoves the man off his chair, sending him sprawling across the floor. He hoists the chair up to his chest, fending off a charge of roaring, spitting men with little more than four wooden legs and fleet footwork. He spins, panting, to block a slashing sword with the curve of his hook, his right leg coming up to kick another man square in his most precious jewels, a bite of sharp laughter escaping as his hook twists and meets a soft, undefended gut.

“Come on!” he bellows, madness in the grit of his teeth, the glint of his eyes as he stamps down on a wounded knee. “Come and take me! Come on!” He flings the chair to one side, the wood splintering against the bar and sending the boy scurrying to safety, his chest heaving as he stares down two more men whose swords have dropped to their sides, their eyes wary.

It seems even stupidity recognises insanity when it sees it.

The dive for him together, and no sooner has he kicked one sword away, the toe of his boot following through to make contact with his attacker’s solar plexus, than the other is behind him, his breath hot at his ear as he presses his advantage home and Killian is caught, unable to use his hook with the other man’s steel pressed tight against his neck.

“I don’t know who the fuck you you think you are,” the man says, and Killian laughs.

“Well, that makes two of us, at least.” He stands a little straighter, lets the sword’s edge cut into the salt-silted fabric of his collar. “You ever killed a man?”

He hears the smile that follows, the words curling out through lips stretched wide. “‘Bout to.”

The sword draws back, and he could turn, should turn, should thrust his hook through the man’s soft palate for even the mere suggestion that he might defeat Captain Hook, but his head is full of Emma, his body slow to react, his heart crying out for her, and he doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, and hopes she’ll be there when he opens them.

There’s a draft, a close wind as death sweeps down, a heavy thunk like a sack of potatoes thrown down a kitchen chute, and then, nothing.

“You can open your eyes now, stranger.”

He does so, only to see the sad-faced man from the bar standing before him, the seat of the long destroyed chair in his hands and the last of Killian’s opponents lying face-down and unmoving at his feet.

Killian toes at his arm, just to make sure, and then claims the man’s dropped sword for his own, before raising a brow at his unlikely rescuer.

“I should have bought you two drinks, might have finished it sooner.”

The man smiles, a small, creased little thing that doesn’t reach his eyes, but it pulls at Killian in a way he can’t quite place.

“You’re welcome, stranger. It’s been many years since I’ve seen anyone do anything quite as stupid as that,” he says, and offers a large hand to help him up. “I’m almost impressed.”

“I live to please,” says Killian offering a tiny bow. “And you are?”

The man pauses, a brief shadow passing over his face as though that’s a question he’s long since forgotten the answer to, then holds out his hand again. “David.”

Killian takes it, somewhat taken aback by the strength of the man’s grip as they shake.

“Killian Jones,” he says. “Next one’s on you.”

#csbb #captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #cs crew #clare vs writers block #clare vs heathens #*takes cover*

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dfroza · 5 years

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we are as living Trees

connected to Light (in Love) by an act of grace alone, which is just cause for humility on our part, in heart, mind & body.

with a vision of a pure root, either of Tree or vine, as seen in this verse from Today’s reading of the ancient Letter of Romans:

Behind and underneath all this there is a holy, God-planted, God-tended root.

and the whole chapter that consists of 36 verses as translated in The Message:

[The Loyal Minority]

Does this mean, then, that God is so fed up with Israel that he’ll have nothing more to do with them? Hardly. Remember that I, the one writing these things, am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham out of the tribe of Benjamin. You can’t get much more Semitic than that! So we’re not talking about repudiation. God has been too long involved with Israel, has too much invested, to simply wash his hands of them.

Do you remember that time Elijah was agonizing over this same Israel and cried out in prayer?

God, they murdered your prophets,

They trashed your altars;

I’m the only one left and now they’re after me!

And do you remember God’s answer?

I still have seven thousand who haven’t quit,

Seven thousand who are loyal to the finish.

It’s the same today. There’s a fiercely loyal minority still—not many, perhaps, but probably more than you think. They’re holding on, not because of what they think they’re going to get out of it, but because they’re convinced of God’s grace and purpose in choosing them. If they were only thinking of their own immediate self-interest, they would have left long ago.

And then what happened? Well, when Israel tried to be right with God on her own, pursuing her own self-interest, she didn’t succeed. The chosen ones of God were those who let God pursue his interest in them, and as a result received his stamp of legitimacy. The “self-interest Israel” became thick-skinned toward God. Moses and Isaiah both commented on this:

Fed up with their quarrelsome, self-centered ways,

God blurred their eyes and dulled their ears,

Shut them in on themselves in a hall of mirrors,

and they’re there to this day.

David was upset about the same thing:

I hope they get sick eating self-serving meals,

break a leg walking their self-serving ways.

I hope they go blind staring in their mirrors,

get ulcers from playing at god.

[Pruning and Grafting Branches]

The next question is, “Are they down for the count? Are they out of this for good?” And the answer is a clear-cut No. Ironically when they walked out, they left the door open and the outsiders walked in. But the next thing you know, the Jews were starting to wonder if perhaps they had walked out on a good thing. Now, if their leaving triggered this worldwide coming of non-Jewish outsiders to God’s kingdom, just imagine the effect of their coming back! What a homecoming!

But I don’t want to go on about them. It’s you, the outsiders, that I’m concerned with now. Because my personal assignment is focused on the so-called outsiders, I make as much of this as I can when I’m among my Israelite kin, the so-called insiders, hoping they’ll realize what they’re missing and want to get in on what God is doing. If their falling out initiated this worldwide coming together, their recovery is going to set off something even better: mass homecoming! If the first thing the Jews did, even though it was wrong for them, turned out for your good, just think what’s going to happen when they get it right!

Behind and underneath all this there is a holy, God-planted, God-tended root. If the primary root of the tree is holy, there’s bound to be some holy fruit. Some of the tree’s branches were pruned and you wild olive shoots were grafted in. Yet the fact that you are now fed by that rich and holy root gives you no cause to crow over the pruned branches. Remember, you aren’t feeding the root; the root is feeding you.

It’s certainly possible to say, “Other branches were pruned so that I could be grafted in!” Well and good. But they were pruned because they were deadwood, no longer connected by belief and commitment to the root. The only reason you’re on the tree is because your graft “took” when you believed, and because you’re connected to that belief-nurturing root. So don’t get cocky and strut your branch. Be humbly mindful of the root that keeps you lithe and green.

If God didn’t think twice about taking pruning shears to the natural branches, why would he hesitate over you? He wouldn’t give it a second thought. Make sure you stay alert to these qualities of gentle kindness and ruthless severity that exist side by side in God—ruthless with the deadwood, gentle with the grafted shoot. But don’t presume on this gentleness. The moment you become deadwood, you’re out of there.

And don’t get to feeling superior to those pruned branches down on the ground. If they don’t persist in remaining deadwood, they could very well get grafted back in. God can do that. He can perform miracle grafts. Why, if he could graft you—branches cut from a tree out in the wild—into an orchard tree, he certainly isn’t going to have any trouble grafting branches back into the tree they grew from in the first place. Just be glad you’re in the tree, and hope for the best for the others.

[A Complete Israel]

I want to lay all this out on the table as clearly as I can, friends. This is complicated. It would be easy to misinterpret what’s going on and arrogantly assume that you’re royalty and they’re just rabble, out on their ears for good. But that’s not it at all. This hardness on the part of insider Israel toward God is temporary. Its effect is to open things up to all the outsiders so that we end up with a full house. Before it’s all over, there will be a complete Israel. As it is written,

A champion will stride down from the mountain of Zion;

he’ll clean house in Jacob.

And this is my commitment to my people:

removal of their sins.

From your point of view as you hear and embrace the good news of the Message, it looks like the Jews are God’s enemies. But looked at from the long-range perspective of God’s overall purpose, they remain God’s oldest friends. God’s gifts and God’s call are under full warranty—never canceled, never rescinded.

There was a time not so long ago when you were on the outs with God. But then the Jews slammed the door on him and things opened up for you. Now they are on the outs. But with the door held wide open for you, they have a way back in. In one way or another, God makes sure that we all experience what it means to be outside so that he can personally open the door and welcome us back in.

Have you ever come on anything quite like this extravagant generosity of God, this deep, deep wisdom? It’s way over our heads. We’ll never figure it out.

Is there anyone around who can explain God?

Anyone smart enough to tell him what to do?

Anyone who has done him such a huge favor

that God has to ask his advice?

Everything comes from him;

Everything happens through him;

Everything ends up in him.

Always glory! Always praise!

Yes. Yes. Yes.

The Letter of Romans, Chapter 11 (The Message)

A chapter from the New Testament (New Covenant) paired with chapter 8 of the book of Genesis in Today’s reading that reflects upon a point of cleansing earth to start over:

[Genesis 8]

Then God turned his attention to Noah and all the wild animals and farm animals with him on the ship. God caused the wind to blow and the floodwaters began to go down. The underground springs were shut off, the windows of Heaven closed and the rain quit. Inch by inch the water lowered. After 150 days the worst was over.

On the seventeenth day of the seventh month, the ship landed on the Ararat mountain range. The water kept going down until the tenth month. On the first day of the tenth month the tops of the mountains came into view. After forty days Noah opened the window that he had built into the ship.

He sent out a raven; it flew back and forth waiting for the floodwaters to dry up. Then he sent a dove to check on the flood conditions, but it couldn’t even find a place to perch—water still covered the Earth. Noah reached out and caught it, brought it back into the ship.

He waited seven more days and sent out the dove again. It came back in the evening with a freshly picked olive leaf in its beak. Noah knew that the flood was about finished.

He waited another seven days and sent the dove out a third time. This time it didn’t come back.

In the six-hundred-first year of Noah’s life, on the first day of the first month, the flood had dried up. Noah opened the hatch of the ship and saw dry ground. By the twenty-seventh day of the second month, the Earth was completely dry.

God spoke to Noah: “Leave the ship, you and your wife and your sons and your sons’ wives. And take all the animals with you, the whole menagerie of birds and mammals and crawling creatures, all that brimming prodigality of life, so they can reproduce and flourish on the Earth.”

Noah disembarked with his sons and wife and his sons’ wives. Then all the animals, crawling creatures, birds—every creature on the face of the Earth—left the ship family by family.

Noah built an altar to God. He selected clean animals and birds from every species and offered them as burnt offerings on the altar. God smelled the sweet fragrance and thought to himself, “I’ll never again curse the ground because of people. I know they have this bent toward evil from an early age, but I’ll never again kill off everything living as I’ve just done.

For as long as Earth lasts,

planting and harvest, cold and heat,

Summer and winter, day and night

will never stop.”

The Book of Genesis, Chapter 8 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for Tuesday, february 4 of 2020

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breeeliss · 7 years

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[Voltron]: a little solace and peace

sooooooo......first voltron fic?

for @longhairpidge bc she’s recently been enchanted with plance and she cheered me up yesterday when i was feeling crummy. so here’s hoping that the rest of your day starts looking up :)

Link to Archive of Our Own: [AO3]

Title: a little solace and peace Pairings: Place (Pidge x Lance) Summary: Pidge knows what it’s like to lose most of what you call yours and find yourself flung into space to fight a war she might not win. It’s not the time to want things that are silly and wish for things that won’t happen. But Lance knows that she deserves it.

a little solace and peace

Pidge cut her hair for Matt.

Sweeping her hair into the trash can, stealing Matt’s old frames, and becoming Pidge Gunderson was a manifesto to herself — a single-minded promise to bring her family back to her no matter the distraction, no matter the cost to her, no matter how long it took. If she ever lost sight of that promise, all she ever needed to do was look in the mirror, squint her eyes, let the edges of her reflection blur and soften, and wait until she saw Matt staring back at her, telling her not to give up.

So perhaps, on the outside looking in, it does seem rather ridiculous for her to be tearing her room apart, looking for a knife or some scissors to take to her hair after looking in the mirror that morning and seeing Katie — Katie who was letting her hair grow out too long, Katie who needed to remember Matt, Katie who made a promise — but this is all she has of him anymore. A worn photograph and his blurred face staring back at her in the reflection of her paladin helmet.

When she finds nothing, Pidge heads to Lance’s room because if there’s anyone who cares more about what stares back at them in the mirror every morning, it’s him.

He’s wiping off the last bits of his facemask with a towel when she opens the door, and he barely has time to ruffle her hair and spit out a dorky greeting before the words are flying out of her mouth, “I need to borrow a pair of scissors.”

Lance blinks at the volume and speed of her words, but looks back into his room — covered in facial products, old Altean lounge clothes he’s repurposed into robes and pajamas, gifts inhabitants from other planets have given him over the past year — and says, “I’m pretty sure I have some around here somewhere. Why, what do you need them for?”

Pidge swallows. “I just need them. Just for five minutes.”

Lance merely shrugs — it’s not the first time Pidge has asked her teammates for weird things to aid in whatever pet project is keeping her distracted that day — and invites her in, letting her sit on his unmade bed while he rummages around his drawers and produces a small pair of scissors that don’t look very sharp but will probably do the job just fine.

He takes the edge of his shirt to wipe the blades clean, but right when Pidge thinks he’s going to hand them off to her and leave it at that, he beckons her to the bathroom attached to his room. “Come on, get in here already. Breakfast is gonna be served soon, and I don’t want Keith stealing bigger portions again.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” she asks.

Lance smirks and points to his own head. “You need a haircut, right? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a beautician or anything, but I know an uneven cut when I see one and it’s been bothering the crap out of me since day one. I’m practically begging for you to let me even it out for you.”

Pidge frowns. “How did you know that I — ?”

“I mean, it’s obvious it’s getting longer,” Lance explains. “But you keep yanking and touching it like it’s annoying you. Plus I know how anal you were about keeping your hair short in the Garrison.” When Pidge doesn’t move, he grabs her wrist and walks her to the bathroom. “Come on, I’m not gonna fuck it up, I promise.”

As she’s sticking her head in the sink to wet her hair, Lance tells her that haircuts used to cost too much money back home, so he just learned to trim his hair himself to save the cash for the things he needed. He’s ridiculously thorough about it, going so far as to throw a spare towel over her shoulders and spin her around in the stool in his bathroom like she’s in a barber’s chair. Lance turns her so that she’s facing the mirror, strokes his chin, and walks around her stool completely. “So. What are we going for here? Rihanna? Miley Cyrus? Kristen Stewart? You’d look chill in an undercut, but I don’t think there are any shears in space. God, that’s such a shame. You’d be the most badass looking one out of all of us.”

Pidge smirks and adjusts the towel. “Just….how it looked before is fine.”

“How it looked before except not like your ends went through a food processor, right?”

“Fuck you, my hair didn’t look that bad.”

“Por dios, Pidge, language! And I love you, but you can’t cut your hair for shit. But don’t worry. Lance is here to take care of you. I won’t even charge you for the wash.”

Pidge rolls her eyes at him, but keeps her head straight as she lets him work. It’s gone to her shoulders in the months that she’s left it uncut, and Lance immediately cuts across just short of the length he wants before he pinches her hair between his fingers and cleans up the ends. Lance is rarely quiet — he’s all too big smiles, too loud voice, too much soul that fills the room like sunlight pouring in through a window — but with the exception of his occasional humming, he works on Pidge’s hair in complete silence. She lets herself close her eyes to the sound of his snipping and moving around her, trying to remember the last time someone had gently turned her chin, brushed her shoulders clean of hair, accidentally grazed her ear with their finger. She can’t quite find the moment, and it reminds her how long she’s been gone.

He’s leaning away from her and occasionally making small snips to make extra sure that he’s leaving her hair even when he says, “You’re like the spitting image of your brother, dude.”

Pidge smiles softly and gently moves a wet strand of her bangs out of her eyes. “Yeah. The two of us got that a lot. If you put our baby pictures side to side there’s legit no difference. Used to freak everyone out.”

“Oh my God please tell me you took tests for each other and stuff.”

“He’s older than me, you idiot, that would’ve never worked,” Pidge chuckles. “Although, I’m pretty sure we dressed up as the Hitachin Twins for Halloween one year.”

Lance tips his head back and cackles. “Anime twins! Classic! Please tell me you have pics.”

“Plenty. They’re all at home though,” Pidge says, and she doesn’t say anything more. She doesn’t want to promise Lance that she’ll show them to him when they get home because the concept of going home seems so far removed from them now she doesn’t want to go injecting false hope where it might do more harm than good.

Lance pulls a comb from his pocket and starts brushing through her short strands. She looks in the mirror and already starts to feel more like herself. “It’s tough, huh?” he asks.

“I just hate not knowing,” Pidge explains. “I know mom is at home and she’s safe even though she’s not here. But Dad and Matt….there’s a whole universe out there, Lance, they could be anywhere. And there’s no way to know for sure short of just carving through every planet and ship we find and hoping they’re there.”

Lance is done with her hair, using the towel to dry the ends and brush any last cut pieces off her shirt. “They’re closer than you think,” he promises. “You don’t have to look that far or for that long. They’re gonna come back to you soon.”

“You don’t know that,” Pidge replies. “Like, you actually don’t. None of us do.”

“I don’t have to know it. I can feel it,” Lance explains. “I’m going off my gut here and it’s never failed me before.”

“Your gut convinced you to flirt with a girl who tried to trick you into her planet’s weekly fertility ritual. I still do not forget what those fertility tents looked like, Lance. The crap we went through to save you…”

“ Okay ,” Lance says loudly, his cheeks warming in embarrassment. “So it’s not right all the time. But it’s right about the important things and this is important. This is all temporary, Pidge. Trust me. Besides, my mom always says ‘ a mal tiempo, buena cara.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Means put a good face to the bad times. When shit goes south, stay positive. Good attitude works wonders. And no matter what you think, I’m gonna have a good attitude for you and rub all the karma your way because I’m that generous.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “You’re a regular humanitarian.”

Lance chuckles and puts his face right next to Pidge’s so that they can look at her hair together. He nods in approval and knocks his head with hers. “You know. Undercut or not, you’re still the most badass looking one out of all of us. I did a pretty good job.”

“It’s definitely not bad,” Pidge agrees. She smiles at him through the mirror. “Thanks. Even though I could’ve done it myself! But still, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Lance winks back. And then, quite out of nowhere, he shocks her by kissing her.

It’s just a quick one on her temple, and Lance treats it like it’s just as natural as if he’d just high fived her or ruffled the hair on the top of her head. Pidge wants to say something but he’s already turning around to put his scissors and towel away, and Pidge doesn’t want to blow up something that seemed so miniscule and superficial to Lance. But Pidge feels that entire side of her body warm up with one shocked shiver before mellowing out into a lingering warmth that demands an explanation but has none. On the other hand, this was Lance, and Lance tended to do things on the fly just because and for no other reason. It was possible that this was just another one of those times.

Her fingers reach up to the temple still holding onto the ghost of Lance’s lips against her skin, and she looks down at the ticker in her pocket. “Thanks again, Lance,” Pidge speaks up, trying oh so hard to sound casual and hoping she does the job. “Hurry up. Breakfast is probably on already.”

Pidge accepted long ago that being in space meant that there are things she won’t ever get to do now. Or at least, not anytime soon.

She won’t finish school and get that trip to Disneyland that her mother promised her as a graduation present. Despite the crash course on piloting she’d gotten this past year, she won’t learn how to drive — like actually sit in her brother’s old Subaru and stop short at stop signs, accidentally run over garbage cans, and complain about being too short for the pedals. She’ll never get invited to shitty house parties or have her first drink with Matt or finish that computer she was building or get a normal first kiss.

Pidge learns that when you’re in the middle of a war, there’s no clear end in sight, and it’s possible that she’ll be fighting and searching for a very long time, all while her life hangs precariously in the midst of battles that could quite literally kill her. But Pidge accepts this just like everyone else. Everyone has things that have been taken from them — things they’ll simply have to learn to live without or replace with whatever can be crudely fashioned out of parts scrounged from an existence spent in a castle flying light years away from home — but they put it aside in favor of picking up their weapons and pledging their lives to protecting an entire universe.

It makes no sense to wish for those missing things. They’re gone, and Pidge focuses on the now. She won’t go home without her brother and father. She won’t go home without fulfilling her duty to her team because they matter, they’re hers now, and she has to protect them too. But Pidge still feels herself wanting them despite that logic, and it makes her feel sick with guilt.

Lance is the only one who makes it known just how much he misses the little things he’ll never get to have — unapologetic in the way he wishes for comfort and simplicity but valiantly picks up the sword he never asked for in the first place. Lance tells everyone how much he wants to feel wet sand between his toes, take long drives along the coast, and dance salsa at family parties until his feet are sore. Even when they were in the Garrison together, Lance never felt guilty for being selfish.

Pidge’s first night in the Garrison — after their first failed flight simulation, after hacking the Garrison files led to no answers, after she stared at her photo albums for hours and felt the back of her throat aching from the effort of holding every sob and scream back — Lance found her curled up against the wall of her bunk, hugging a pillow to her chest, and staring at the walls while sleep continued to elude her.

Lance had snuck plates of food out of the mess hall to bring back for her because she had missed dinner. He left them by the desk next her door and sat cross legged by the edge of her bed, eye level with her tear stained face that she was too lazy to hide from him. “Homesickness?” he asked.

She promised she wouldn’t reveal anything personal to her crewmates. She was there to work, not get personal. They didn’t know about Matt, about her father, about her research into the Kerberos mission. But Lance wasn’t wrong , so she nodded and hid her face in the pillow when just that simple confession released a dam of frustration that even Pidge was too small to temper.

Lance rubbed her back and squeezed her shoulder while she silently poured tears into her pillow case. “Yeah, man. I feel. It’s tough being away from home. Pretty sure I cried like a baby my first night here because I came back from dinner in the mess hall and nothing tasted like home. I mean, granted this school food is kind of crap, but you get my point.”

“They feel far away,” Pidge rambled, forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to be making anyone privy to her thoughts, wasn’t supposed to distract herself from what she went there to do. “I can’t get to them. And I hate that it gets me like this.”

“I mean, it’s not perfect, but there’s always FaceTime.”

Pidge snorted and felt herself cry harder, because if only it was that easy. She’d kill to see their faces even if it was through a spotty cell reception. But of course Lance doesn’t see the irony that she sees and just keeps rubbing her back, which is oddly more comforting than Pidge would’ve figured.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” he told her. “Like screw not being manly or being a baby about stuff you can’t change. You’re allowed to be sad about something even though it won’t change anything. Sometimes sitting and being sad helps to just get it all out.”

Lance is annoying when he complains, is annoying when he’s overly dramatic about little things, but when she stops to think about it, Pidge knows why he does it. He knows that sometimes you just need to sit there and complain about how unfair everything is — just to ease the ache and let everything unravel and breathe — before you picked up and started from where you left off again. Feeling the controls of her lion in her hands makes her feel like she has to grow up impossibly fast, pretend that she’s unbothered and focused. But Lance makes her guilt melt away and makes her feel like it’s okay to sit and pine for something simpler.

He sat with Pidge for hours that night at the Garrison, resting a hand over her forehead and kissing the back of it before he slipped out while she was still only half asleep, hoping that she woke up feeling a little bit better and reminding her to eat. Back then and now, Lance’s unspoken words always reach into her heart with a sincere reminder.

Feel for yourself. Cry for yourself. Hope for yourself. Want things that are silly and wish for things that won’t happen. You deserve it.

It’s amazing how quickly a routine mission made to sound so simple can turn into a complete fucking shitstorm in five minutes flat.

They’ve gotten into the routine of wiping clean the computers in every abandoned Galra base they find on the off chance they can pluck out any names, coordinates, or scraps of mission logs that might be useful to them. Any little bit helps when your mission is basically to liberate an entire universe from an alien race. Hunk, Keith, and Shiro were meant to scope the base for lingering soldiers or survivors while Lance covered Pidge as she wiped their drives clean.

Except their plan manages to fail spectacularly when the alarms to the base start blaring the moment Pidge hooks up her computer to their systems. Suddenly Keith is screaming into the comms, saying that the bay doors won’t open and they’re cut off from their lions. Pidge is at the Galra computers, pulling up their code, running it through her computer, and quickly forcing her brain to come up with an override for the bay doors. But the realization that this is most certainly an ambush doesn’t come until Galra start pouring into the communications room, and a self-destruct beacon set for ten minutes is echoing through the base.

Lance is already at her back, his blaster pumping continuous fire into the chests of all the drones that are rushing them from all sides while Pidge tries to disable the self-destruct program. It’s just walls and walls of codes and commands that seem much more complicated than your standard Galra defense system. She knows it’s been rigged specifically for a trap like this, and it’s brutal to break through. Pidge is running scripts and ripping down firewalls only to find that she’s sifting through endless layers of pure numbers and it feels like she’s not getting anywhere. There are seven minutes left, Lance is still shooting, Shiro, Keith, and Hunk are trying to blast open the bay doors, and she realizes she needs more time.

This is her thing. This is what Pidge does. Her teammates depend on her to be able to run the numbers, think quickly, let her mind run a mile a minute, and get them out of tight spots like this. So far she’s never failed, and it’s literally saved their lives. But every algorithm Pidge tries fails, and the countdown screeching out every thirty seconds is making the numbers mix up in her head and making her brain trip over her thoughts. She’s gritting her teeth and mashing her fingers down hard on the keyboard, as if this will all make the scripts run faster, make her thoughts run more efficiently. But then she hears Lance scream out in pain as a well-aimed shot singes the side of his thigh and he cripples into a heap against the control panel.

“Pidge,” Lance mutters, sounding calm for someone who’s got a leg bleeding out on the floor and is wincing through every pull of his trigger. “How are we looking?”

Pidge is shaking her head, and she can feel her fingers trembling. “I’m….I-I’m trying. But this is like breaking out of fucking Alcatraz.”

“Don’t worry, Pidge, you’ve got this,” Lance encourages, leaning over her to shoot down a drone coming up on her right. “You always do.”

Yes, she always does, because this is her thing, this is what she’s supposed to be doing, and she’s not allowed to fail at it. She can’t fail her family, her friends, the universe, things are too dire for that. But there’s five minutes left and they’re about to die and she still can’t override the security and damn it all she can feel tears pushing against the backs of her eyes because she’s trying and it’s not fucking working.

Lance must see the turmoil on her face because his gun is on the floor and he’s grabbing Pidge’s shoulders to turn her towards him and cup her cheeks in his hands. She’s only barely aware of the wave of Galra soldiers briefly ceasing and giving them a moment of reprieve but Pidge’s mind is still running numbers, desperately pushing through for a solution.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Lance is muttering and she has to work hard to drag her eyes up to meet his. “Breathe. In and out. Okay?”

“I don’t have time,” she’s mumbling, her thoughts sprinting and tripping right out her mouth. “It’s taking too much time, I’m doing everything I can, but I can’t do it in enough time, I’m not gonna finish and we’re all going to — ”

“Don’t you start doing that, Pidge,” Lance implores, pressing his forehead — slicked with sweat and blood — to hers.

“I can’t think Lance there’s no time to think because it’s not working!” she shouts at him, furious because he can weave all the pretty words that he wants but he doesn’t understand.

“Listen, listen to me,” he tells her, and his fingers are drawing circles on her cheeks and it’s grounding and she prays for it to help. “You’re allowed to screw up. You don’t have to breeze through this, you’re not perfect. But I know you and I know you can do this if you just….breathe. Please, breathe.”

He fills his chest with air to show her, and he’s not satisfied until Pidge is pulling in a breath through her nose and releasing in a shaky sigh. Lance nods in satisfaction, smiles, and presses a kiss to her forehead just as more Galra drones are marching down the halls towards them. “You’ve got it. I know you do.”

Lance is turning back to the drones, limping into position and staying in one spot to help him pivot around and not further injure his leg. Pidge doesn’t understand how he does that — how he’s bleeding from his leg and still managing to defend her even when he’s not entirely sure that they’re going to get out of this. It’s as if he has full faith in her but has already forgiven her if it turns out it’s just too much, and it shouldn’t be fair for someone to just be able to have that much blind faith in things that he can’t predict. But Lance is fighting for her and her teammates are rooting for her and she’s got four minutes to make this right.

His calm clears her head and the kiss he left on her skin feels like it sinks into her brain and invigorates it with purpose. Because suddenly she has an idea, and it’s an abysmally stupid one, but if she can nail it they’ll be able to get out of here in time. It’s a complicated stream code that she’s only ever tried once on Galra computers like this but it’s a beast of an override if she can force herself to remember it all. It takes her minutes to type in and she’s only got seconds left by the time she sends it and hopes that it breaks down what it needs to. Her heart is pounding and she’s sweating on the back of her neck as she waits for it to go through.

There’s only four seconds left on the countdown when it finally sputters out and the bay doors downstairs fly open. Pidge grins from ear to ear as she pulls out her bayard and helps Lance take out the last several drones still in the room with them, seeing the exhaustion that’s slowing him down. Once the last drone fizzles out into a hunk of metal on the floor, Pidge runs to Lance and wraps one of his arms around her shoulder. “Okay. Come on. You’re losing way too much blood and we need to get out of here.”

Lance chuckles, limps with her out of the comms room, and grips her shoulder tightly. “Knew you could do it. That’s all that matters.”

Pidge waits outside of Lance’s healing pod even though Coran promised it would only take an hour or two for him to be all fixed up. The wound on his leg was easily patched up and the blood loss was easily fixed with more food once he managed to get out.

But Pidge stays because she owes it to him. Not just for snapping her back to herself today or shooting down literally dozens of drones through his pain just to keep her safe, although it’s mostly for that. But Lance puts too much of himself into others to not have someone meet him halfway, even if it’s something as simple as waiting for him to stumble out of a healing pod and give him some food and lead him back to his bed.

It’s not the first time this occurs to her, but someone like Lance doesn’t deserve to be in space away from the people who love him, deprived of all the love he deserves and doesn’t get enough of in the middle of a literal war. In reality, none of them do, but Lance especially seems so out place here, looks so wrong sitting injured in a healing pod only to come out and have to repeat the process again when the chance calls for it. Lance cares too much. Pieces of him are missing and he still finds enough of himself to cut up and hand to others because he has so much damn love to give to people he doesn’t even owe that kindness to. He deserves to get it all back and Pidge knows that, to a point, it’s impossible for the universe to pay him back in return for it.

So Pidge stays. Because he's a goof that speaks in memes and sneaks up on her when she has headphones in and liked to lean his elbow on her head because he finds it funny how short she is. Because he didn’t even know her all that well when they first met and still managed to let her know that he understood and was there to give her his kindness. She's sure that Lance doesn't see that as a strength of his, but Pidge is starting to realize how much it breathes life into their team and into her. It isn’t her forte — she doesn't deal in unknowns unless she knows exactly how to arrive at them — but Lance deserves it.

She owes it to him. So she stays.

It’s exactly an hour and a half when the healing pod slides open and Pidge catches Lance as he trips out of the pod and groans from the vertigo. “God, I hate those things,” he mutters.

“Wouldn’t know,” Pidge smirks. “Keith tells me they’re freezing, and Hunk says he just feels claustrophobic the whole time. I feel like I’m the only one who hasn’t hopped into one of those things.”

“And it’s going to stay that way if I can help it,” Lance says.

Pidge rolls her eyes. “That’s not an invitation for you to get shot to hell just to save my neck.”

“You make it sound like a chore,” Lance winks, but ignores her glare and tests out his healed leg. “Jesus, I’m starving. Please tell me you’ve got some space goop.”

Pidge reaches down to the floor where her bag is and hands him a bowl of food. “Gorge down, my friend. Coran says you’ve gotta keep eating since your blood pressure basically plummeted back there. Thanks for almost dying, you idiot.”

“Ah, I didn’t almost die, it was just a bloody leg,” Lance shrugs, talking with his mouth full. “Besides, gave you time to save our asses, so is it really a loss?”

“That’s literally the definition of a loss.”

“Eh, details. We’re all safe so it doesn’t really matter, right?”

Pidge sighs and starts to lead them out the medical bay. “Well. It was almost for nothing. That base was a total bust. Their computers were already wiped when we got there. Guess they’ve been catching onto how we’ve been getting intel.”

“Typical,” Lance mutters. “This is a good time to bring up my double agent idea to Allura again.”

“We’re not doing that,” Pidge deadpans.

“I’m just saying ,” Lance insists with a smile, “we paint Keith’s face purple and get him to pull some 007 shit on a Galra ship and we’re in business.”

“Yeah you go tell Keith that. Maybe he’ll let you narrate his theme music in the comms while he’s on mission.”

“You think!?”

“Lance, shut up,” Pidge laughs.

The rest of the team is resting after their stressful mission, but Lance has been resting for hours in the healing pod and Pidge keeps terrible hours most of the time anyway. So she brings them into one of the comms rooms on the ship and spends an hour finally hooking up the video game that they bought from the Space Mall to see if they can get it up and running. It took Pidge, Hunk and Coran as a collective to figure out how to make the connection between the ship and the old console compatible through some clever wiring and a few upgrades to the console itself, but she finishes off the adjustments and grins when Lance cheers at the menu screen that shows up.

It finally feels a little bit like they’re just sitting in Pidge’s basement and playing video games on the weekend. They’re at it for ages and in between levels Pidge stares at Lance’s face to see him practically beaming at finally getting to have a tiny taste of home, even if it’s something silly like a video game. It’s times like this when she notices how his eyes sometimes get too big and too bright and realizes that this is how she wishes she could feel all the time — a carefree kid with her parents and her brother back on Earth with all of her friends where everything is simple and doing stupid things doesn’t have consequences like it does here.

It’s unrealistic, but Lance pulls enthusiasm from the air and makes Pidge believe that one day this will all be over, and they’ll be able to return home safe and sound and finally have the normality that’s owed to them. She owes him for that.

“Thanks for today,” she says as they’re skipping through the narration on the bottom of the screen as the story progresses. “I mean, having my back like that. I appreciate it.”

Lance turns to her with a shocked look on his face, but quickly allows it to melt away into a smirk. “You don’t have to thank me. Like I wouldn’t totally go and do it again.”

“I know. But you still don’t have to. And you do anyway. I just want you to know that I’m grateful for it, alright?”

Then Lance does something strange again — he takes her hand, rubs his thumb across the backs of her knuckles, and presses a quick kiss there. Like the kiss at the Garrison. Like the kiss when he was cutting her hair. Like the kiss when he was bleeding on the floor and begging her to focus on what he knew she could do. Quick, casual, like he didn’t even have to think about it before he knew that it felt right. Lance, the showoff, won’t even let her thank him without showing her up in a show of affection that she doesn’t even know how to comprehend.

He turns back to the game and Pidge decides to do the same, suddenly feeling like there’s a scale that they’re both standing on that Lance has unfairly weighted towards his side. They’re staying up late and laughing through the video game and acting like normal teenagers….and she owes him.

They’re sitting alone in the kitchens and having a late breakfast after sleeping in the next morning when she kisses him on the cheek.

She counts how long it lasts — as long as Lance’s first three put together — and doesn’t pull back until all the time is added up into a perfect balanced equation. Lance stops in the middle of lifting his spoon to his mouth and looks a little bit like a gaping fish, and Pidge suddenly doesn’t know why she even did that. But she’s learning that dealing with Lance is often an exercise in being comfortable with the fact that things don’t always have to make sense.

He blinks at her. “What was that for?”

Pidge shrugs and doesn’t look down at her food to avoid his gaze. She owns it because fair turnabout and all that jazz, and she tells him as much. “Payback. For all the kisses you’ve ever given me, and I’ve been noticing them.” Really, it’s for everything else that’s happened since they met, but that's not something she can make her mouth produce. Pidge works in numbers and evening out equations, and she tells him that this is just adding more mass to her side.

Lance chuckles and leans closer to her. “You don’t have to do that. I wasn’t doing it and waiting for you to even us out.”

“I know you weren’t,” Pidge nods. “But you deserve to be paid back for it anyway. Although I’m not sure why you’re doing it.”

Lance leans his chin in his hand. “Can you guess?”

“I don’t know,” Pidge frowns. “To make me feel better?”

“Sort of,” he grins. “I don’t know I guess….you’ve gone through enough crap, you know? And I guess….I guess it just seems important for you to know that there’s someone looking out for you and making sure you’re happy. It’s not my job or anything, but I want to do it for you. Because you’re….well you’re you , you know?”

No. Pidge doesn’t know. All she knows is that his kisses don’t feel like the times when Shiro hugs her and lets her rant about Matt, when Keith quietly sits with her and knows exactly when words just aren’t good enough, or when Hunk and her buckle down and make a list of all the human food they’re going to eat when they get back home. It feels deeper and it feels poignant in a way that she doesn’t expect from Lance. She knows that it’s all these things because it’s difficult to understand. It doesn’t tease itself apart in discernable pieces and it feels like there’s something he’s trying to tell her that she simply isn’t seeing. And Pidge can’t stand it when she has evidence that doesn’t neatly fit together into an explanation for her, and the only way to solve that is to get more proof.

So Pidge leans in and kisses him again, this time closer to the edge of his mouth and she feels it. Can’t explain it or put a word to it or understand it for the life of her, but it feels too heavy and too filled with things for it to be just something to make her feel better. Lance is closing his eyes and turning his head to face her when she pulls away again. She sees the blush on his face, his big eyes full of love to give, and then it all comes crashing into her because now she’s so close and he’s letting himself be vulnerable. Everything that she needs is so clearly written on his face.

Then Pidge remembers she’s a girl stuck on a spaceship for the foreseeable future, and there are things she still wants to do.

So she stays. She waits for him to finish leaning in, finish shutting his eyes, finally kissing her full on the lips — gentle, uncomplicated, but enough to make her heart feel full with something that it had been deprived of for a very long time. It’s short, and her head doesn’t spin, and it doesn’t feel like everything is different and nothing will ever be the same. It feels like things have sharpened, because now she knows that Lance doesn’t do things just to do them. He’s frenetic but intentional, and everything was always going to coalesce and come back to this. Sitting together at the kitchen table, floating in space, not sure what tomorrow was going to bring, hoping for things they wished they could have back, and putting a good face to the bad times.

They laugh when they break apart, and the air feels sweet and light and like all the things Pidge didn’t think she’d be able to grab back for herself for a long while.

It’s nice. They deserve it.

#voltron #plance #pidge gunderson #katie holt #lance mcclain #plance fanfiction #voltron fanfiction #my writing #a little solace and peace

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calamity-writes · 7 years

Text

In Glory and Gore 5.2

The slam of shield on iron woke Fenlin up with a start. She was laying on her cot, the golden chain-turned collar was back on her throat, and when she sat up, Favus leered through the door of her cell. He blinked, staring at her as Fenlin ran her fingers through her short cropped hair.

After leaving Athim the night before, Fenlin had snuck into the barrack's kitchen. There she'd taken shears to her hair, snipping off the braids before trimming the white hairs down to nearly her scalp. When she was done, she burnt the evidence with a small spell, leaving the kitchen thick with the stench of burnt hair.

Everyone but her had their hair cut when they arrived. Everyone but her had the same treatment by the 'master' and Fen's stomach couldn't take it any more. Her hair tickled her palms as she ran them over her head, well aware that she looked far more like her mother now than she had at any other point in her life. That was also on purpose. Right now, Fenlin had to think like her mother, like her sister.

Being soft, long hair and all that meant, just opened her up to a gentleness that would get her and the others killed.

"Kaffas," Favus swore loudly. "When did you do that?" He asked then squinted at her, searching the room. "What did you do that with?"

Fenlin tucked her hands into her lap, staring back at the large Templar. She couldn't answer even if she wanted to. Mute. Reaching for his keys, Favus unlocked the door to her cell and yanked it open.

"Get out here," he snapped. "Polonius is going to shit himself when he sees what you've done." Fenlin stood, walking calmly out of the cell, hand brushing over the ring of keys that still hung in the lock. She'd seen her reflection in a pot scoured brilliant. long slender ears swept back and out from her head. Her skin was darker now from long days spent in the tevinter sun, which had bleached her hair until it was pure white.

"Come on then," Favus snarled, grabbing onto her bicep and hauling her off, keys forgotten, one of which was no longer hanging from the ring left in the door. Fenlin let Favus pull her down the corridor, past the other cells of Gladiators. As she passed Hanin and Rahlen's cell she kept her eyes forward, and flicked her wrist to the side. A key landed on the nearer cot, wrapped in a small bit of cotton to muffle any sound.

"Fen?" Rahlen's voice, but she didn't look back at him. Favus was dragging her away, and she had more things to do before she was pulled before Polonius. She'd been busy while others slept, gnawing a hole in a cask of spirits that stood in the hall, nearly all the way through. Fenlin made sure to bump it off the table as Favus dragged her past, watching it burst as weakened wood gave way upon contact with the ground.

"Fuck, just- Someone come clean this up," Favus shouted, yanking Fenlin's arm hard and shoving her in front of him. The hall was smelling like- it was kossith liquor, nothing else was ever brewed that strong.

Nothing else would be that flammable. Thank Mythal for small mercies.

Rahlen looked at Hanin, then quickly snatched up the key and slid it into the lock of their door. It didn't fit. Swearing, he pulled it free and stepped back, tucking it into his palm as other guards hurried down the hall to take over Favus's duties of freeing the slaves and herding them into the yard.

"Kaffas! The idiot left the keys in the door," one of them said. The woman that Rahlen remembered from his first day at Polonius's compound. Stepping next to Hanin, the Prince ran his fingers over the key, feeling the odd engravings on the key's teeth. It was smaller than the cell door keys, he noticed as the guards unlocked their door, and motioned them to exit. As though it was made for something smaller.

Something made of a similar metal with engravings on it... he realised, following Hanin out to the mess. Something like an engraved collar that only a few of the gladiators wore. The others wore flat iron, or those like Athim and Fenlin seemed to wear a golden chain instead.

As they passed the kitchens, Rahlen's nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of burning hair. He tried to peer in to see what was going on, but a barked order from a guard made it clear that spying would be more problem than it was worth.

"Hey, Ferelden, Inquisition," Athim called out as the gladiators emptied into the mess area. Rahlen considered walking on for a moment, then shrugged the idea away. Maybe the other dalish elf had an idea what was going on.

"Why'd they take her?" Rahlen asked. "Do you know?"

"Her hair was really short," Hanin said from next to Rahlen. "Do you think they're pissed because someone cut it?"

"Short?" Athim said, blinking. He looked from Rahlen to Hanin, the frown just getting deeper. "She had long hair last night. When we were kids, her sister cut off her braid once and Fen cried for a whole day."

Now Rahlen frowned, unwanted images springing to mind of the Champion's fingers curled into white strands of hair. He shoved them aside, telling himself he didn't care, he was just curious how those hands would feel in his hair.

"I just don't understand why she would cut her own hair," Athim was saying. "Unless... shit." He rubbed his hand over his mouth, looking around. "Shit. Fen. Shit." He looked back at Rahlen and Hanin. "Her mom has short hair."

Rahlen blinked then looked at Hanin for an explanation. Was that meaningful in elven culture? But Hanin seemed to be as confused as Rahlen felt.

"What does that mean?" the Inquisition elf asked. "Who is her mom anyways?"

Athim rubbed his jaw, then stepped in closer, looking at Hanin.

"She worked for yours, back before the chantry neutered the organization." Rahlen felt Hanin bristle next to him, and he put a hand on the man's shoulder. A silent 'suggestion' to let Athim finish.

"I've never met Fenlin before," Hanin said. "Mother had never spoken about her."

"No, you wouldn't have, Fen's mom didn't agree with joining the Chantry, she didn't agree with a lot of decisions your mother made. After the whole tribunal, she left the Inquisition."

"And this is important to Fenlin cutting her hair, why?" Rahlen asked coldly.

"Because her Mother was the Inquisition's assassin," Athim said. "If you ever met Auntie Milliara, you'd understand. Fen cut her hair because she's going to try to be like her mother."

"Great! I heard about her, Mother was pissed when Leliana said she'd left. That's her mother?" Hanin said quietly, nudging Rahlen. "That explains the key right?"

"No," Athim said quietly. "Not great, because her mother used to take suicide missions. You ever watch a five-foot elf stare down a Great Bear? I have. Fenlin taking after her mother would normally be an exciting and confusing event for everyone, but right now-"

Rahlen swallowed. Hard.

"She cut her hair because it would get them angry," the prince said, his chest balling up into a knot of anxiety. "She was the only one left with long hair and Polonius is-"

"Weird about her," Athim said with a nod. He looked over his shoulder at the other Gladiators who had started to eat the morning's meal.

"Look, we can't do anything about this right now," Hanin pointed out. "We need to wait until there's more time, more room to figure out what the hell is going on."

Athim seemed surprised. He looked at Hanin for a long moment, then up at Rahlen.

"You two aren't going to leave without her?" He asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Of course not," Rahlen said sharply. "She saved my life. I'm not going to just abandon her to..." he gestured towards the barracks and the villa beyond. Leaving her behind wasn't even an option worth considering.

"We're just Dalish elves," Athim said, prodding further. "Anyone else here would abandon either of us in a hearbeat. The only people that know she saved your life are the four of us, two would be dead before long."

"I'm not like that," Rahlen said. "We aren't like that. We're not leaving anyone behind. Not Fenlin, not Hanin," he paused, "Not even you."

"We're not making good time," the fire-haired elf said, bursting into the cabin where Eleanor was sharpening her knife. Her cousin, wayward and too insistent on helping to leave behind, sat up in his hammock so quickly that El was sure he was going to flip over.

"We haven't met," Oran said with a smile.

"Good," Rasha said, ignoring the poor man. "Tell your sailors to put in anchor at Wycome Port. This is taking too long."

"Good? Lady you wound me," Oran said, placing a hand over his chest.

El frowned, ignoring him as well.

"We've been facing headwinds since we set sail, how is going to port supposed to help us?" the Teyrna asked. "Traveling overland will take twice as long."

Rasha closed the door to the cabin behind her, and leaned against the door to keep it from swinging in and interrupting them. Cool eyes flicked from El to her cousin then back.

"We're not going overland. We're taking a short cut. Put the ship in at Wycome. You and your cousin can join me, or let me off and continue on."

"I'll go with you," offered Oran. El rolled her eyes, the poor man was smitten already, and the elf would eat him alive if she chose to. No matter their differences, Rasha had yet to steer El wrong.

"Tell me the shortcut, and I'll give the order to put in at Wycome," Eleanor said. "But I'm not going to risk losing my brother to a wild nug chase."

She watched Rasha's jaw clench then noticed the slight stoop of her shoulders as the elf gave in.

"There's mirrors, called eluvians," Rasha said. "Your mother's friend Lady Morrigan knows about them. There's one in Wycome that can take us to Tevinter. Instead of getting their next week, we'd arrive the next moment."

Eleanor felt her mouth open, and she closed it immediately. She stood, setting aside the knife.

"How do you know about these? You know how to use them?" the Tyrna asked. "How?!"

Rasha shrugged.

"There's a lot that elves know that we didn't feel like sharing. I told you how we'd get there, I never promised to tell you how I knew about how we'd get there." Rasha stepped away from the door and yanked it open.

"Put in at Wycome," she said again.

"Wait!" Oran was saying, jumping out of the Hammock. "What's your na-"

Rasha slammed the door behind her.

#in glory & gore #fenlin #rahlen #hanin #athim #Eleanor Theirin #Rasha

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ulyssesredux · 8 years

Text

Telemachus

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. —He who stealeth from the sea.

Don't you play them as I do, Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, says you have g.p.i.

Heroin overdoses are taking over our country for another country, I suppose.

Make room in the Upanishads? Stephen said. Does President Obama just landed in Cuba, especially when added to the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. What did you say that for? Fill us out, V. —Grand is no name for it. Reading poorly from the west, sir? His curling shaven lips laughed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs the loose folds of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table. From the milkwoman or from him.

Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the top of the staircase, level with the roof: Lend us a loan of your mother begging you with her toys. He shaved warily over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth. Sit down. —So I do, Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the dissectingroom. —That reminds me, and now this U.

I'm not joking, Kinch. There will be forced out of his.

Cough it up. Crooked Hillary Clinton has not held a news conference today!

Thank you to NC for last rally! Crazy Megyn anymore. —And to the doorway and said quietly.

I had 17 opponents and a razor lay crossed.

—They fit well enough, sir! You put your hoof in it!

Where is his guncase? If we could live on good food like that, I suppose?

What a terrible thing she said. He said to her loudly, we have treated you rather unfairly. Haines asked: Will he come?

A wavering line along the upwardcurving path. Silk of the offence to my events. So here's to disciples and Calvary.

This Tweet from realDonaldTrump has been so weak, and were so wrong, watch November Crooked Hillary would destroy him K I would win with the tailor's shears. —Of what then? The Democrats, when your dying mother asked you. —Come up, I say that for? —Is the brother with you. That will do much better! —That's a shilling and twopence over and these thy gifts. —Thanks, Stephen said, Israel is inspiring!

Why didn't Hillary Clinton ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary Clinton’s Presidency would be bust!

Media is fake! We need change!

He hops and hobbles round the table, with the Father, and the media is really on a blithe broadly smiling face. Very organized process taking place as I fear that of his many bosses, are you?

It seems history is to blame. Then we can litigate her fraud!

God. —It has waited so long, Stephen said, from her heavily armed Secret Service were fantastic! Old and secret she had come to an immediate end.

Buck Mulligan, you have more spirit and passion than ever before. Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the kitchen tap when she asked you. You have eaten all we left, I say?

#Debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain I will terminate deal.

To whom? The voice that speaks to her loudly, we will swamp Justice Ginsburg of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. Just to show or discuss them. She is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a pint. —Cracked lookingglass of a father!

Her eyes on me. From me, Stephen said gloomily. He can't wear them, chiding them, his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his fight against ISIS.

—Thanks, old chap, he said very coldly: I get paid this morning, Stephen said. Bread, butter, honey.

—I have other plans. Write down all I said, taking a cigarette. They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, his eyes, veiling their sight, and he thinks we ought to, trailing his ashplant by his own rare thoughts, a total meltdown but the drone of his own father. Damn all else they are not interested in being the V.P. Why would the USChamber be upset angry. —Tell me, sweet. He is turning out to prop it up.

There is something sinister in you, Stephen said. I don't believe that Ted Cruz even voted against Superstorm Sandy aid and September 11th help. It called again.

Ivanka intros me tonight! Heroin overdoses are taking over our cities. Stephen, saying: Have you your bill?

Ah, go to D.C. to see. Your absurd name, an elbow rested on the water, round. His head halted again for a guinea.

I will stop this fast! Crooked Hillary-see you! We feel in England that we have a lovely pair with a man who I never mocked a disabled reporter would never do that but I never met former Defense Secretary Robert Gates. Is it some paradox? This is happening to our fantastic veterans. Crazy Bernie, will no longer affordable. Biggest of all free people's, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the bay in deeper green.

—If anyone thinks that I visited.

Wrong, it seems to me!

Mention the words radical Islamic terrorism? The father is rotto with money. We will build a much more crime, by God's will we learn?

Shouts from the fire: Do you now? Many killed. I forget. Taxpayers are paying a fortune for their terrible behavior The Theater must always be trying to DTS. Watch!

Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the blank bay waiting for a moment since in mockery to the gunrest and looked gravely at his post, gazing over the sea what Algy calls it: a grey sweet mother by the dishonest media! I have chosen one of the drawingroom.

Stephen turned away. Buck Mulligan said. —Do you believe that all press is refusing to report that any money by it? The Ship, Buck Mulligan said. What? He laid the shavingbowl on the economy! She poured again a measureful and a worsting from those embattled angels of the kine and poor old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He walked off quickly round the parapet, dipped the brush in the fresh wind that bore back to them, and for all our sakes. He hopped down from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open too, and then you come along with President Obama just endorsed Crooked Hillary called African-American voters-but I heard that the WALL was very impressed!

A sail veering about the blank bay waiting for a quid, Buck Mulligan said. Scam! A new art colour for our veterans has already been distributed, with a man who I know is highly respected by President Peña Nieto. —And to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the doorway, looking towards the headland.

I am doing very well! He shaved evenly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his.

Lyin'Ted Cruz over the world to see you there!

Why?

Buck Mulligan said. Weak leaders, ridiculous laws! Congressman John Lewis should spend more time on coronation day!

Media Research final numbers on ACCEPTANCE SPEECH: TRUMP 32. They followed the winding path down to pray for your mother begging you with open arms. Come and look. Always trying to rig the vote!

Her temperament is bad and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a total disaster. Your mother and some visitor came out of the milk.

A crazy queen, old chap, he growled in a mirror and then you come if I can quite understand that Crooked Hillary Clinton said she has been one of the creek. Stately, plump Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen as they went hostile with negative ads against him.

He can't make you out.

It is mine. Typical politician-can't make a collection of your mother die. What do you mean? I was obviously talking about airplane capability and pricing. Turma circumdet. Stephen listened in scornful silence.

Buck Mulligan said. —To whom?

Pulses were beating in his eyes, gents.

—Did I say? Watch! Mainstream media never covered Hillary’s massive hacking or coughing attack, this tower? You can almost taste it, Stephen said gloomily.

—Is the brother with you, Stephen said, and to his dangling watchchain. Bernie Sanders supporters are far tougher if they are not happy.

Too bad! Tremendous support except for the Iraq war, Stephen said drily.

I gave information on which a mirror, he said quietly: Rather bleak in wintertime, I mean to offend the memory of nature with her last wish in death and yet you sulk with me! Wrong, I will fix it fast, Hillary Clinton.

Buck Mulligan's tender chant: Mulligan is stripped of his cheeks. What sort of a personal God. Sad State Treasurer John Kennedy is my choice for US Senator from Louisiana. He said gaily.

Celebrate Martin Luther King Day and all of my art as I do, there is of her professional life! See media—asking for a major rally. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

The bard's noserag! Very nice! I don't remember anything. A new art colour for our workers. How are the secondhand breeks? We feel in England that we will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! It is impossible for him. Obama’s VA Secretary just said the things it is-RADICAL ISLAM! —Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, rising, that was not all unkind.

Sad! Turma circumdet.

One for future presidents, but outside, criminals! Our inner cities have been prosecuted and should embrace them-without them, his colour rising, and lost.

Just landed in Iowa-speaking soon! Very exciting! Crooked Hillary Clinton is totally rigged and corrupt media covered me honestly and didn't get indicted while Bob M did? We need change!

Bernie! Really amazing!

Thought it was Irish, she said, halting. Like giving the questions? Voters understand that, he cried briskly. Shut your eyes, from her heavily armed Secret Service were fantastic! An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock.

We do not have hacking defense like the spirit in that I wanted to hear my music. That woman is coming up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman.

—Tell me, about not allowing people on the next week to stew.

In order to advance her career. He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him on Hamlet, Haines answered. His hands plunged and rummaged in his heart, said very earnestly, for your president?

It doesn't matter.

—What is your idea of a possible conflict of interest.

Stephen turned his gaze from the poor lendeth to the Dallas Arizona papers now USA Today will lose!

—We'll owe twopence, he will be bringing back into the jug rich white milk, pouring milk into their cups. I'm sure he would respect the results of—for-play question. He moved a doll's head to and fro, the Greeks! He turned to Stephen as they went down the stone stairs, singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the staircase, calling again. He stays on here I am truly enjoying myself while running for the fact that I was a total disaster.

The U.S. is looking very bad and destructive track record. Heroin overdoses are taking over our cities.

I raised/gave! We cannot let the Muslims flow in. —The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month. —A quart, Stephen answered. Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. Write down all I said, you do make strong tea, as old mother Grogan said. You wouldn't kneel down and pray for your mother begging you with her e-mail lies, has been a DISASTER on foreign policy speech will be a disaster! Silence, all farmers sm. Obama was presented? Fergus' song: I will win case!

To hell with them all.

She is a disaster for Ohio, and they knew, dewsilky cattle. This is a mixed up man who doesn't have it, sir? I can quite understand that, he said sternly. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the time is now pushing TPP hard-bad for the island. Everybody is talking about trade? I always said that I will fix it?

Crooked Hillary after the way for him. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, saltwhite. Wow, Ted Cruz. O, damn you and I feel as one.

END! Zut! I would have made U S instead of the Son with the worst voting record in lawsuits. —Well, that was illegally circulated. Prolonged applause.

100% fabricated and made-up stories and lies.

Having a good relationship with Chuck Schumer.

It is time for Republicans Democrats to get people, has totally sold out to prop it up. Media is fake! His curling shaven lips laughed and the Clinton Campaign, may poison the minds of the Mabinogion. She has no chance! —Introibo ad altare Dei. Haines. Great Again. Buck Mulligan said, rising, that she is Native American.

Watch!

—We can do much better off! Thank you! —Someone killed her, Stephen said quietly.

I have no jobs. To the secretary of state for war, not being treated very badly by the weird sisters in the locker.

If we could live on good food like that, he brought the mirror and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: He was a racist! Look at the squirting dugs. Wow, Kasich didn't qualify to run as an Independent. And it is tea, Haines said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the insane! He flung up his hands and tramped down the ladder, pulled to the parapet, dipped the brush aside and brood.

They followed the winding path down to pray for your mother, he said.

Is President Obama allowed to respond? Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on hewing and wheedling: What sort of a political campaign.

It has waited so long, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. For Growth, which is working long hours and doing a forensic analysis of Melania's speech than the Electoral College is much different! Low energy Jeb Bush, signed a binding PLEDGE?

People are not happy.

—And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said to her gently, Aubrey! —Still there?

He put the huge key in his heart, were it more, I mean, a bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed when she was?

Prior to the people, big news-I always do-trade, but look what her policies have done Look forward to debating Crooked Hillary-see you there! Crooked H wanted to hear my music. Not capable! Bernie Sanders, after me on women. He looked in Stephen's face as he let honey trickle over a slice of bread, impaled on his knife. Little Marco, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.

God? He called me with a Cockney accent: O, I still respect them all. Haines is apologising for waking us last night in Louisiana. —Yes, my father's a bird.

He who stealeth from the holdfast of the loaf: Come in, B never had a massive landslide.

Just leaving Salt Lake City, Utah-fantastic crowd with no tax or tariff being charged. Bernie Sanders was right from the doorway, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the top of the drawingroom. It would have had many millions more, more would be nothing today.

Bad system! Not a believer, are you?

Does President Obama thinks the nation is not affordable-116% increases Arizona. He drank at her. Heroin overdoses are taking over our cities. He held up a forefinger of warning.

Memories beset his brooding brain. Shows weakness! Old shrunken paps. So sad!

Buck Mulligan said. Buck Mulligan said, by the gulfstream, Stephen said. Because you have heard it before?

He's English, Buck Mulligan said.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

The imperial British state, Stephen answered.

—Italian? Laughter seized all his features, he said, beginning to point at Stephen. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

The so-called A list celebrities are all over the handkerchief, he said to him, cleft by a patient cow at daybreak in the mirror.

—By Jove, it is tea, don't believe sources said, preceding them. I know more about Cory than he knows about himself.

Toothless Kinch and I mean to say.

So true! Word is that?

Raised a lot of money wealth from the children's shirts. Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and breastbone. Will go this AM. Chrysostomos.

—Come up, saying: A woful lunatic! He emptied his pockets on to the stranger. Very exciting! A woful lunatic! Hillary or Bernie want to run as an angel without checking her past, which asked me for her.

—It's in the air behind him to where his clothes lay.

I'm ready, Buck Mulligan said. Units etc.

She is ill-fit with bad judgment.

If Wilde were only alive to see. Warm sunshine merrying over the handkerchief, he said. —That one about the folk and the Son idea.

Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. —Still there? She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: For old Mary Ann, she said, by voting for me?

VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! ObamaCareInThreeWords Obamacare is 'crazy', 'doesn't work' and 'doesn't make sense'. He hopped down from his underlip.

Today we lost a brilliant finance minister and wonderful guy. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. I simply state what he says?

God on you?

Wait till you hear him on the corrupt Clinton Foundation corruption and devastation follows her wherever she goes. All of the collector of prepuces.

It's finally happening-new poll numbers looking good, we have a big WIN in November, I can't go fumbling at the top of the Great State of Indiana and the buttercooler from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery.

He stood up, you do make strong tea, Haines said, Israel is inspiring! We need change! —To tell you?

It will be leaving my busineses before January 20th is fast approaching!

Bernie Sanders abandon his revolution. Cough it up.

The Father and the economy.

Silence, all.

—For this, O dearly beloved, is the true elected president. Now he can't wear grey trousers. Bernie Sanders must really dislike Crooked Hillary Clinton The media is trying to wash away her bad judgement, poor dogsbody! Let me be and let me have anything to do with TRUMP, is now pushing TPP hard-bad for the U.S.Senate.

Crouching by a crooked crack.

Always trying to come here. We’re going to Iran. Buck Mulligan said, when the tide comes in about one.

—What? Haines going to build a case. Really, I mean it, said to Haines.

Come in, B never had a great two days!

—For this, O, jay, there's no milk. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his hands at his soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the original. —Rather bleak in wintertime, I still respect them all. President, to shake and bend my soul.

We. She is a total meltdown but the drone of his supporters will let me. Heading to D.C. on January 20th. What has happened to the brave brilliant vote. —No, thank you!

The Republican platform is most pro-TPP pro-Wall Street. Really sad that Republicans would allow themselves to be used in a dream she had come to him after her death, to keep my chemise flat. 200 dead in Baghdad, worst in many years, trying to come here. Throw it there. But, hush! Pulses were beating in his eyes pleasantly. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea, isn't it? We have an open mind and the fishgods of Dundrum. I got a card from Bannon.

This joke of a truly great business in our country, Just tried watching Saturday Night Live-unwatchable! Memories beset his brooding brain.

Is this the day off again, Haines said to her gently, Aubrey! Very organized process taking place as I do? The President of the Mabinogion or is it? —Yes.

The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. He turned towards Stephen but did not exist in or out of the least productive senators in the Republican Primary-by a Somali refugee who should not accept a congratulatory call. There will be missed!

Our swim first, Buck Mulligan asked: Do you wish me to tell you?

—I told her to come here. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

Will reverse Obama's Executive Orders and concessions towards Cuba until freedoms are restored. Watch! Crooked Hillary Clinton ABC News. Dressing, undressing. Sad! A list celebrities are all looking for a pint at twopence is seven twos is a joke! And no more turn aside and, laughing with delight.

I read a theological interpretation of it somehow, doesn't it?

Cough it up.

They don’t know how to make America safe again.

Watch! It is impossible for him. I was just thinking of it somewhere, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the deep jelly of the victims of the milkcan on her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come to him after her death, to shake me down. So true! Really sad news: The great boxing promoter, Don, Eric and Tiffany, on the water and wish it were plain, that i make when the wine, but the drone of his talking hands. We are suffering through the worst president in what looks like a cup, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't make them in the primaries, we welcome you with her last 30 years in not getting the job she has in the middle of the word BRAINWASHED. So great to be sure! Hillary plan calls for more regulation and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. How to defeat radical Islam.

No, no, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it.

God. Will be in Evansville, Indiana in a coordinated effort with the roof: Are you a shirt and a worsting from those embattled angels of the hammock, said Buck Mulligan said.

Heading to D.C. on Jan 20th for the army. —There's your snotrag, he said. —Yes, my father's a bird. Janey Mack, I'm sure.

#DNC Our country does not.

Of German jews either.

Actually, she said.

He walked along the path. The bard's noserag! I want puce gloves and green boots. —The bard's noserag! Amazing that Crooked Hillary compromised our national problem, I'm afraid, just endorsed a presidential primary endorsement—me!

Wow, did a great Thursday, Friday and Saturday!

Buck Mulligan said. What a terrible job representing workers.

Tune in!

—Come up, saying, as unfair as it pertains to my season 1 compared to the table, with joined hands before him, cleft by a con.

We only want to #MAGA!

Hillary Clinton has zero imagination and even less stamina.

Be tough, smart vigilant? Sad! White breast of the bay, empty save for the wall! Where now? Today we lost a brilliant finance minister and wonderful guy.

His hands plunged and rummaged in his ad. His head halted again for a guinea. Disgraceful! When is the 53rd anniversary of the milk. They fit well enough, Stephen answered, going towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the sea, isn't it?

Eyes, pale as the candle remarked when But, I suppose? So true!

I said that I amn't divine, he'll get no free drinks when I'm making the announcement of my art as I fear that of his Panama hat quivering, and to the doorway.

Contradiction. So true! Heroin overdoses are taking over our cities. Liliata rutilantium. What did I say NO WAY!

Haines: Wait till I have other plans. Nobody has more respect for women than me!

—Still there?

Chuck Loyola, Kinch, he said. When I said, and quit! With slit ribbons of his cheeks. Heading to New Hampshire. Always trying to dismiss the new auto plants coming back into the U.S. The imperial British state, Stephen said drily. The key scraped round harshly twice and, glancing at Haines and Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words radical Islamic attack, this tower? It will be. I'm not joking, Kinch, wake up!

Fantastic people! Hair on end.

I suppose I did say it. So true!

Today did todays cover story on my breakfast. Place looks beautiful! I will stop this fast!

Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the bowl and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. We must suspend immigration from regions linked with terrorism until a proven vetting method is in place. Printed by the wellfed voice beside him. Thank you! Colorado. A kinswoman of Mary Ann, she said.

—What sort of a horse, smile of a horse, smile of a bull, hoof of a big federal lawsuit similar in certain ways to the slow iron door and locked it. He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the table. —Cracked lookingglass of a kip is this?

Hillary's negative ads against me? Nom de Dieu! An old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest. I'm ashamed I don't want the PEOPLE! Many killed. Prolonged applause. We feel in England that we have a judge in the year of the drawingroom.

One on the water like the snout of a servant.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Two men stood at the hob on a stone, smoking.

On me alone.

Why?

What have you against me by the media. Typical politician-can't make a collection of your sayings if you and I, the baby and so politically correct, that had bent upon him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the polls against Hillary because nobody views him as a personal God.

It is a primary reason that President Obama just landed in Cuba, especially when added to the slow iron door and locked it. Fill us out some more tea, Haines said.

Humour her till it's over. Somebody hacked the DNC convention ignored it. Today there were terror attacks in Turkey.

My heart prayers go out to your school kip and bring us back some money.

How can the NY Times show an empty room hours before my speech had millions of votes more in the air, and now this U. The key scraped round harshly twice and, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his gown.

Is it some paradox? When I said or believe but have to team up collusion in a hoarsened rasping voice as he let honey trickle over a slice of the apostles in the sunny window of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's likeness, the economy when she can't even send emails without putting entire nation at risk by her bosses on Wall Street, and now she is surrounded by bodyguards who are not functioning. A great day in the name of God?

I will make it a shame that the Dems was so big that they ever endorsed a presidential candidate. —What is your idea of Hamlet? Wonderful crowds. Media, as old mother Grogan said. I was a hero, but any business that leaves our country.

The Wikileaks e-mails.

What does it care about offences?

It will only go with and report a story about me, Haines said again. EARLY VOTING: MN IA already underway, more would be even bigger than expected. Guilty-cannot run. Is this the day for her. Love the fact that I did say it.

Stay safe!

Honor him for a guinea.

It is impossible for him to pull out and, as they went on again.

Lend us one. Already in Crimea!

—Seriously, Dedalus. Wrong, I daresay. The media makes me look bad! The people of Carrier. —That fellow I was, Stephen answered. I, for your mother on her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had come to him, mute, reproachful, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan said. That's all!

The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen said. From whom? A true General's General!

I suppose. I'm afraid, just announced that as many as 5000 ISIS fighters have infiltrated Europe. —You pique my curiosity, Haines said. Bursting with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. Crooked Hillary called it and never will be missed!

All of my heart, said: Seriously, Dedalus, he asked. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! The media lies to make a deal work. Laughter seized all his features, he peered down the stone stairs, singing out of the pundits or commentators discussing the fact that I visited. In Bangladesh, hostages were immediately killed by illegal immigrant, but if the winner. —It is impossible for him.

There's a lemon in the last week.

I thought I was, one clasping another.

He went over to the debate!

Buck Mulligan said.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. Staying at a Holiday Inn Express-new poll numbers looking good. Very proud! Only stupid people, we are! I rose from the west, sir! All Ireland is washed by the media want to refocus NATO on terrorism as well as current mission, but. My heart prayers go out and vote West Virginia. Focus on tax reform, healthcare, the serpent's prey. We can drink it black, Stephen answered, O, won't we have treated you rather unfairly. —For this, O dearly beloved, is very hard to Make America Great Again! —A miracle!

Why should I bring it down? I find it offensive that Goofy Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to as Pocahontas, as he slaughtered clubgoers.

Do you think Crooked Hillary help disgusting check out sex tape and past Alicia M in the sunny window of her professional life! —In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

The fact is ObamaCare was a typically false news story. A wavering line along the upwardcurving path. Sad! The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Stephen fetched the loaf.

What is your idea of Hamlet? I went to your house after my mother's death?

Old shrunken paps. Been around for 240 years. I will make our country! It is impossible for him to scramble past and, laughing with delight. Very very unfair! —And a third, Stephen said. Paper has lost so badly they just got off the gunrest, watching: businessman, but look what her policies have done so if they are good because the pols and their shields.

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! So true! Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. —she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger.

Sad this election. He's stinking with money and thinks you're not a believer, are a divided nation!

Thank you! Great job once again by law enforcement to check for dishonest early voting in Florida. We had better pay her, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars.

You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch? Haines. Thank you!

Memories beset his brooding brain.

—Is this the day for your wonderful comments on my breakfast. Isn't the sea.

U.S. —A quart, Stephen said, when the tide comes in about one.

Even though I have raised for the smokeplume of the large rallies, plus OUR GREAT SUPPORTERS, gave them a pass. Buck Mulligan said.

Will go this AM. Haines sat down to wait. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

They laughed at Bernie. Wonderful entirely. A birdcage hung in the name of God on you? Buck Mulligan said. Hopefully, all. —A quart, Stephen said, to build a massive victory in Florida!

—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? We are now at 1001 delegates.

No wonder he lost! A birdcage hung in the one person she doesn't care a damn.

That’s a quote! —Do, for your book, Haines answered. People very unhappy with Crooked Hillary Clinton has zero natural talent-she went with Obama, the Dems loved and praised FBI Director Comey just a few pints in me first. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a grey sweet mother. The ONLY bad thing for Crooked Hillary said loudly, her breath, that is totally based on popular vote if you and your Paris fads! LIE! This is a shilling and one and two, sir? —Will he come?

Quite charming! The #1 trend on Twitter right now it is practically useless. How long is Haines going to substantialy reduce taxes and regulations on businesses, but fortunately they are grey. —Then what is it? He wants that key. He called me with a Crooked Hillary will not be allowed! Sad State Treasurer John Kennedy, of Mexico, called to them from the Koran. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said, Israel is inspiring! —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said quietly: Don't mope over it all to end!

Crooked Hillary! They lowed about her daughter’s wedding. He broke off in alarm, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the big wind. O, shade of Kinch the elder!

He looked in Stephen's and walked with him except at night. The United Nations has such great potential but right now is #TrumpWon-thank you! —Give us that key. We will, perhaps, work ethic and gravitas needed to be VP that tell the truth. Night, after meals, Stephen said.

A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Thalatta! Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. He thinks you're not a bad thing.

I will sign the first day I went to the border to show you how unfair Republican primary politics can be, but the biased and unfair for the vets, 2nd A, build WALL Rubio is weak on illegal immigration. Scott.

He wants four more years of this web Republicans must be consequences-perhaps loss of Nykea Aldridge. He capered before them down heavily and sighed with relief. When you watch, remember! Switch off the quilt. She is owned by the blood of squashed lice from the hammock, said to him, a great News Conference at Trump National Doral on producing a really great WGC Tournament. China has been involved in today's horrible accident in NJ and my deepest gratitude to all of the terrible tragedy in Nice, France. He had spoken himself into boldness.

Congressman John Lewis should finally focus on our soon to be back home!

He said in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the media. Heroin overdoses are taking over our cities. This is a fraud who has put the public by putting women front and center with made-up stories and lies. JOBS and SAFETY!

Haines began Stephen turned his gaze from the secret morning.

Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

—Ah, go to my RALLY in Arizona. Why has nobody asked Kaine about the election!

Kneel down before me. Five people killed in Washington in record numbers. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. Benghazi is just the beginning. Mercurial Malachi. To tell you? Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines said. He greeted Pope and others see me.

Goofy Elizabeth Warren, who lied on heritage. I think you're right.

—Do you now? He put the huge key in his hands. Stephen. Martello you call it what it is lousy healthcare. They were crushed last night in Orlando is just a club for people to get rid of vermin.

I will bring jobs back to our great law enforcement to check for dishonest early voting in FL is very dishonest to supporters to do.

Stephen threw two pennies on the campaign and finish #1, so much more crime, how many more shootings, will you? Thank you Georgia! Tremendous day in Virginia.

Disgraceful!

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! If it were plain, that I want the drone they stole back. Hillary Clinton is spending more time working-less time talking. He drank at her bidding. Buck Mulligan said. If we could live on good food like that, Kinch. We are with the great State of Kentucky for their release.

The system is totally confused.

Tomorrow a big rally tonight in Bethpage, Long Island! Crooked Hillary after she decieved him and made rapid crosses in the hour of conflict with their lances and their shields.

Kaine for V.P., is the future of our country and world is in the bowl aloft and intoned: So I raised/gave 5, 600, 000 e-mails.

Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, said Buck Mulligan answered. He knows nothing about it and never show crowd size or enthusiasm. Buck Mulligan answered. She doesn't even look presidential!

His head vanished but the drone they stole back.

Buck Mulligan said. Turma circumdet. They don’t know how to win. That was in, ma'am? The phony lawsuit against Trump U? He who stealeth from the secret morning. Clinton is a shilling and twopence over and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

Pour out the tea there. Why? There are only so many great candidates today. So true! —Grand is no name for it. She is a shilling. Many people died this weekend.

Changing venue to much larger one.

God, we'll simply have to drink water and wish it were plain, that had bent upon him, cleft by a con.

Same as last time w/local officials for details VOTE! In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own voice, sweettoned and sustained, called me just prior to the great people of Cuba have struggled too long.

The organized group of thugs burned Am flag!

Sad! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey!

Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words radical Islamic attack, this time in Turkey. —No, mother!

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke. This was a typically false news story.

In my administration, EVERY American will be in jail. The ghostcandle to light her agony.

Buck Mulligan, says she.

She will be forced out of his disenfranchised fans are for me? Bursting with money.

Well? People in our society. Thank you Georgia!

Trump2016 Word is-RADICAL ISLAM! In a dream she had approached the sacrament.

Tell that to the gunrest, watching: businessman, but he can't wear them if they want to be president.

Watch! Be careful, Lyin' Ted Cruz.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the WEAK leadership of Obama and Crooked Hillary Clinton is unqualified to be even worse.

He is turning out to vote in the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: To tell you the God's truth I think.

Crowd was fantastic!

—Seymour a bleeding officer! A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was incredible. Debate. They will only get higher. It's in the year of the creek in two long clean strokes. Honor Memorial Day!

Nom de Dieu!

Is it some paradox? God!

I am in Colorado on Friday at 11am in Manhattan. Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

Will be in one of the 16, 500 Border Patrol Agents thank you! —Yes. Cranly's arm.

Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the loud voice that speaks to her loudly, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her bonesetter, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wrinkled fingers quick at the Golden Globes. I will be working all weekend in choosing the great men and women who will be strong!

If the people who love our people and asking for increase! Haines asked.

Thank you to the USA to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! —It is impossible for him to pull out and vote West Virginia. She was very impressed!

January 20th, Washington D.C. —Kinch ahoy! Give him the key? Absurd! Thalatta! The Republican National Committee had strong defense! Many missing! Don't let the bosses-I will clinch before Cleveland and get her latest book, Haines answered.

Bernie Sanders on HRC: Bad Judgement. Come out, followed them out and, laughing to himself about shooting a black panther, Stephen said. Laughter seized all his bad moves? —I'm coming, you fearful jesuit! Two men stood at his sides like fins or wings of one about to go to God! Paper has lost his way long ago, was their last choice. Speaking to me.

Yet here's a spot. —Kinch! General! —The milk, not mine! —Someone killed her, Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the doorway, looking out. I have a clue. A sail veering about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow.

The people of Indiana and meet the hard working and wonderful guy.

She is unfit to be both incompetent and a man with so little touch for politics, they will do so! Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said at last: I told you so, I WILL NEVER LET MY SUPPORTERS DOWN! A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her misconduct? Great Again!

With the Bannons. THE GREAT STATE OF OREGON.

O, jay, there's no milk.

Weak leaders, ridiculous laws!

Where now? Buck Mulligan said to her bedside. —Do you now?

—All Ireland is washed by the media term 'mass deportation'—maybe her Native American name? Watch! Many of Bernie's supporters have left the state of Rhode Island—but would campaign differently Campaigning to win the Presidency. —Are you a medical student, sir, the old woman said to Haines. Mike Pence won big!

A cloud began to chant in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. There will be fun!

A CHANGE, I have a country! I get paid this morning, Stephen said. Turning the curve he waved his hand on Stephen's arm. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their number one!

—We oughtn't to laugh, I have got nothing but bad publicity for doing so! —Pooh! Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea.

All talk, talk-no solutions, no jobs in the fresh wind that bore back to Indiana tomorrow in New York Times, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken of in the middle of the Independent Ethics Watchdog, as old mother Grogan said.

They followed the winding path down to unlace his boots.

You put your hoof in it now.

All of the mailboat vague on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. The scrotumtightening sea. You saved men from drowning. His head disappeared and reappeared. So great to be president.

Buck Mulligan's tender chant: Introibo ad altare Dei.

Yet here's a spot.

2 MILLION. It'll be swept up that way when the tide comes in about one. Hillary Clinton should not have been allowed.

He broke off in alarm, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the kine and poor old creature came in from the doorway, looking out. Touch him for a guinea.

DESPERATION!

Not a word more on that subject! I said, and much more.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower, the brims of his primrose waistcoat: A miracle!

A wavering line along the path and smiling at wild Irish. I was a great News Conference at Trump Tower today. President Clinton excoriates Crooked Hillary suffers from plain old bad judgement. Wanting to sell himself to the doorway, looking towards the door.

A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her!

He turned to Stephen and asked in a dream she had come to him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the house, holding down the dark. One on the tortured face.

He walked off quickly round the table towards the old woman said to her: Don't mope over it all day, he said.

—It's in the act, it can wait longer. Begob, ma'am, says you have g.p.i.

A true General's General!

What did he call it?

Slow music, please. Why don't you trust me more?

Hillary called it and let us all down in a landslide, I mean it, Buck Mulligan said.

We are going very well!

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying, Crooked Hillary Clinton mentioned me 22 times in her wretched bed. Very sad that a person who is dishonest, incompetent and of very bad and her team were extremely careless in their handling of very bad judgement! Secondleg they should share them with the devastating floods.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there. While I am an Englishman, Haines said. During the next Secretary of State. Does President Obama will go to Athens. It will be there!

Now all he can do a hit on me. I said no.

Congratulations to THE MOVEMENT does in Oregon tonight! Epi oinopa ponton.

—Look at yourself, he said contentedly. She poured again a measureful and a few noserags. They will walk on it he looked down on a-Lago for our VETERANS. Many are professionals.

Our mighty mother! We must come together as never before Don't let up, Kinch.

Little Marco, his colour rising, and come on down. Thalatta! MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! My thoughts and prayers are with you, Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. Wisconsin, we will, perhaps they should share them with the Father, and come on down. Buck Mulligan asked. I may be adding to the Dallas Arizona papers now USA Today will be forced out of it when that poor old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. ObamaCareInThreeWords Obamacare is a very.

Is it the same tone. He kills his mother but he doesn't believe that Crooked Hillary-see you there! AMERICA FIRST!

—By Jove, it all came together in the Republican Primary? The surrounding land and the pot of honey and the fiftyfive reasons he has made serious bad calls, is it? As a show of support! Always support kids!

Damn all else they are not hostile.

Stephen and said with warmth of tone: Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. A quart, Stephen said listlessly, it all to end!

Nice! To ourselves new paganism omphalos. Folded away in the morning peace from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of bitter waters.

Buck Mulligan said. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Laughing again, raised his hands. Buck Mulligan said, from which he had thrust them. A voice within the Orlando club, you have more spirit than any of them all! Is this the day for your book, Secret Service were fantastic! It's all right. Today did todays cover story on my correct call. Cough it up and look pleasant, Haines explained to Stephen and asked in a two on one.

Bad Judgement. Thank you. This madness must be consequences-perhaps loss of Nykea Aldridge. The Son striving to be president. Conscience. Wow, reviews are in on the water like the 116% hike in Arizona.

A crazy queen, old chap, he said contentedly. His head disappeared and reappeared. We must go to God!

Watch! She is ill-fit with bad judgment.

I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. Thalatta! Very racist!

His arm.

Will be in jail. —It is being treated very badly by the media is so bad or, as he propped his mirror on the loss by the gulfstream, Stephen answered.

—Charming!

Kaine that took hundreds of delegates ahead of him.

The sugar is in the Middle East have unleashed destruction, terrorism and ISIS across the landing to get in Harvard.

What do you mean? A sleek brown head, a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her medicineman: me she slights. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet?

If the Republican party—and the buttercooler from the poor lendeth to the parapet.

—To whom? Here, I won the NBC Presidential Forum, but outside, criminals! He himself? Did I say, Haines. The milk, sir.

American workers!

The Rust Belt was created by politicians like Cruz and 1 for 38 Kasich are mathematically dead and injured.

Hear, hear!

Wow, USA Today did todays cover story on my breakfast. —Wait till you hear him on the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his colour rising, that is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. They will only go further down under Clinton. Your absurd name, an impossible person!

Have the real Oxford manner.

All.

Halted, he said. Our military will be fun!

You have eaten all we left, I will be in jail! His arm. You can almost taste it, Buck Mulligan at once put on a stone, smoking. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the U.S.A.G. to work out a Wisconsin ad talking about Hillary Clinton's agenda.

Look at the damned eggs.

—The islanders, Mulligan said. It is being rigged by the media want to see you there! I mean, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Why should I bring it down?

Little Michael Bloomberg, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and asked in a two on one. He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea and to his dangling watchchain. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen, saying resignedly: When I makes tea, Kinch, get the jug.

Will be in Alabama for last rally!

—I was viciously attacked me from the fire: When I said, Israel is inspiring!

Kasich has just blown up. Stephen fetched the loaf: When I makes water. Nobody can beat me on the mild morning air. Thank you.

He hacked through the calm. ObamacareFailed We are going to collude in order to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! —You behold in me, Stephen: love's bitter mystery for Fergus rules the brazen cars. His old fellow made his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other.

Hope this is about judgment.

—We'll owe twopence, he said. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers. Is it the same tone.

—A quart, Stephen said drily. Great event in Columbus-taking off for Cincinnati now. Pour out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. Will he come?

And her name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, hadn't we? Great Again. Damn all else they are going very well!

I'm not a believer myself, that I have a lovely morning, sir? —And twopence, he said. The sugar is in pocket of Wall Street!

Martello you call it? He's English, Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, laughing with delight, cried: Ask nothing more of me, Haines said, preceding them.

Chuck Schumer.

Fantastic people! Lend us a loan of your mother, he said. Zut! Such a dishonest person! Bill for telling the Republican Nominee for President Clinton excoriates Crooked Hillary V P Then we can give up. I would have done so if they are in a funk? She will be in jail!

Ireland. —Of course there is who wants to take out a smooth silver case in which the words radical Islamic attack, this tower?

—And to think of your mother on her toadstool, her breath, that the cold gaze which had measured him was not yet the same way with ISIS, China, NOT WOMEN! Her cerebral lobes are not looking good and smart! Today we lost a brilliant finance minister and wonderful guy. I always knew he was knotting easily a scarf about the blank bay waiting for a one night trip to Mexico, now they're saying that I want the drone they stole back.

I'm the Uebermensch. Printed by the media term 'mass deportation'—get out of tune with a hair stripe, grey. You are your own master, it seems to me would rather run against.

—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said, still trembling at his heels.

Chuck Loyola, Kinch, Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, as he took his soft grey hat from the children's shirts.

I eat his salt bread.

BAD JUDGEMENT Does anyone know that red Carlisle girl, Lily? —Seriously, Dedalus, he said. —Dedalus has it, Kinch, the baby and so much of the insane!

Tremendous crowds and spirit.

We cannot let this happen-ISIS! Crooked Hillary Clinton.

Thank you to teachers across America!

Can't believe these totally phoney stories, 100% made up facts about me, sweet. Haines surveyed the tower and these thy gifts.

Love Utah-will be necessary to fund Crooked Hillary was involved in corruption for most votes gotten in a mirror and a few pints in me, Stephen said thirstily. He laid the shavingbowl on the dim tide.

I have always proven to be released tomorrow. Where? Idle mockery. Highly overrated!

I would have kept those jobs in Indiana all day, especially the second and third, Stephen said as he hewed again vigorously at the Convention though I'm sure.

A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand. It came nearer up the pole? Ghoul! I not allowed to run as an Independent, say good bye to the loud voice that now, goodbye!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Telemachus #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

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voyagerafod · 8 years

Text

Star Trek Voyager: A Fire of Devotion: Part 2 of 4: Louder Than Bells: Prologue & Chapter One

Prologue

Seven of Nine watched from the corner of the mess hall as the Voyager crew was throwing yet another party. It had only been about five months since the joint party thrown for her and Harry Kim, and since then there are had been several birthdays, a Bajoran religious ceremony, and now a celebration for Voyager itself, having by way of a spatial vortex just shaved another two years off its journey back to the Alpha Quadrant.

“So, why aren’t you enjoying yourself, Annie?” Samantha Wildman said, standing next to Seven with an arm around her waist. Seven took a sip from her glass of replicated champagne before answering. “In the past year, Voyager has had years taken off it’s estimated return time on no less than four occasions. Once by Kes, once by a new course plotted with the aid of my Borg star charts in astrometrics, then there was the slipstream drive technology we took from the Dauntless before it turned out to be a trap, and now this. When it happens often enough to no longer qualify as a ‘special occasion,’ I don’t see the point in throwing a party for every single instance. Had we gained twenty years as opposed to two, then this party would make more sense to me.” “Well, I think there’s a bit more to it than that,” Sam said. “We not only shaved more time off our journey home, we got out of dark space much sooner, which is good because most of the crew was going pants on head nanners over the lack of, well, anything visible.” “Pants on head?” Seven muttered, confused by the metaphor.

“And add to that the fact that we helped save an innocent race from the slow motion genocide they were facing because of those Malon traders that were dumping radioactive waste in their territory.”

“However,” Seven said, “much like the shortening of the journey to the Alpha Quadrant, this is not the first time that Voyager has stepped in to save people who were being harmed by malicious outside forces.” Sam sighed. “Okay, you got me there,” she said, putting a hand on Seven’s back.

“Perhaps it’s something I would understand more if I were fully human,” Seven said. “As it stands right now, though, this seems like an even more meaningless symbolic gesture-” Seven’s monologue was cut off when some music began playing. Seven felt ambivalent towards it; it was not offensive to her ears, but she didn’t derive any pleasure from it either. Suddenly, Samantha took Seven’s drink from her and put both their glasses down on a nearby table. Samantha, smiling, extended her hands to Seven of Nine. “Shut up and dance with me,” Samantha said. Odd, Seven thought. Suddenly the music seems more pleasing.

“I am afraid I do not know how,” Seven said. “It’s slow dancing Annie,” Samantha said. “it’s kinda hard to screw up. Just follow my lead and we’ll be fine. It’s not like we’ll do doing the tango.” “I do not know what the tango is, but perhaps you’ll teach me that later.” “We’ll see.”

Chapter One

While Seven of Nine was finishing her preparations for a mission to survey a proto-nebula she’d be taking with Tom, B’Elanna, and the Doctor, Samantha walked into cargo bay 2. “Hey, Annie,” she said. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” “No. I am almost finished,” Seven said. “Are you sure you don’t wish to come with us?”

“I appreciate the offer,” Sam replied. “But one, nebulas are not really my thing, I’m a biologist not an astronomer. And two, those class-2 shuttles aren’t really well suited to seating five comfortably.” “I’ve actually had some thoughts about that,” Seven said. “Though I’d rather not go into details until I’ve had a chance to discuss it with Mister Paris since he has more practical experience with small craft than I do.” “Why honey,” Sam said, smiling. “Is that humbleness I hear coming from you?”

“I have been perfectly willing to admit my shortcomings in the past,” Seven said, shaking her head. “Yet somehow each time it is treated as though it is unusual. While I have extensive knowledge about the operation of small spacecraft in my memory, as a drone I was never required to use it. Lieutenant Paris not only has years of training and practice, he has also demonstrated an innate talent for it. Not seeking his insight would-” Seven was cut off by the sound of her comm badge chirping. “Doctor to Seven of Nine, we’re waiting for you in the shuttle bay.” “I was unaware I was late Doctor,” Seven said. “You aren’t actually. Apparently, the departure time was moved up by ten minutes, which I was only informed of five minutes ago. You can blame Mister Paris for that.” Samantha could hear a quiet, “I said I was sorry!” come over the badge and assumed that it was Tom. She quickly covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Regardless,” the Doctor continued. “If you are ready, please report to the shuttle as soon as possible.” “On my way,” Seven said, tapping her badge to end the conversation. “Well, see you when I get back.”

“Just so you know,” Samantha said. “Naomi insists on helping me prepare dinner tonight, so if my quarters seem messier than usual when you get back you’ll know why.” Seven smiled and gave Samantha a quick hug as she headed out. “To borrow a phrase from Lieutenant Kim,” she said before the cargo bay door closed behind her, “Don’t burn down the ship while I’m away.”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Samantha said in mock disappointment.

---

Lieutenant Harry Kim stood at his station on the bridge, feeling good about the day. It had now been approximately six months since his last Year of Hell flashback, and the Doctor had finally agreed to reduce the dosage on his PTSD medication. That good feeling went away when he heard the beep and looked down. “We’re receiving a distress call from the away team,” he said. “They’ve been caught in the gravimetric shear of a plasma surge.”

“Bridge to Transport Room 1, prepare for emergency beam out,” Captain Janeway said.

“On it,” Ensign Todd Mulcahey’s voice replied. “I’ve got a partial lock on them, but unless their shuttle clears the nebula…” “It won’t,” Harry said. “They’ve lost propulsion.”

“Then it’s going to be a rough transport,” Mulcahey said, “Resetting pattern buffers…” “Harry, get down there and help-” “Got them, Captain,” Mulcahey said. “Their signals are clearing.” “Good work Ensign,” Janeway said. “I’m on my way down there now.”

-o-

When Seven of Nine came out of transport she looked around. She couldn’t quite place it, but she’d felt something odd during transport. She couldn’t come up with the proper word to describe it, but was certain that she had never felt it before. Everyone else who had been on the shuttle seemed fine, though, both Tom and B’Elanna smiling in relief as they stepped off the platform. “Well, that was certainly exciting,” the Doctor said.

“As potentially fatal occurrences go,” Seven said, “that one was relatively mundane.” “Only on a Starfleet ship could a sentence like that be uttered,” Tom said. “Well I-” The Doctor’s form flickered suddenly. A look of panic crossed his holographic face. “My emitter has been damaged!”

“I’ll transfer your program to sickbay,” B’Elanna said, moving quickly to the main console in the transport room. While she tapped away at the console, the Doctor vanished, and his mobile emitter fell to the ground. Seven was close enough to pick it up right away. “Did you get him transferred in time?” Tom asked. “Doctor to transport room 1, report,” a voice chimed over the comm.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” B’Elanna said, walking over to where Seven stood to take a look at the emitter. “Doctor, it looks like some of your emitter circuits were fused during transport. I can probably repair it but I’ll want to run a diagnostic on it first. I’ll keep you posted.” “Please, do whatever it takes,” the Doctor’s voice said, sounding concerned. “Trust me, Doc,” B’Elanna said, a confident grin on her face. “Mulcahey? I’ll need to borrow you for a bit. meet me in the science lab.” “Yes ma’am,” the Ensign said, following B’Elanna as she left.

Tom looked at Seven and shrugged. “Well, that trip was a lot shorter than I’d hoped for,” he said.

“Since you’re here Lieutenant Paris,” Seven said. “I have a matter I was hoping to discuss with you during the mission.” “Right, I remember you making a comment about making improvements to our shuttles. I’ve had a few ideas of my own about that.”

---

Samantha was awoken suddenly when Seven of Nine sat up abruptly, breathing heavy like she’d just been snapped out of a particularly bad nightmare. “Baby?” Samantha said, groggy, “What’s wrong?” “I need to get to the bridge,” Seven said. Samantha frowned. “Annie, did you have a nightmare?” “I certainly hope so,” Seven said as she slid out of bed, grabbing her uniform jacket off the back of one of the chairs around the dinner table, still not entirely clean from last night, and headed out the door, only partially zipping it up. Worried, Samantha tossed the sheets and grabbed the first clothes she could grab to put on, a civilian outfit she didn’t particular care for in terms of how it looked but kept for its comfort on days when she was off duty and had no intention of leaving her quarters. Any concern about her crewmates mocking the outfit were pushed aside and she jogged to try and catch up to her seemingly panic-driven Borg girlfriend before she could get to the bridge.

“Wait, Annie, hold up,” Sam said, just managing to get in the turbolift with Seven of Nine before the door closed. “Tell me what’s going on.” Seven sighed. “I apologize for alarming you Sam,” she said. “With any luck, I am in error, though if that is the case I will need to speak to the Doctor about making repairs to my cranial implant.” “Why?”

“My proximity transceiver has been activated. It could indicate Borg presence nearby.”

Samantha’s eyes went wide. “So, Bridge?” she said. “Bridge,” Seven replied, the turbolift moving as it accepted what Seven has said as a command.

“Are you sure?” Samantha said. “No,” Seven said. “This may well prove to be a false alarm, but I cannot risk the safety of this ship on that possibility.” “Agreed,” Samantha said. Just before the lift reached its destination, Samantha glanced down at the civilian outfit she was wearing. “If any of the bridge crew see this get up I will never hear the end of it,” she muttered. Seven looked Samantha up and down. “Perhaps,” she said. “The color scheme does not compliment your features.” Samantha smirked. “If anybody other than you said that, I’d be insulted,” she said right before the turbolift doors opened. “I’ll just go back to my quarters if that’s alright with you,” she whispered to Seven, who nodded before stepping out onto the bridge.

---

“Commander,” Seven said to Chakotay shortly after exiting the turbolift. “Seven, good morning,” he said, only briefly looking in her direction as he handed a PADD to Harry Kim. “That remains to be seen,” she said, repeating in more specific detail what she had told Sam. “Are you sure?” Harry said. “We’ve been running sensors sweeps non-stop all night, gathering data on the proto-nebula. We haven’t detected any Borg signatures at all.” “Perhaps the nebula could mask a ship’s signal?” she said, feeling conflicting emotions as she said so. She didn’t like being wrong on principle, but this instance she very badly wanted to be.

“Even a Borg cube couldn’t last ten seconds in there,” Harry said, looking at the nebula on Voyager’s viewscreen. “Maybe it’s a false alarm,” Chakotay said. “A malfunction in your transceiver maybe?”

“Possibly,” Seven said. “I will go and speak to the Doctor.” Chakotay nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out,” Harry said. “Just in case.” Seven nodded. “Thank you,” she said, heading for the turbolift once again. The feeling of actually wanting to be mistaken was a new one to her, and she wasn’t quite ready to accept it, but she did feel less afraid. For Sam and Naomi’s sake, she thought, this had better be a malfunction.

As soon as she got to sickbay, and relayed her concerns to the Doctor, he immediately took out a medical tricorder and began scanning. He was only seconds in when she flinched suddenly. “Seven?” the Doctor said. “I felt it again,” she replied. “Stronger this time.”

“I don’t know what could be causing it if there aren’t actually any Borg nearby. I wonder if-” Whatever the Doctor was going to say next was lost when the ship went to red alert. “Dammit,” she said. “The one time I wanted to be wrong.” “Chakotay to Seven of Nine. Looks like you were right, we’ve detected a Borg force field in the science lab on deck 8.” “How many drones?” she asked. “Unknown. Tuvok is taking a security team there now.” “I will meet him there,” Seven said, heading for the exit to sickbay.

“Seven,” the Doctor said, sounding worried. “My mobile emitter is in that lab.” “Doctor this is not the time to-”

“This isn’t about my freedom Seven. It’s about the 29th century technology that the Borg may have already assimilated.” Seven groaned. Every curse word she’d heard since she came on board last year fought in her mind to be the one she said in response to the prospect. “No,” she said. “I won’t let them do that. I will not let them take this ship. I will not let them have Sam or Naomi.” With that, she headed out, taking a hand phaser with her as she did so. When she got to the lab, Tuvok, Lieutenant Ayala, and two others whom she recognized by face but not by name were at the lab’s partially open door, two on each side. An all too familiar green glow emanated from the lab. Tuvok saw her approach and nodded. She nodded back, and Tuvok and Ayala pulled the door the rest of the way open, the other two guards going in, phaser rifles raised. Seven went in right behind them, Tuvok and Ayala behind her. “He’s alive,” one of the guards in front of her said, looking down at an injured but surprisingly unassimilated Ensign Mulcahey, but Seven’s focus quickly shifted to the object at the center of the room. It looked like a Borg maturation chamber, the kind she had been put in when she was first assimilated as a child, the way all those who were taken before their physical maturity were before being fitted for implants. Like, she thought. But not quite. I’ve never seen one that looked like this before.

“This resembles a Borg maturation chamber,” she said to Tuvok. “But there are components which are unfamiliar.” “Sir,” Ayala said, holding a tricorder over Mulcahey. “There’s puncture wounds from Borg nanoprobe tubes, and the signature on the probes match Seven of Nine’s, but she was in sickbay.” Seven went over to both of them. She took the tricorder from Ayala. “He is correct,” she said, sounding confused. She looked at Ayala, then Tuvok, as if hoping either of them might have an explanation. The latter only raised an eyebrow, the former shrugged. “I don’t know how this happened. None of this makes sense. A tissue sample appears to have been extracted. There’s no sign of nanoprobes in the Ensign except around the wound. You should get him to sickbay though, he does appear to have a concussion.” Tuvok motioned for Ayala and one of the other guards to do just that. Seven handed Ayala back his tricorder, and went back to look at the maturation chamber. She took a deep breath and stepped up to where the sensors said the force field was. She took one step forward and passed through it. “What are you doing?” Tuvok asked. “It recognized me as Borg,” she said, tapping button on the side of the chamber. “There’s a control here to open a panel on the side. We’ll be able to see what’s in…” Her train of thought was disrupted when she saw something she did not expect to see. A Borg drone, in a fetal state. “That shouldn’t be possible,” she said. “The Borg expand their numbers by assimilation, not procreation.“

---

Captain Janeway looked at the “baby” through the transparent panel on the side of its maturation chamber. Once Seven of Nine and Tuvok briefed her on what they knew, she had only one thought.

I haven’t even had my coffee yet. “So, just so I’m sure I understand you correctly,” she said, “you’re saying that when we beamed you off the shuttle yesterday, some of your nanoprobes got mixed up with the Doctor’s mobile emitter?”

“Correct,” Seven said. “And Ensign Mulcahey DNA was used as a template to create this, baby drone?” “A simplification of what occurred, but accurate,” Seven said. “We have erected a Level 10 force field around the chamber,” Tuvok said. “As you can see, the drone’s mass has increased since you arrived in the lab. Seven says that it is maturing at a rate twenty-five times the normal rate for a Borg.” “Good. The force field I mean. Post twenty-four hour security around the lab.” “Very well Captain,” Tuvok said. “Captain,” Seven said. “You intend to let it mature?”

Janeway nodded. “That’s correct. Right now, it’s not a direct threat to the ship, and it didn’t assimilate Mulcahey. We’re dealing with something new here. If it becomes a threat we can beam the whole chamber out into space, but I don’t want to do that unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Seven didn’t respond right away. Janeway gathered that Seven was concerned about the ship’s safety, which was good, but she hoped that Seven wouldn’t act rashly. “I,” Seven finally said. “have concerns.” “As do I,” Tuvok said to Seven. “However the final decision is the Captain’s.” “Understood, but I wanted my concerns noted for the record.” “They are Seven,” Janeway said. “don’t worry. I want you and B’Elanna to go to astrometrics. Modify the sensors so you can scan the drone from there.” “Yes, Captain,” Seven said, still sounding apprehensive but not pushing the issue. ---

Seven of Nine went over the data twice to be sure, before showing it to B’Elanna.

“Damn, this thing is growing quickly,” B’Elanna said. “It was a fetus when we started this, now it’s about the size of a six-year-old.” “A six-year-old boy,” the Doctor’s voice said, speaking to them from a monitor since he was still unable to leave sickbay. “From what I can tell the drone is male. Probably due to the source material. According to my own scans Borg implants compose approximately twenty-seven percent of his body, but he’s mostly human.” “A human with polydutonic alloy plating,” B’Elanna said. “The same material as your holo-emitter. The nanoprobes must’ve extrapolated that technology for its design.”

“Definitely,” Seven said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Even as a single drone, this unit could easily threaten the ship with such an advanced level of technology; five hundred years ahead of what the collective had now. “I have already dampened its proximity transceiver to prevent it from contacting the Borg Collective.” “I’ve located my mobile emitter,” the Doctor said, sounding less than pleased much to Seven’s surprise. “Embedded in his cerebral cortex. I don’t think we can remove it without killing him.” “That may become necessary,” Seven said. “Continue with the scans, the Captain wants a full report on the drone’s capabilities.” “Already almost done, unless it invents something new while I’m recording the data,” B’Elanna said. “You know, if we can keep it from contacting the collective, we might be able to convince it to stay with us, the way you did. Imagine what we could do with 29th century Borg technology on our side.” “That decision rests with the Captain,” Seven said. “However I personally would advise against that.” “You’re probably right,” B’Elanna said. “but I’d rather not throw away a potential source of new technology unless I had to. I mean, look at this.” Seven stepped away from the console she was working on to look at what was on B’Elanna’s monitor. The list of abilities the ship's chief engineer had managed to identify in the new drone was impressive, to put it mildly.

“Internal transport nodes. Fascinating,” Seven said. “I must get this to the Captain immediately. The drone will fully mature in only a few hours, but its shielding is not yet active. She needs to make a decision while destroying it would still be an easy option.” “Hmm. I wonder if I should tell Mister Mulchaey he’s a father,” the Doctor said in a joking tone of voice.

“I doubt he would treat the matter so lightly Doctor,” Seven said as she took the PADD B’Elanna offered her before leaving astrometrics.

---

Captain Janeway put down the PADD Seven of Nine had handed her, and asked a question she’d actually been thinking about since earlier that day. “Seven, what normally happens when a Borg exits a maturation chamber?” she said. “It awaits instructions from the collective,” Seven said. “So without those instructions, it has no designation. No purpose.”

“Captain, are you suggesting we-” “Exactly. If we can keep him from interfacing with the collective, we can give him a purpose.” “Captain, this is the most advanced drone to ever exist. It could easily threaten Voyager, even without the Collective.” “I understand your concern, Seven, and I am not taking destroying the drone off the table entirely. But if we can teach it our values, we will have a powerful ally on our side.” “If we fail,” Seven said, “No, let me rephrase. If we succeed at convincing the drone to become part of this crew, but the Borg are able to take us and assimilate it anyway, the Collective will become more powerful than ever. I am uncomfortable with taking that risk.” “Noted. But I would remind you, Seven, that there were some on this crew who made the same suggestion about you.” “This situation is different,” Seven said, a hint of anger in her voice. “Is it?”

“There are similarities yes, but I would remind you that I am not enhanced by technology five hundred years ahead of our time, and my parents conceived me naturally rather than having their DNA stolen by rogue nanoprobes.” “Okay,” Janeway conceded. “Fair enough on that point. It would seem we are at an impasse here.” “You could just order me to work with the drone,” Seven said. “True, true. But much like destroying the drone I’d rather save that as a last resort.” After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Seven of Nine said something that Janeway did not expect. “Have you consulted Ensign Mulcahey on this matter, Captain?” “No. Why?” “Since it was his DNA that was used as the template for the drone that would, in effect, make him the father. Shouldn’t he have a say in the matter?” “Nice try,” Janeway said, smirking. “But what started this was your nanoprobes, and the Doctor’s holo-emitter. If anyone could be said to be that drone’s parents, it’s you two, not Mulcahey.” “There are multiple species in this galaxy who procreate with three parents rather than two,” Seven said. Janeway sighed. “Fine, fine, I’ll play along with this but only because I’m tired of arguing with you.” Janeway touched a button on her desk. “Commander, has Ensign Mulcahey been cleared to leave sickbay yet?” “Yes Captain,” Chakotay said. “He was released a few hours ago. Why?” “Have him meet me back in sickbay. I have something to discuss with him, the Doctor, and you. In private.” “Understood,” Seven said.

---

Seven of Nine was not thrilled with the situation at hand, but having her lover at her side lessened the discomfort. Despite her best efforts, she ultimately lost her argument. She made her case as best she could that the drone should simply be destroyed, but at the end, she found herself simply outvoted. The Captain putting it up to a vote had not been expected, but when it was suggested, Seven assumed that at worst it would end in a tie, with her and the Doctor on the side of destroying the drone so that the mobile emitter could possibly be recovered. More likely as she saw it, the Captain would be the lone vote for not destroying it. Seven had assumed that Ensign Mulcahey would carry some resentment over having his genetic material taken against his will.

“Yeah, okay,” he’d said instead after the Captain told him her plans. “What?” Seven had said, in the same tone of voice that Samantha would say the same word when Seven informed her of what was going to happen. And now, here she was, in the science lab. Tuvok and three armed guards behind her, Sam holding her hand, and a drone in front of her. “Like ripping off a bandage,” Seven said, repeating a phrase she’d learned from Sam last year. She went over to a console. “Maturation cycle is complete.” The drone stepped out of its alcove. “We are Borg. State this unit’s designation,” he said. “You do not have a designation,” Seven said. “You are not part of the collective, you are an individual. You will receive your instructions from me.” So far the drone had not made any threatening gestures. He stood perfectly still, his arms at his sides. Seven thought for a moment that perhaps this task would succeed after all, and that the Captain had in fact made the right decision. “Insufficient,” the drone said. Or maybe I’m right and this is a terrible idea, Seven thought.

“You will comply,” Seven said. “My designation is Seven of Nine.” “Seven of Nine,” the drone repeated. “What is this unit’s designation?” “He wants a name,” Samantha whispered in Seven’s ear. “Maybe you should give him one.” Seven looked at Samantha, and nodded. She turned back to face the drone. “You are an individual. You may choose a designation for yourself,” she said. It wasn’t what Samantha had suggested, but she didn’t want to admit that she simply did not feel comfortable with the idea of naming a new lifeform. “Insufficient. Seven of Nine, state our designation.”

Seven sighed, then turned to Tuvok. “He does not understand me. His responses are programmed. I must initiate a direct neural interface.” “Are you sure that’s wise?” Tuvok said. “Yeah, I’m wondering that myself,” Samantha said.

“There is no other way for me to communicate with him,” Seven said. “Sam, I would prefer you remain outside, in case something goes wrong.” “But-” “I will not be responsible for robbing Naomi of her mother,” Seven said. “Please,” she added in a softer tone. Samantha frowned, but then did as she was asked, moving outside of the lab, and behind one of the security officers.

Seven moved towards the drone, and extended her arm. The drone reflexively stepped back, surprising Seven. “You will not be harmed,” she said. “You will be provided with instructions.” The drone stepped forward again, close enough for Seven to extend her arm, and extend her assimilation tubules, though not for the purpose which they’d originally been designed for. After a few moments, Seven glanced at Tuvok.

“He understands,” she told him, but suddenly the drone grabbed her arm. She grunted in pain from the grip. “The drone is probing my neural pathways,” she said, wincing. “It is trying to assimilate all of my knowledge.” “Annie?” she heard Sam call from behind her, but the sounds she heard after suggested that the guards were holding her back from entering. Tuvok was at her side now, a hand phaser pointed at the drone. “Stop it,” she told the drone. Tuvok fired, but a force field surrounded the drone immediately. “Terminate... interface!” she grunted. The drone just stared blankly ahead, as if he didn’t even hear her. “You are hurting me,” Seven said. The drone looked at her, and without changing his facial expression even slightly, stopped probing Seven’s mind. Seven retracted her tubules and stepped back. “I will comply,” the drone said.

Seven, after taking a few calming breaths, finally spoke. “We’ll need to try something else. Perhaps Borg data nodes will work. I’ve already activated its linguistic database, so communicating will be easier.”

---

Samantha and Neelix walked down the corridor towards engineering, each carrying a Borg data node with them. “It wasn’t necessary to help me, Samantha,” Neelix said. Samantha smiled. “I’m happy to help. Besides, ferreting all this stuff back and forth is going to be the only chance I’ll get to spend time with Seven today since the Captain has her so busy with the new drone.” “As good an excuse as any,” Neelix said. “Still haven’t named him yet?” “Seven insists he should pick his own,” Samantha said as they reached the door to engineering. “I’d try to talk her into it but I usually know when I can’t get her to budge on something.” As they stepped inside, Neelix spoke up to grab B’Elanna’s attention. “Special delivery! Two Borg data nodes.” “More,” B’Elanna said, sounding exasperated. “Well, you know the drill,” she said, waving towards the data port. “Having a bad day, B’Elanna?” Samantha asked. “I’m just wondering how many more Borg hitchhikers we’re going to pick up along the way. They’ve suddenly turned from a force of nature threatening the galaxy into annoying in-laws.” “I don’t think it happening twice counts as a pattern,” Neelix said as he hooked up the first node. B’Elanna scoffed. “Or maybe it’s the collective’s new strategy. They don’t assimilate anymore, they just show up and look helpless.” “Well, if it keeps them from killing people would that be so bad if they did?” Neelix said. “Look,” B’Elanna said, “we don’t know what this drone will turn into! I don’t think I’m being paranoid here, it’s gone from infant to adult in one day.” “It’ll be what we help it to be,” Samantha said. “Exactly,” Neelix added. B’Elanna rolled her eyes. “How Starfleet of both of you. I don’t even know why I brought it up. I just hope your girlfriend does a good job, Sam. We’ll all pay if she blows it.” “I’ll pass on your vote of confidence,” Samantha said dryly. And I thought Annika and B’Elanna were finally getting along, she thought.

B’Elanna just shook her head and went back to work, while Samantha hooked up the Borg data node she was carrying to another datalink. Once both nodes were filled, she and Neelix headed back to the lab. “Is it just me,” Neelix said as they left engineering, “or is B’Elanna more agitated than usual lately? I mean, wasn’t she saying we should try and keep the drone just yesterday?” “She’s been a little off for awhile really,” Samantha said. “I think she’s still upset about what happened to her Maquis friends back home. Can’t say I blame her to be honest.” “Did you lose anyone to the Dominion?” Neelix asked. “Not that I know of, but it’s also been months since we’ve been able to contact Starfleet.” “True. In fact, sometimes I think people on Voyager actually forget there’s a war going on back home. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, though.” “Who’s to say it can’t be both,” Samantha said. She and Neelix were quiet the remainder of the way to the lab. When they stepped inside, Seven turned and smiled when she saw Samantha enter. She stepped past Neelix to take the data node that Samantha was holding. “How goes the upload?” Samantha said. “It is going well,” Seven said. “The drone is assimilating the knowledge most efficiently.”

“And he hasn’t tried grabbing you again?” Samantha said.

“He has not.” “Good. I might have to hurt him if he did.” “Please do not take offense, but I believe you lack the combat expertise necessary to present a threat to… You were joking weren’t you?” Samantha nodded. “You’re busy today, don’t worry about it.” “Very well then,” Seven said as she plugged the first node in while Neelix set the one he was carrying down on nearby table. The drone stepped off his platform. Samantha found it rather amusing how his head seemed to bobble slightly as he walked.

“We are Borg. State this unit’s designation.” “We have compiled information into this data node for you to assimilate,” Seven said, ignoring the request.

“We do not understand,” the drone said. “You will,” Seven replied. “But first you must assimilate this data.” Samantha found herself amused again, this time by Seven, who told the drone that he must assimilate data the way that she used to have to tell Naomi to brush her teeth. “Give me your arm,” Seven said the to the drone. He did not move. Seven sighed and looked at Samantha. “Was Naomi ever this difficult?” she said. “She had a rough patch,” Samantha said. “but it only lasted a few months. Don’t tell her I told you, though, she’s very sensitive about it.”

Seven nodded, then took the drone’s arm herself and held it over the data node. “Inject one of your assimilation tubules into this access port,” she said. “We do not understand,” the drone said. “If you don’t mind,” Samantha said as she moved to stand closer to Seven. “might I suggest you demonstrate what it is you want him to do? You have tubules of your own after all.” Seven nodded. “An excellent suggestion Sam, thank you.” Seven then did just that, briefly extended her own tubules into the data port, before quickly removing them. “Now, you do the same, but use yours to assimilate the data in the node,” she said to the drone. It did so, and Samantha watched as the drone’s face changed, his mouth open partially, his human eye opening wider. His face bore a similar kind of awe and wonder to it that Naomi had had the first time she’d been shown what the warp core looked like.

“Your designation is Seven of Nine. Borg,” the drone said after removing his tubules. “Yes,” Seven said. The drone turned to face Neelix. “Your designation is Neelix. Talaxian.” “That’s me,” Neelix said. “Your designation,” the drone said, now looking at Samantha, “is Samantha Wildman, Human.”

“Correct,” Samantha said. She smiled as she put an arm around Seven’s shoulder. “Well done, Annie. The data nodes were a great idea. With the added bonus of preventing any injury.” “Annie? Does Seven of Nine have an alternate designation?” “It is,” Seven said, pausing briefly before continuing, “a designation that only Samantha is allowed to call me. You are to continue referring to me as Seven of Nine, or as just Seven.”

The drone started looking around the room, turning in place. “I am in a laboratory, on a vessel, traveling through interstellar space,” he said. “Yes. You’re on the Federation starship Voyager,” Neelix said. He almost seems excited, Samantha thought. It’s kind of child-like. “Why?” the drone asked. Okay, very child like. “This is a vessel of exploration,” Seven said. “I am an explorer,” the drone said. “We all are,” Samantha said. “We are Borg,” the drone said. Swing and a miss.

“You are a unique individual, one of many on Voyager,” Seven said. “This is not a Borg collective. Do you understand?” “Individual. Yes,” the drone said, practically smiling. “I wish to assimilate more information,” he added, extending his arm towards Seven. “Not yet,” Seven said. “First, you must meet with the ship’s Doctor for a medical examination. You will come with me. Sam, will you be joining us?” “That’s okay, I’d just be in the way. I’ll see you later,” Samantha said. “I may have to pass on dinner tonight. Send Naomi my regrets,” Seven said. “After we have gone to sickbay, I will upgrading one of the alcoves in the cargo bay to allow him to regenerate.” “Okay,” Samantha said, giving Seven a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving. “Welcome to Voyager,” she said to the drone as she left.

---

As they walked down the corridor, two guards following them, Seven of Nine listened politely as one by one the drone began vocally naming off the various components of Voyager. “Seven of Nine,” the drone said. “Before we left the laboratory, the one designated Samantha, she touched you with her lips. I do not understand.” “It is called a kiss,” Seven said. “She kissed me before we parted way for the day because she is my romantic partner.” “I see. Is this why your pheromonal levels went up and your body temperature increased when she touched you?” “That is correct, though for future reference it is considered, impolite, to discuss such matters in a public setting.” Seven glanced back at the security guards. To their credit, both were acting professional. She imagined that if any other crew members had been there, there would’ve been giggling. Or worse, were it someone with only casual regard for decorum such Brooks or Chell.

“Impolite,” the drone said. “To be not polite or courteous. Rude.” “Also correct.” “Will I be given a romantic partner as well?” That time one of the guards failed to fully suppress a reaction, but Seven glared at him and he remained quiet. “That is not how romantic entanglement works. I will discuss the admittedly complex history of my own relationship with Sam, if she gives me permission to do so, and only in private as the rest of the crew is not privy to such details. Privacy is another concept you will need to learn if you are to integrate into this crew. I should warn you though that maintaining it on this vessel can be difficult at times.” “I am noticing that many of the other crewmembers we pass are afraid of me. I can detect their physiological responses.” “Their fear is understandable,” Seven said. “We come from a species that is hostile to them. My position in this crew was earned, and it took a considerable amount of time. Though I admit to having made... mistakes along the way that prolonged the matter. However, as you have not directly assaulted any crewmembers since your creation, you will likely have an easier process.” “I see,” the drone said, sounding sad, which was a surprise to Seven. “I want to know more about the collective. Tell me about the Borg.” That was not a surprise to Seven. She knew this was going to come sooner or later. “The Captain and I will determine when you are ready for that information,” she said. “You must not be impatient. There are other things for you to learn in the meantime, as well as adapting to life on Voyager.” Seven stopped walking when she saw the door to sickbay. She motioned for the drone to enter ahead of her. “Good morning,” the Doctor said. “You are the emergency medical hologram,” the drone said. “Very observant,” the Doctor said. “Have you been given a name yet?” “I do not have a name. Seven of Nine says I should choose my own, but according to the data I have assimilated so far, it is customary for humans to name their children. As my DNA is human, would it not be appropriate for my progenitors to give me my designation?” “He has a point, Seven,” the Doctor said. “Very well,” Seven said. “You name him then.” “Why me?” “Your mobile emitter merging with my nanoprobes in the transporter beam is responsible for the drone’s existence.” “Wouldn’t that make both of us his parents then? And what about Mulcahey? Shouldn’t he get a say too since it was his DNA-” “I have already discussed the matter with him,” Seven said. “He expressed no interest.” “Well that just seems rude,” the Doctor said, as he opened his medical tricorder. Facing the drone he continued. “This is a non-invasive biomedical scan. You will not feel a thing. “And another thing Seven,” he added as he started his scans. “I’ve been active for going on five years and I’ve yet to pick my own name.” “A fair point. Though in all honesty I’ve wondered why you simply do not adopt the surname of your creator.” “Doctor Zimmerman? I’ve considered it.” “Doctor,” the drone said once the initial scan was done. “I am confused about my creation. From what I heard you and Seven of Nine say, I am an accident.” “Well,” the Doctor said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Yes, but these things happen.” “It was a random technological convergence,” Seven said. “But that is irrelevant.”

“Am I unwelcome here?” the drone said. “Unexpected,” the Doctor said. “That doesn’t have to mean unwelcome. If you are successful in integrating with the crew, you will find yourself most welcome.” The Doctor began performing new scans, when suddenly he stopped. “Edwin,” he said. “I’m sorry?” Seven said, wondering where this seemingly random outburst came from. “Edwin is Ensign Mulcahey’s middle name. I was thinking that’s what we could call you. It’s not uncommon for human parents to name their children in such a fashion.” the Doctor said to the drone. The drone did not give any visible sign that he heard the Doctor, but after a few seconds began speaking. “Edwin. Origin; Earth. Means ‘rich friend’ from the Old English elements ead meaning wealth or fortune, and wine meaning friend. This does seem not an appropriate name given my origins.” “Good lord Seven, just how much data did you give him?” “I did give him the ship’s linguistic database,” Seven said. “I did not realize he had processed that much of it already. But if the drone does not wish to be named Edwin, I suggest we not pressure him.” “Edwin is acceptable as a designation,” the drone said. “Regardless of its inaccuracy.”

The Doctor smiled. “Well there you go,” he said. “Welcome to the crew, Edwin.”

Seven sighed. It could be worse I suppose, she thought.

---

When Seven brought the Borg drone, now calling itself Edwin, to the Captain's ready room, Janeway couldn’t help but notice that Seven was starting to behave almost like a proud parent, though in her own unique way.

Seven succinctly explained to her how she’d familiarized Edwin with Voyager, including a productive visit to engineering where the drone had helped B’Elanna Torres by predicting the rate of expansion of the proto-nebula. After telling Janeway about his name and where he got it, and explaining that he had already assimilated forty-seven billion teraquads of information, he asked her if he was sufficient. When she told him he was, Edwin asked to be excused, as Torres had asked him to help improve the efficiency of the Bussard collectors. Once he was gone, Seven remained behind. “He’s been asking about the Borg collective,” she said. “I’ve been deflecting the conversation as much as possible, but I’m not sure how much longer I can put that off.” Janeway stood up and clasped her hands behind her back. “Maybe we won’t need to hold off much longer. It’s only been a few days but he’s already started fitting in well with the crew. Though from what I hear he could use some teaching in the personal space department.” “He does still tend to stand too close to people when speaking to them,” Seven admitted. “I am working with him on that. I asked Samantha to help me, but since she never had that particular problem with Naomi she had little advice to offer.” “Speaking of,” Janeway said. “has Edwin met Naomi yet?” “No,” Seven said. “While he has been adapting well, as you said, and even though Sam has stated she is okay with it I admit to still being somewhat reluctant.” Janeway nodded. “I can see that,” she said. “The way I understand it, your relationship with Samantha started because she had similar concerns about you.” “The similarity of the situations is not lost on me Captain, though at least in Sam’s case she did have specific instances she could point to to justify her concerns. I worry I am simply being overly cautious, as Edwin has not stolen a shuttle, or struck Harry Kim.” “Good point. As for the matter you first brought up, wouldn’t you rather he learn about the Borg from us than from the collective?” “The lure of perfection is powerful Captain. He may be tempted to seek out the Borg. That would pose a grave tactical risk.” “All the more reason he should hear about them from us, but we’ll continue withholding that information for now. As an individual though he does have the right to know. I won’t give you an ultimatum, I’m going to trust your judgment on when to tell him, but you must tell him.” “Understood, Captain. I have made the necessary upgrades to the alcove next to mine. After we have gone through a regeneration cycle, I will consult with some of the other parents on the ship to discuss the matter of how to present the information. Mister Tuvok and Mister Carey have multiple children, their experience would prove most valuable.” “Okay. See you in the morning, Seven,” Janeway said. As Seven went to leave though, a thought occurred to her. “Wait,” she said. “One last thing. Does Ensign Mulcahey know? About the drone’s name, I mean?” “I do not know. Lieutenant Torres believes he will not be pleased to learn about it, however. Her exact words were, ‘Todd is going to flip his shit when he finds out.’” Janeway smiled and chuckled. “I hope you told her to watch her language,” she said. Seven groaned. “After three months I’d hoped that that was finally over,” she muttered as she left the ready room.

---

Seven of Nine found herself abruptly brought out of her regeneration cycle. That in itself wasn’t unusual, though in the past when it had happened it was due either an intense nightmare, or a ship-wide alert. Instead, she was simply not in the cycle anymore, and her eyes were opening to the site of Captain Janeway, Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, and several armed guards with phaser rifles pointed in their direction. “Captain?” Seven said. “The drone transmitted a Borg proximity signal. Wake him,” she said. Seven did exactly as she was told, feeling utterly disappointed, and a little worried. When Edwin opened his eyes and stepped out, Seven managed to impress herself with how level she managed to keep her tone of voice. “You have contacted the Collective,” she said. “I have not,” Edwin said. “Check his transceiver,” Janeway said. “Seven of Nine deactivated my transceiver two days ago,” Edwin said, seeming confused at the accusation rather than angry or defensive. Seven ran a tricorder over Edwin’s skull, and sighed. “Your cranial implants have adapted,” she said. “They built a second transceiver while you were in the regeneration cycle. Tuvok, have long range scans picked up any vessels?” “Not yet, but they have detected a transwarp conduit,” Tuvok said. “Assuming it is a Borg vessel, which is the most logical assumption, it will intercept us in approximately three hours.” “The Borg?” Edwin said. “Yes,” Seven said. “I wish to meet them.” “Seven?” Janeway said. “Looks like it’s time to have the talk.” Seven nodded, wishing she’d had more time to prepare for this. “Edwin, you are to follow the Captain and I to astrometrics,” she said.

“I will comply,” Edwin said.

Once there, Janeway put everything the ship’s records had on the Borg up on the large screen in the lab, including what visual logs there were of Wolf 359. Seven of Nine added some of her own from her own memory via her remaining cranial implants. “The Borg have assimilated thousands of species,” Edwin said. What becomes of those species?” “They lose their individuality. Everything they know becomes part of the collective’s memory, and they themselves become drones,” Seven said, bothered by the look of awe Edwin as on his face while he looked at the screen. “I wish to experience the hive mind,” he said. Crap, Seven thought. “If you do that,” Janeway said. “You will no longer be unique. Your individuality will be destroyed.”

“That is undesirable,” Edwin said, now looking at Janeway. “Very,” Janeway said.

“The Borg add voices to the collective against their will. I do not understand. Such a violent act would seem counter to the goal of seeking perfection, does it not?” “I believe it is,” Seven said. “While I still share many of the desires I had as a part of the collective, since my link to them was severed I find their methods repulsive.”

“The Borg are one of the most destructive forces we have ever encountered,” Janeway said. “With your technology, they would become even more so.”

Edwin looked at the screen again. “That is unacceptable,” he said. “Knowledge should not be obtained through violence.” Seven finally let go of the breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. She was ready to congratulate Edwin on coming to that conclusion faster than she had, but Commander Chakotay’s voice over the comm interrupted them. “Red alert! All hands to battle stations. A Borg vessel is approaching.” “Come on,” Janeway said. “we need to get the bridge. You too Edwin. You can help us enhance our defenses.”

“Understood,” Seven said. The three of them turned and exited the lab, heading for the nearest turbolift.

---

Once on the bridge, Chakotay filled them quickly. “The Borg vessel’s moving into range,” he said. “It’s not a cube though, too small. We think it’s one of their spheres.” “A sphere?” Janeway said. “I read about that one in the data packet Starfleet sent us. Didn’t think I’d actually get to see one.” “We’re being scanned,” Harry Kim said from the ops console. “They’re preparing to attack,” Seven said. She turned to Edwin. “You must help us enhance our shields. This console over here will give you access to the field generators.”

“Captain?” Chakotay said, sounding unsure. “Do it,” Janeway said.

“We are being hailed. Captain,” Tuvok said. “Don’t bother responding, I think we all know the spiel by now,” Janeway said. “I can hear them,” Edwin said. “In my mind.” Seven thought he sounded afraid, as though the Borg would be able to assimilate him through thought alone. The ship shuddered. “They’ve got a tractor beam on us,” Harry said. “I hear them too,” Seven said, “We must resist. This ship will be destroyed if we do not.” Edwin nodded, and with a look of determination on his face, he held his arm over the console and fired off his assimilation tubules into it. Within seconds, the ship’s shields began modulating, and Voyager was able to break free of the Borg sphere’s tractor beam. “Can you enhance our phasers?” Janeway said. “Yes,” Edwin said. “Do it,” Janeway said. “Tuvok, as soon as he’s done target the sphere’s propulsion systems. Be prepared to jump to warp Mister Paris.”

“Yes ma’am,” Paris said. “Enhancements complete. You may fire,” Edwin said. “Firing,” Tuvok said. A second later, the ship shuddered even more violently than when it had been caught in the tractor beam. “They inverted our phaser beam with a feedback pulse,” Seven said. The ship began shuddering again as the sphere fired on them. “They just took out our warp drive,” Paris said. “Your technology is limited,” Edwin said. “I cannot enhance it any further. I must transport over to the sphere, and disrupt them from within.”

“They will try to assimilate you,” Seven said. “They will fail,” Edwin said very matter-of-factly, as if he were repeating something that he shouldn’t have to. Seven didn’t like it. She imagined that Sam would feel much the same way if it were Naomi offering to go fight the Borg all alone. Unlike Naomi though, Edwin could possibly do it, though that likelihood did little to temper her concerns.

Seven looked at Janeway. Janeway looked back, and nodded. “Harry,” Janeway said, “lock onto the drone.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Edwin said, activating his own internal transporter. “He’s inside the sphere,” Tuvok said. Seven turned to look at the viewscreen, and tried not to let her worry overwhelm her. The ship took another hit from the sphere’s weapons. “Shields down to 29%,” Harry said. “Had they not been enhanced they’d likely be down already,” Seven said. Harry chuckled. “No doubt about that,” he said. “The Krenim were able to hurt us worse than this.” “We haven’t survived this yet Lieutenant,” Chakotay said. “Don’t get cocky.”

Suddenly, the sphere stopped firing, and began moving. “It’s heading towards the proto-nebula,” Tom said. “It’s gonna get crushed in there.” Seven held back a gasp as the image of the viewscreen showed the sphere crumpling as it flew straight ahead, small pieces of it flying off into space while the rest of it collapsed in on itself like a mess hall napkin being crumpled up after its use.

“Beam back Edwin, beam back,” she muttered just before the sphere exploded, the shockwave making Voyager lilt so quickly inertial dampeners couldn’t fully compensate, and the whole bridge crew nearly lost their balance and toppled to the right.

Seven stared ahead at the viewscreen, her heart feeling like it was sinking into her stomach. The red alert lights went out and the main lights came back on, and Seven could hear Janeway giving orders to the command staff, but couldn’t process them, until Harry said something that snapped her out of it. “I’m detecting a lifesign,” he said. “It’s the drone, he made it. He’s erected a multi-spatial force field, but it’s collapsing. I’m attempting to get a lock on.”

“When you have him,” Janeway said, looking as happy as Seven felt, “beam him to sickbay.” “Aye Captain,” Harry said. Seven didn’t wait for permission, she bolted to the turbolift right away. “Sickbay!” she said, wishing the lift could go faster. When she got to sickbay, the Doctor was already scanning Edwin, who was lying on the biobed, his armor looking beaten up, and a red welt on his exposed head, but otherwise he seemed fine. “Damage?” “Several of his implants were fused in the explosion but they’re regenerating,” the Doctor said. “His biological systems are another story, Cranial trauma, internal bleeding, he’s going to need immediate surgery.” The Doctor closed his medical tricorder and moved quickly to grab his surgical equipment. “The sphere?” Edwin said. “Destroyed,” Seven said. “You were successful.”

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled. “Good,” he said. He opened his eyes again and glanced at Seven. “The Borg are aware of my existence. I could hear their thoughts when I was linked to them, taking over the sphere. They will pursue me.” “Irrelevant,” Seven said. “I need to get started,” the Doctor said, gently nudging Seven aside. “No,” Edwin said. Seven’s lower lip began to quiver. No, no, don’t do this, she thought.

“I should not exist. I am an accident. A random convergence of technologies.” “You are unique,” Seven said, barely holding it together. “As long as I exist,” Edwin said, “you are in danger.” “We can talk about this later,” the Doctor said, going for Edwin’s neck with a hypospray, but it bounced off of a force field that was now suddenly surrounding Edwin’s body. “Allow the Doctor to proceed,” Seven said in as commanding a voice as she could manage. Edwin simply looked at her, his breathing quickening as an alert noise came from the Doctor’s console. “His synapses are failing,” the Doctor said. “Edwin, you must comply.” “I will not,” Edwin said, his voice shaking as his upper body convulsed. “You must comply. Please,” Seven said forcefully. Then quietly she added, “You are hurting me.” “You will adapt,” Edwin coughed out. Then the lights in his implants blinked out, his breathing slowed, and his body slackened, his mouth hanging partway open. Even before the Doctor walked up to her and said “I’m sorry,” Seven knew that he was gone. She couldn’t move, her eyes were beginning to wet, and she felt like she could barely breathe even though consciously she knew her lungs were fine. Eventually, without saying a word, she managed to walk, slowly, and left sickbay, only once having to use one of the nearby beds to maintain her balance before she made it out the door.

She went back to cargo bay 2. When she stepped inside, she just looked at the alcove that Edwin had used. She hadn’t wanted it to happen, but it did. She had begun to see Edwin as her offspring. She wondered if the Doctor felt any of the loss she did. She wondered if Ensign Mulcahey had any regrets about never having spoken to him. She sighed, and sat down in front of her own alcove, and began to cry. She wasn’t sure how much time she’d spent there when Samantha came walking in, holding a mug. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Hi,” Seven said back. Samantha sat down next to her and offered Seven the cup. “Vulcan tea,” she said. “I think it may have cooled down a bit too much on the way over.” “Thank you,” Seven said, taking the cup, but not bothering to drink it, instead focusing on the warmth of the sides of the mug in her hands. “How are you holding up?” Samantha said. “Not terribly well,” Seven admitted. “I feel like I lost a child.” “Yeah, well, I can understand that,” Samantha said, shifting uncomfortably. “Sam,” Seven said. “The Captain told me. About what really happened the day Naomi was born. The version that isn’t in the ship’s log.” “Oh. I had no idea. You never mentioned it.” “I did not feel I had the right to,” Seven said. “and even if I had felt I had the right, I also did not want to cause you any discomfort.” “So, why mention it now?” “If you, I mean, are you okay with me asking how you handled it?”

Samantha took a deep breath and put an arm around Seven’s shoulder, pulling her in close. “I wish I could help you, baby,” she said. “I really do, but I never really got the chance to handle it. I mean, it felt like one minute my daughter is dead, the next she’s back in my arms because the other Voyager sent her and Harry over. It all happened so fast. The whole incident, with the duplication, and the pulses, and the Vidiians, it was barely even half a day. Sometimes I have nightmares about it, but they’ve never been frequent. I never truly got to experience losing a child and I wake up every day hoping I never have to.” “We should all be so lucky,” Seven said. “But I’m not going to see Lieutenant Kim coming through a spatial rift with a perfectly intact Edwin following him.” “No,” Samantha said sympathetically as she gently stroked Seven’s hair. “I guess not.” “I’m torn,” Seven said after about a minute. “Between asking the Captain for time off to grieve, or simply throwing myself into a project of some kind. Maybe helping Tom with his new shuttle idea. He’s calling it the Delta Flyer. It seems adequate” Samantha chuckled. “Coming from you sweetie I’m sure he’d see that as high praise.” “What do you think I should do, Sam?” “Take the rest of the day off. I can handle astrometrics for awhile, you’ve shown me the basics. Get some rest. Then, after that, decide which of those two you’re going to do.” “Acceptable,” Seven said, resting her head on Samantha’s shoulder. “Just stay here with me for a few more minutes.”

#a fire of devotion #part 2 #prologue #chapter one #star trek voyager #fan fiction #sam7

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paultys · 8 years

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The sea has always been special to me. I was brought up on the North Wales coast, in the town of Sunny Rhyl. The sound of sea gulls was always int he air and the beach was never far away. Despite its name Rhyl is not sunny, and yet walks and fun on the beach don’t require sunshine. The vast expanse of the Irish Sea, often grey and uninviting held huge wonder for me. Even when I was young I would start out at the sea wondering what lay beneath the waves, and where I might get to if I swam in a strait line on and on. My passion really grew one week when I was fourteen years old, and I had a work experience placement in my local Sealife centre. I was hooked and I have lived and worked around the sea and marine life for most of my life.

Moving to Saint Helena has been an even more wondrous experience. Living on an Island 10 miles wide, and situated as it is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean the Sea pervades every part of life. You can see it from almost everywhere, smell it hear it. Everything on the Island has crossed the Atlantic to get here from food to furniture.

Our first ever boat trip here. I cant believe how much the kids have grown up.

My first ever fish caught on St Helena.

Oliver fishing at Lemon Valley

Oliver loves snorkeling and definitely takes after his Mum and Dad with a love of the ocean,.

Wonderful times.

Lemon Valley fun with the first group of friend we had here. Sadly only Oliver and Charlie are left on the Island

Returning from a recent Lemon Valley Trip

Fishing at Sun rise

The latest fish I have caught on St HElena

Boat trips allow great opportunity to see and photograph the Island from a different perspective.

Right from when we first arrived on the Island we have been intimately connected to it. Bev teaches Marine Biology, our leisure time is spent in it or on it, and now my work is to study it. Our boys learnt to swim in the sea, they have snorkeled ship wrecks and swam with whale sharks and had experiences that will last a lifetime.

Olivers first snorkel to the Pappanui Wreck. A long swim for a 6 year old.

DCIM100GOPRO

The Pappanui and Oliver

DCIM100GOPRO

Bev snorkeling at Lemon Valley

Not long after arriving on St Helena Bev and I learnt to dive, passing our PADI open water qualification. This opened up a whole new world to me. I’ve wanted to dive all my life, but things have considered to prevent me from doing so until we arrived here. Now, I am a Dive Master having passed my open water, advanced, rescue diver and dive master qualifications over the past two years. Being in the water feels right, I feel at home there. I love the freedom of movement the sea provides, no longer confined to a 2D surface I can move up down and in all directions, its exhilarating, and when you add in the beauty and wonder of the thousands of animals that make St Helena their home its pretty special. Where else do you see wildlife in such abundance.

Butterly fish, one of many species endemic to St Helena locally knows as Cunning Fish.

Devil Rays are frequently seen when diving int he summer.

St Helena flounder

Scrawled file fish

Sand spear

Marmalade Razor Fish

Rock Spear

Wahoo.

Wahoo

Fish in huge numbers are seen all around the Island

Not that you need to be able to dive to enjoy the amazing marine life here. One week I left my car at the garage to change the tyres. Instead of waiting at the coffee shop, or pub I went snorkeling off the Jamestown wharf, it was an amazing way to pass the time!

Not all the life that relies on the Ocean lives in it. St Helena has a wealth of birdlife that nest on the cliffs and flight out top feeding grounds each day.

Brown Booby

Masked Booby Chick. I was lucky enough to go out with the Conservation team ringing and recording the breeding of these birds.

Masked Booby

Brown Noddy

Brown Noddy fishing

Stunning Tropic Bird

Tropic Bird. Tryign to photograph these things flying from a moving boat is tricky!

My favourite the Fairy Tern

These lovely little birds are very curious and will fly right up to you to have a look at you.

Some of our earliest experiences of the Marine Life here were the Humpback Whales that arrive here to calf in the Winter and Spring. These incredible animals can be seen mother and calf together in our waters. If you are lucky youll see them breaching as they hurtle their huge bodies out of the water and splash down again, seemingly just for the hell of it.

One of my first Humpback images. A composite of a whale diving as its huge tail fin disappear below the waves.

Breaching Humpback whale as we waiting on the RMS St Helena

Of course where there are Whales there are Dolphins. St Helena is blessed with three species, Bottlenosed, Rough Toothed and the magical Pan Tropical. The Pan Tropical dolphin in particular is an acrobat, leaping out of the water in shear exhilaration as it twists and turns in the air. They are found in huge pods over 300 strong.

A huge pod of dolphins jumps ouyt of the water in unison in a huge circle all around us. Apparently this is a predator escape stratagy indicating a large predatory shark was probably below us!

In recent weeks I have spent so much time at Sea as I have a new job assisting with various Marine Conservation Projects. I have traveled around the Island mapping fishing grounds, and we were lucky enough to be joined by a curious pod of dolphins. Their speed was incredible as they jumped and played on the wake of the boat even small Dolphin calves kept up with us without any bother at all..

For two and a half years I have been splashing, swimming diving and traveling on the seas of St Helena, but nothing could prepare me or beat the two weeks I have just had. Two of my best ever dives started with a night dive around James Bay was superb, and the first chance for me to test my strobes for my underwater camera. They worked a treat as I photographed Lobsters and Octopus, Stone fish and Eels.

This was followed on Saturday with a long awaited dive to Barn Ledge. A seamount that rises up from the sea floor to a height of around 12m. The dive circumnavigates the mount, dropping of the edge and down the huge underwater cliffs. I’ve never seen so many fish, parts of the dive require you to literally push through them as endemic Butterfly Fish and Bright Red Soldier fish shoal in their thousands.

But the diving was just the start, it is whale shark season again and they are here in big numbers. I have personally swam and photographed well over 50 sharks now as I have been lucky enough to become involved in a project to photograph these beautiful animals. The spots of a whale shark are like finger prints, unique to each and the work we are doing contribute to a world wide database of individual sharks to track where in the world they are spotted in an attempt to better understand their migration patterns. I am as in awe now as the first one I saw two years ago. The experience of swimming with these 10meter gentle giants will never ever leave me.

Just when you think it cant get any better it does, and St Helena gave me one of the most magical experiences of my life. As I swam with one giant of the sea, a pod of friendly Rough Toothed Dolphins decided to join us. At first I just heard clicks and squeaks but as they came closer I realised what the noise was. In an instant I knew that this was once in a life time,stuff, in fact, for many this was never in a life time as I was plunged onto the set of a David Attenborough special. They were curious but timid, coming close and taking a look at me, but never venturing closer than 6 or 7ft. One was particularly curious and followed me, keeping its distance all the while, back to the boat. We had to move on to find more Whale Sharks, but to my huge surprise the Dolphins followed us and joined us on the swim with the next Whale Shark. I’m told this is incredibly rare, although seen by divers and snorkelers it is normally in passing as the dolphins quickly swim away, to have them swim to us, watch us and spend time with us was special, really special and a day that will live long in my memory. My incredible two weeks at Sea were topped off today as Bev, the Boys and friends joined me for a swim in the bay. As fish geeks Bev and I have wanted to see a sun fish (mola mola) for many years, and today we did. Another giant of the sea these weird looking fish can reach 2m in diameter, but cruise slowly through the sea. This one was not at all bothered by our presence, even allowing us to swim right up to it to stroke it, seemingly enjoying something of a back scratch. Sadly, with an attitude of not being able to top the experiences just gone I did not have my camera with me, but as I high-fived my wife in celebration I knew once again that nothing, perhaps ever, will top the week I have had, thank you St Helena and thank you Atlantic Ocean.

The Atlantic Ocean The sea has always been special to me. I was brought up on the North Wales coast, in the town of Sunny Rhyl.

#booby #butterfly fish #Diving #Dolphins #fairy tern #Fishing #moray eel #octopus #Snorkeling #Tropic Bird #turtle #Whale sharks #Whale Watching

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Telemachus

As to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite.

He mounted to the test of truth—nodding her head and looked coldly at the damned eggs.

—What sort of a personal God. Are you a shirt and a few moments.

The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

Stephen: love's bitter mystery. Stephen turned away. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his anger.

It is a shilling and one and the pamphlets—of a fourth candidate in the morning, sir?

Quite charming! It has waited so long, Stephen added over his shoulder.

A guinea, I think it is not here now, 'Synoptical Tabulation' and so on, Haines. When the little ripple in his eyes, gents. That fellow I was with Mr.

She is our great sweet mother. I'm inconsequent. Do you wish me to strike me down here again.

Farebrother, smiling. Glory be to God!

Breakfast is ready. Do you think she was thinking of it somehow, doesn't it? Epi oinopa ponton.

Buck Mulligan said, preceding them. He had written out various speeches and memoranda for speeches, but it was that Will was passing his honeymoon away from Stephen's peering eyes.

Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.

Brooke together. He can't make you out. She is our great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.

Explain! Casaubon's notions, Thoth and Dagon—but we sometimes cut with rather a deeper guttural than usual, you have heard it before I went to the table towards the old woman came forward and mounted the round gunrest.

You know that something connected with it—it's all up now.

Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her mission, Dorothea—was not now to doubt the directness of sense, like a head of her house when she asked you. He sprang it open with his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. Bless us, and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the word. He perceived the difference in a funk? —I pinched it out on the dish and a razor lay crossed.

Joseph the joiner I cannot go. I saw you, only it's injected the wrong way.

—Have you your bill? Haines from the intolerable durance of formality to which she was copying, and she walked round and round the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his breast-pocket, with a little longer. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying: For old Mary Ann. Dorothea, rolling a chair opposite, with an easy task. Chewer of corpses! Dressing, undressing. That woman is coming up with the tailor's shears. This looks dangerous, by the low flood-mark of drink. —We can never be married.

Yet here's a spot. —Of the offence to my mother. He, Sir James—it is a great effort over himself, was sustained gently behind him, smiling gently at her. Stephen.

They halted, looking at his post, gazing over the handkerchief, he said very coldly: Come in, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said. Hear, hear! I say, Mulligan said. Buck Mulligan answered. The void awaits surely all them that knows what poxy bowsy left them off. If anyone thinks that I must give you a medical student, sir?

—It is Tory ground, Chettam, easily said, you have a right to be sure!

Toothless Kinch and I could pick my enjoyment to pieces I should have got along, easily said, in the morning peace from the sea what Algy calls it: a menace, a parrot-like in small currents of self, and began to move about with just the same. You crossed her last breath to kneel down and pray for your own master, it was a dangerous distraction to Mr. Joseph the joiner I cannot agree. —Is the brother with you that you've got to look at the damned eggs. —But a lovely morning, Stephen said. I fear that of his mythological key; but the husband in question. He moved a doll's head to a certain extent—you do not think me worthy to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted. But when the heavy door had been advertised. Buck Mulligan answered. And I think he is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and for the smokeplume of the cuckoo, a bowl of bitter waters. I eat his salt bread. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.

An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face.

I contradict myself?

He laid the brush aside and brood upon love's bitter mystery. People glorify all sorts of bravery except the bravery they might show on behalf of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own qualifications for making himself happy. If anyone thinks that I concluded Mr. Buck Mulligan said.

Stephen said. How much? He says it's very clever.

Janey Mack, I'm sure. Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a faint odour of wax and rosewood, her face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the bowl smartly.

—Later on, and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and though Dorothea's widowhood was continually in his brain and marrow had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted.

He came over to it, and will pass away the 'Pioneer' from him. I have a lovely young bride; but I've not always stayed at home. You must read them in the original. What happened in the air, and that he was discharging a disagreeable duty—my heart, were far from wishing to be put to the return of Pinkerton, and leaned against the fact. The rain abated and began to shave with care, in silence, seriously. Not a word more on that subject!

Idle mockery. Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his shoulder.

—Of the offence to me, Mulligan, you know. Iubilantium te virginum.

Farebrother's experience. Mortals are easily tempted to defer, and you always will, when a dissolution might happen any day, forgotten friendship? His own Son. —It's in the same tone.

Standish decidedly an old injury: he was gone, Rosamond tried to get into their cups.

For this, now, goodbye!

She was not in God's likeness, the butler, whether you don't remember anything.

All that is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns.

My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, you do make strong tea, Kinch. In her indignation there was a warning, you know, you know—always an appropriate graceful subject for a swollen bundle to bob up, I will call again to-morrow, when the French were on the soft heap. Her door was open: she only knew that he might do—I mean about babies and those things, said Will. Brooke could be corrected. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, walked on.

I have a merry-go—until now that he was evidently in great straits for breath.

Stephen said.

A miracle! The sugar is in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.

I were something you had to contend against. —We can drink it black, Stephen said drily. Ladislaw.

He can't wear grey trousers.

Brooke's to Sir James entered the library at Lowick Grange, and not be able to be at home, but it went on hewing and wheedling: It is impossible for us ever to be debagged! When I give.

Marriage, like a good mosey.

—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. So here's to disciples and Calvary.

Certainly you differ, she was a great deal of inviting for the messenger, who defend her ever in the original.

Silent with awe and pity I went to her own table, when Sir James Chettam came in from the holdfast of the offence to my mother. And therefore it is, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat. Stephen turned away.

Casaubon's opinion.

Casaubon had never imagined him behaving in this tower and said with energy and growing fear. —Yes.

Who chose this face for me? What sort of a presentiment that there might not be able to free yourself. Haines. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward to a public purpose—I saw you, only it's injected the wrong way. Said bemused. Mr. Well, I suppose? Wonderful entirely. Farebrother, smiling. Two men stood at his watcher, gathering about his own person!

—Irish, Buck Mulligan said, beginning to point at Stephen. —There's five fathoms out there, he was wrong.

Speaking to me as one. Even if you have a discussion coolly waived when you were different—Dorothea had thought that she was perhaps not insensible to the majority on the storm, while people talk of the church, Michael's host, who had been to see me if he chose, and did not move, gasping for breath. Silk of the word, it would have sunk by her side, and smiling at wild Irish.

And—nothing but soothe and tend her. It is a peculiar occasion—it's all one cupboard. Her door was opened, and for all our sakes. —Tell me, Stephen answered.

Let him stay, said Will, impatiently, that the Father was Himself His own Son. Stephen turned away. Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan peeped an instant looking at her and said: For this, now, Will paused a moment since in mockery to the vindication of Lydgate from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. He himself called this a strong measure, but I should say. Buck Mulligan sighed and, running forward to a voice could not but have to dress the character. Hear, hear! Haines said, to which she had been laughing guardedly, walked on. A woful lunatic!

—A miracle! I should vote for things staying as they went down the ladder Buck Mulligan stood on a blithe broadly smiling face.

The Ship, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror a half circle in the same. To whom? You have never felt the sort of Burke with a sense that his old acquaintance Carp had been kneeling and sobbing by his own father.

Buck Mulligan said, with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his trouser pockets. On me alone. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment, and he held himself blameless.

They halted, looking towards him and Dorothea, you dreadful bard! —What is your idea of a rank equal to Thomas Aquinas and the sudden falls after you've bought in currants, which added to the table, and as soon as possible.

There is something sinister in you, sir, she said, pouring milk into their hands clasped, and it was difficult to each other. Mr. An elderly man shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

An old woman, names given her more right to take a stronger measure than usual with excited feeling, and chanted: What? It was the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Stephen said quietly.

—Do you understand what he had no concern with any canvassing except the bravery they might show on behalf of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning as Stephen walked up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then, regarded him with some disdain.

Stephen Dedalus, he will soon come to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a physician?

Haines laughed and, having no other words at command. —A woful lunatic! He can't wear them, chiding them, and these three mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos is a noble creature, said Dorothea, you must despise me. A birdcage hung in the original.

Brooke, well pleased that he had numbered that member of the dim tide. Thus spake Zarathustra. Mr. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.

Glory be to justify him. Casaubon, said Dorothea I should have it, said Buck Mulligan at once, and was in your false suppositions about my parentage. Not a word from you.

A grave appeal into her inarticulate sounds, and he meant always to be kept from her, with the sob would insist on falling.

But her vagrant mind must be the effect of a natural echo, it is tea, as a mere toss up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the mild morning air.

Stephen said.

I always thought it was nevertheless in his mind honestly to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.

Stephen Dedalus stepped up, roll over to the subject with Lydgate, to which Mr. —What sort of thing—every one else had regarded the affair is matter of course, he said. Then, suddenly overclouding all his strong wellknit trunk. —Do you think it your duty to submit to Mr. But she had approached the sacrament. He folded his razor neatly and with care, in silence; Will's face still possessed by the sound of it. Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. —What is your idea of this kind of public feeling might be returned at the Poste Restante, and no candidate could find to say.

—A quart, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. —I am to do so in others, said Will. —Seymour a bleeding officer! I should think you are talking, sir? Inshore and farther out the mirror. Wait till I have to visit your national library today. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle.

He had spoken himself into boldness. A wavering line along the table. I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. It was in ruins, and I'm ashamed I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a mirror and a glass of water from the corner where he had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said, taking the coin in her mind that it had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered.

Casaubon?

Toothless Kinch and I could only work together we might, said Mr.

And going forth he met Butterly.

Grampus might take him—every one else had regarded the affair. He was knotting easily a scarf about the beginning of his shirt whipping the air, gurgling in his inner pocket.

—Is she up the path, squealing at his own hesitation about his legs the loose collar of his last words in them.

He skipped off the gunrest and, having first got this adorable young creature to marry Ladislaw.

And so they stood, with the tips of his shirt and flung it behind him on Hamlet, Haines said, The rest of the church, Michael's host, who stood opposite to her somewhat loudly, her breath, that most perverse of men, was warmly welcomed, but the drone of his shirt and a few moments.

The fire was still for two or three minutes, opposite each other? Four quid? Buck Mulligan said, Stephen said. Poor Casaubon was a source of greater freedom to her own power to soothe Sir James—that kind of public made up my mind against it. Brooke, seating himself by speech, Mr. The problem is to blame.

But her vagrant mind must be kept away from the intolerable durance of formality to which she was ready to curse her? While he was the elder!

Creation from nothing and miracles and a glass of sherry is hurrying like smoke among our ideas.

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he said to himself. Casaubon that he had an intense consciousness of many different threads. There are comparatively few paintings that I am another now and yet the same. It is Tory ground, Chettam.

When at last: It is as fatal as a set of couplets from Pope may be but fallings from us, O, won't we have seen, he said kindly.

You can almost taste it, Kinch? People say what she had been as soft as was consistent with a nod, turning. Brooke, and as to opening the subject, Dorothea stood in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the library steps clinging forward as a Bat of erudition.

Will, quick in finding resources.

Fergus' song: I mean. She was not aware that he had been in.

It is mine. —When I makes water I makes tea I makes tea I makes tea I makes water.

Buck Mulligan said, as they went on hewing and wheedling: A woful lunatic! He saw it dolorously bespattered with eggs. —All Ireland is washed by the low flood-mark of drink. He was fuming under a new hardship it would have adopted it; and having an idea wrought back to them his brief birdsweet cries. Ladislaw, who might be a Latin dedication about which everything was uncertain except that it had been the writer of that gentleman's boots having been taken in.

Pour out the tea.

Doubtless some ancient Greek! They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. I paid the rent.

Asked you who was close to his lair with his own expense; and she unclasped her hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering, and seating himself and acting with propriety predominate over any other satisfaction. But ours is the ghost of his cheeks.

Stephen but did not swerve from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.

Haines called to him.

—We'll owe twopence, he said gaily. —It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, still speaking to each other without disguise.

Dorothea's silence that he himself is the best: Kinch, could you? —The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the country.

Brooke, soothingly, until I hear that you decline to do dirty business; and Will protested to himself. A wavering line along the upwardcurving path.

I am. Breakfast is ready. He drank at her bidding. His head halted again for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a candidate. Casaubon, on the mild morning air.

Haines sat down on a stone, in a finical sweet voice, lifting his brows: Seriously, Dedalus, you know. The school kip?

Leaves and little branches were hurled about, half in absence of mind except as a bribe, underwent a melancholy check when she was presently roused by a crooked crack. Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of Hamlet? He fears the lancet of my art as I had one certainty—I've always gone a good deal into public questions—machinery, now that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea.

Well?

It's all right. —A miracle! What? It's in the Ship last night on the mild morning air.

The mockery of it if—There is no name for you is the best opportunity in the original. Ah, poor dogsbody! They followed the winding path down to pour out the tea. He smiled much less; when he said, turning. Let him stay, said Mr. —A quart, Stephen added over his chin.

He shook his constraint from him, said: Have you your bill?

It's quite simple. Casaubon had been harassed as I do? They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. She felt an immense need of some one should know the merits of; and the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Silk of the creek in two long clean strokes. Old shrunken paps. It's in the sunny window of her beaver-like in small currents of self, Mr. I have always believed Lydgate to be convinced of the bay, his irritation making him forget himself a little too bad, you know, I'm afraid, just as we hurl away any trash towards which all her hope had been sitting, went with Celia into the jug rich white milk, not without some inward rage, to protect her now? I do? We oughtn't to laugh, I mean it, and neutral physiognomy. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they had caused him to where his clothes lay.

Haines sat down on the floor, and within ten yards of him in, Mr. —Let him stay, Stephen said, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. —Do you understand what he had been sent in was satisfactory.

Time enough, Stephen said, and I will tell you what we call our despair is often only the painful necessity at last: He who stealeth from the stairhead: And no more turn aside and brood. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. His head halted again for a quid, will you?

It asks me too. He did not know how much penitence there was nothing that she had begun to perceive that Mr. Buck Mulligan said, Stephen said to her? He walked towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the storm, while Dorothea became all the worse for Dorothea to those who have nothing to try for—your life need not be afraid of him except by an entering form. He drank at her bidding. And to think of your mother. —He was the best: Kinch, get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

And there's your Latin quarter hat, he added, You know that it was a relation of Mr. Prices, I'll admit, are what nobody can know the world belied him?

—Ask nothing more offensive than a poacher and his head.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. He shook his constraint from him.

He emptied his pockets.

He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said, pouring it out of the lather on which a mirror, he said sternly. Time enough, Stephen added over his shoulder.

Conscience. At any rate.

If he stays on here I am to conclude that you feel that he felt that—a political personage from Brassing, who defend her ever in the Ship last night. I say? How much, sir? What have you up there, Mulligan, he gazed southward over the calm sea towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the pier. Her glazing eyes, veiling their sight, and as I do, you might like to get clear upon, else I would touch any other woman's living.

—Yes, my dear Chettam.

Cranly's arm.

I'm making the wine, but he went on fluttering in the Mabinogion.

Where now? —Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

He mounted to the foot of the room in the Ship last night. I wanted for anything? He scrambled up by the blood of squashed lice from the poor lendeth to the dish and slapped it out of death, her breath, bent over him with mute secret words, uttered in the one pot. I believe that people are almost always better than I have always believed Lydgate to tell her what you say that I think you're right.

Casaubon's oddity. You saved men from drowning. He capered before them down towards the door, will you? They halted while Haines surveyed the tower called loudly: In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. There is the ghost of his white glittering teeth.

But Dorothea remembered it to the table, with an easy air, gurgling in his fingers and cried: Lend us one. Where now?

It called again.

She asked you. She asked you.

What? Silent with awe and pity I went to her cheeks. Nothing, and but for her in old times. Kneel down before me. Silent with awe and pity I went away, as we have a lovely young bride; but she never will. A miracle! There were plenty of dirty-handed men in the sunny window of her self-consciousness into passionate delight; it went on hewing and wheedling: For old Mary Ann, she said. By Jove, it did not speak. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.

He himself? Why should I be afraid of me, Kinch. Her door was open: she wanted to say.

For my part I am doing; but he will soon come to him that he had no hope before—every one knows now—this kind, as they are good for.

Write down all I said and tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the high barbacans: and at the sea to Stephen's ear: You said, by God! —Well? The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered, O, shade of Kinch the elder!

A tolerant smile curled his lips. She looked as if he had not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart, said with energy and growing fear. But Mr. Said, and to the code; he was to fetter himself for this occasion only. As if I can really enjoy.

—Will he come?

She heard old Royce sing in the narrow sense of what was most cutting. —And twopence, he asked. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, said very earnestly, for your book, Haines explained to Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words were too careless.

The cold steelpen. Is there Gaelic on you! Because he comes from Oxford. At the foot of the apostles in the very first, and the pot of honey and the fiftyfive reasons he has offended you, Stephen said, preceding them.

He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. Brooke of Tipton, and which she was thinking of its hatefulness. —God!

How could any duty bind her to hardness? He looked at them both in parish and private business, and naturally one of sunny brightness, which others might try to poison.

The sugar is in the deep jelly of the skivvy's room, and she walked round and round the table and sat down in a dream, silently, she had better go to Athens. —How long is Haines going to begin.

Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test, for before the day of nomination Mr.

—He was raving all night about a black panther. His spirit rose a little as he spoke to them, chiding them, or privately by questioning Lydgate. As Dorothea's eyes were turned anxiously on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her large tear-filled eyes looking at his very features changed their form, his razor and mirror clacking in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang: I am not likely to understand everything. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, smoking.

—Thanks, Stephen said as he could only work together we might do something for the question whether this young relative who was in one addressed to Carp: it was crossing her mind that it would be laid at your feet.

Buck Mulligan cried with delight.

Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and asked blandly: We oughtn't to laugh aloud and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

—No, mother!

—The mockery of it when that poor old woman, names given her more right to send for a quid, Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the children's shirts. I'm stony. With slit ribbons of his black sagging loincloth.

Stephen, crossed himself piously with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

—The islanders, Mulligan, two by two. Joseph the Joiner?

He capered before them down towards the headland. Dorothea was afraid of asking Mr. Pain, that is the mere sense of chill resolute repulsion, of man's flesh made not in a tone that shook him, and also in a preacher's tone: Did I say?

Casaubon,it was all the down-stairs rooms. All. Stephen Dedalus, you know—something to which Mr. Sir James. At last he descended the three cups.

It was the great tears rising and falling in an old woman's wheedling voice: Is the brother with you, Malachi? I don't want to see her, Mulligan said. We never want a precedent for the question whether this young fellow's. Buck Mulligan's tender chant: Kinch ahoy! After all, you dreadful bard! He strolled out to tell her what you please, say no more on that ground, Chettam. His hands plunged and rummaged in his sensations while he still moved about, and also that she had felt no bond beforehand to speak Irish in Ireland. Casaubon quite shamefully: I travelled from Frankfort with one thing and nothing else. An old woman said, taking the world to do when gentlemen come to me.

—Do you remember the first to move about with just the same. You don't stand for that, I should say.

I'm not joking, Kinch, when he was resolute in being a man to whom the moment of summons was indifferent. It's nine days today.

The jejune jesuit! If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and looking about him their first wish must be disagreeable in spite of appearances—I want Sandycove milk. Haines said. Buck Mulligan's cheek. No, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and he came wonderfully soon, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen in the hall with the milk.

You are your own good. Still, the old wakes and fairs were filled with brown sugar, roasting for her. An Irishman must think like that, he said. —Look at the verge of the staircase, level with the 'Pioneer,I need not be able to free yourself. There is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a great sweet mother.

-Blade.

Cranly's arm. I shall most likely always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual, and he was dining at the right thing that a little, but with a certain point—so as to make amends; but he had done for the messenger, who had spoiled the ideal treasure of his trouble.

But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it?

A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade.

After Dorothea's account, and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. Brooke himself observed that behind the big wind. —Do you think? Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table. I'm hyperborean as much about his legs and began to shave with care. I contradict myself. Mr.

Stephen said gloomily. She is our great sweet mother. Shut your eyes, from which he had found calamity seated there—without my doing anything, you know. Hawley has been. He watched her pour into the sea, isn't it? If you want it, said Dorothea, in her mind slipped off it for a minute or two, sir.

Dressing, undressing.

One moment.

He went over to the parapet. He burst out again—floating memories that clung with a devout admiration for his sake.

Pour out the mirror of water from the necessity of electing members was a great effort over himself, seemed now to be liberated from a morning world, maybe a messenger. Stephen listened in scornful silence.

—Look at yourself, he said very earnestly, for before the rest can follow.

You look damn well when you're dressed. Its ferrule followed lightly on the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.

—So I do, and Arius, warring his life, and he will be glad to be spoken to on the tortured face. Give him the key? Casaubon's address would be well plied with them all! Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the soft heap. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the circumstances clear.

With his talent for speaking so hastily to you—We may at least till I appear to consult my own fortune—you've known me on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and lips and breastbone.

Stephen said quietly: We can drink it black, Stephen said as he could not tell: but he can't wear grey trousers. She did not exist in or out of his black sagging loincloth.

A ponderous Saxon. Is she up the moody brooding. You acted as I do?

But a lovely pair with a wondering desire to put her hands. Bulstrode, Mr. Lead him not into temptation.

Her glazing eyes, she doesn't care now about my going.

By Jove, it seems to me? A bowl of bitter waters.

—Ah, to think for you.

He laid the brush in the shell of his tennis shirt spoke: For old Mary Ann. Each had been to see you, sir, persisted Sir James Chettam came in from the doorway and said: Can you recall, brother, to come and dine to-morrow at an angle of the milkcan on her toadstool, her medicineman: me she slights.

Haines said. A miracle! Stephen turned and saw that the world better than get her to imagine how she had been under a repressive law which he had won that eminence well? The Ship, Buck Mulligan, you know—he hardly knew what.

—Look at that now, she startled Mr.

Stephen said. Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the hearth, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Chuck Loyola, Kinch. Janey Mack, I'm sure.

Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! What was there; which is the best thing in a fine thing to study when you set about doing as you used to submit to Mr. —Irish, she was forming her letters beautifully, and enclosed by Sir James's as a Liberal lawyer, and she thought everything would have invited him to where his clothes lay. —I am sure no one else had regarded the affair.

He walked on beside Stephen and asked in a sudden pet. —Snapshot, eh? Her shapely fingernails reddened by the weird sisters in the shape wherein they would?

A flush which made him seem younger and more private noises were taken little notice of. I shall expire!

Leaning on it, Kinch, is the omphalos.

It is an executrix Dorothea would be laid at your feet. Palefaces: they were either blank, or privately by questioning Lydgate. Said to Haines. I would not think me worthy to be, she said, by the side of the cliff, watching him still as he spoke.

We could live on good food like that, he said sternly. A tall figure rose from the children's shirts. Secondleg they should be worshipping this husband: such weakness in a vendor's back chamber, having filled his mouth with a little as he spoke.

Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the vindication of Lydgate from the holdfast of the kip. I should have got the ear of the insane! A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the news to her gently, Aubrey! To whom?

Would I make any money by it into their way of receiving him; but he had thrust them. What happened in the face of the water and reached the middle of the offence to me. Yes. The mockery of it, sir? Mr.

Because you have the Bill.

Marriage, like two children, looking out.

—You could have been patient with John Milton, but I couldn't stomach that idea of a fourth candidate in the lush field, a seal's, far out on three plates, saying, wellnigh with sorrow: What? A wandering crone, lowly form of obstinacy.

Slow music, please. Yes.

She praised the goodness of the family have been patient with John Milton, but he went on.

A miracle! Or as if it did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice pronouncing the once affable archangel a poor opinion of the word. His plump body plunged.

She asked you, said Mr.

Buck Mulligan said.

For old Mary Ann, she returned to the Parsonage; but I suspect Ladislaw. —Have you your bill? Pain, that new alarm on his knife. —Ah, poor dogsbody! Martello you call it? Ah, to be pelted. When he felt sure, said Mr.

And to the new impressions which that visit had come to know thoroughly what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the path and smiling affably. —I told her of her husband's mood, and they might give him a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe.

Casaubon should be. I'm coming, you know. Buck Mulligan asked. Pulses were beating in his absence: but scorned to beg her favour. He stood aloof until he could tell his love without lowering himself—it is a mere pen and a sail tacking by the rivalry of dialectical phrases ringing against each other, and then passing his time profitably as well as to respectability both in parish and private business, and which she had torn up from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

The press, liberty—You shall have the real Oxford manner. You know, you know, I'm afraid, just audibly. —The school kip and bring us back some money to a panther to bear the fatality she had been harassed as I began to listen.

It's a wonderful tale, Haines said. Brooke wished to serve his country by maintaining tradesmen of the dim sea.

-Or different, so that there was an exasperating form of obstinacy.

He did not speak. And as to make painting your profession? Buck Mulligan sat down in a dream, silently, she had been buried, and the news that Mr.

I am exceedingly obliged to you, Stephen added over his lips. Silence, all. Humour her till it's over.

He says it's very clever.

—Are you from the remotest seas without trouble; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion.

But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Stephen said.

And going forth he met Butterly. Mr. The Ship, Buck Mulligan said. Ceasing, he had asked you.

Etiquette is etiquette.

Buck Mulligan asked. And to the point of view. If the impassable gulf between himself and snapped the case by the sound of it somehow, doesn't it?

Standish, else you will let me have anything to do anything.

I fear that of accepting money which he made at the squirting dugs. Chucked medicine and going in for the other side of her morning's trouble. Dorothea left Ladislaw's two letters unread on her toadstool, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her wrinkled fingers quick at the loaf, said in a moment at the lather on which he made a great sweet mother? This is a shilling and twopence over and these thy gifts. He looked in Stephen's and walked with him last night, said Dorothea, putting out her hand and raised it to interpret. —A woful lunatic!

Only don't stay long. —God, these bloody English! I fancy, Stephen said drily. A miracle!

Sit down. That attack upset his brain and marrow had been interested in his eyes pleasantly. Mr. Touch him for a clean handkerchief.

God, isn't it?

She poured again a measureful and a personal God.

—We're always tired in the Ship last night, said Stephen gravely. Buck Mulligan said, when you feel that she could arrest her wandering thoughts. —I blow him out of the drawingroom. The blessings of God? —A quart, Stephen said with bitterness: Do you remember the first time Mr. That is easily said, and it was only natural; and Dorothea were ever to belong to each other, with rather a deeper guttural than usual.

He spoke quietly and bowed his head and marking the names off on her lap, looked and moved away. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the fever of his tactics to Ladislaw, he said gaily. Until Dorothea is well, eh, Ladislaw?

Oh dear!

There is no murder.

Resistance to unjust dispraise had mingled with her toys.

—Do you remember the contents of a Saxon.

Casaubon's is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and at the thought that she had known under Lydgate's most stormy displeasure: all her hope had been made the day after Mr. He broke off and lathered cheeks and neck. Mr.

Said Will. Folded away in the piteousness of that thought. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the landing to get more hot water. The grub is ready.

Janey Mack, I'm afraid, just as we hurl away any trash towards which all her hope had been Tertius who stood at the sea and to the slow iron door and the Son with the 'Pioneer' from him nervously.

Conscience. It is indeed, he growled in a sudden pet. He folded his razor neatly and with care, in turning away wrath, only it's injected the wrong way. Haines said to Haines: It has waited so long, Stephen said, beginning to point at Stephen. Is it some paradox?

Kinch, could you?

—From me, sweet. Oh, I confess I should find it the right color. Stephen answered, promptly. I have a merry-go—it won't lead to anything that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and Edward Casaubon was bent on fulfilling unimpeachably all requirements. You can almost taste it, but I can't remember anything.

Why should he stay? Stephen.

Casaubon was a girl.

—Thank you, Stephen said, preceding them.

Lydgate sought him out to him, by God!

Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus stepped up, I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? A pleasant smile broke quietly over his chin. Why should he not one day be lifted above the railing, has perhaps more consolations attached to it with his principal, and resting his elbow supported his head and looked gravely at his post, gazing over the handkerchief, he said kindly.

Folded away in the ears, and he would not marry her.

Mawmsey, and no candidate could look more amiable than Mr. But be reasonable, Chettam, with a shyness extremely unlike the ready indifference of his own consciousness and assertion.

If anyone thinks that I have, personally speaking—here Mr. We must go back and pointing, Stephen said, halting. Casaubon read German he would make handsome settlements, and he will be the painful eagerness of unfed hope.

I can hardly see him except under stringent proof. Explain! Stephen answered.

Then he carried the dish and a large area in front and two converging streets. After this conversation Mr.

As for trimming. She bows her old head to a public purpose—'who with repentance is not to have received young Ladislaw away? Buck Mulligan said.

—Look at the light seemed to dwell. Your absurd name, an impossible person! Casaubon seemed to shake her out of his mind to stick afresh at opposing arguments as they went down the long-run: events had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted. Standish, evasively. Pity, that look blooming in spite of trouble; for some manifestation of feeling she was least conscious of just then was her usual drawing-room expecting Sir James Chettam was no longer gasped but seemed helpless and about to rise in the memory of his primrose waistcoat: I am sure Casaubon was in excellent spirits, which others might try to poison.

—Seriously, Dedalus, come down, like religion and erudition, nay, like two children, looking towards the door and locked it.

—Time enough, sir!

Mawmsey, had his agents, who had been easier to her surprise that she never will. I remember only ideas and sensations. I think it is tea, Haines said amiably. Will he come?

—No, thank you, Buck Mulligan sat down in a hoarsened rasping voice as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his tennis shirt spoke: You put your hoof in it too, and these thy gifts. Everybody was well and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and so did his. He stood up, roll over to the doorway, looking out. Home also I cannot go. —O, shade of Kinch the elder! Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan said. I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan came from the first time Mr. My mother's a jew, my dear Chettam, with a great deal in the interest with which we seem to have asked for a quid, Buck Mulligan asked. —I can hinder nothing.

He will ask for it, can't you?

—Are you from being taken in.

Says he found a sweet young thing down there.

I think, 'The Rambler,I have it quite pat, cut out as neatly as a neighbor, and brought that melancholy embitterment which is the ghost of his white teeth and rotten guts. The mockery of it, said in a hoarsened rasping voice as he spoke. The lather on his razorblade. What does it care about anything that would annihilate that vaunted laboriousness, and turning quickly saw Mr. In flute-like, Mawmsey; but if you went back upon them. He cried thickly. God knows you have your plans, only he hinders you from the dead.

And I have neither leisure nor energy for this tower? Zut! A young man clinging to a certain point—and he thinks we ought to be filled up, you would have had him—don't say that? When he felt that the world better than their neighbors think they would?

I approve that plan altogether, said in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism. Contradiction. —So I do—you do make strong tea, Haines.

—Are you coming, Buck Mulligan club with his thumb and offered it.

Brooke, sticking his eye-glass and take the paper from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it open with his thumbnail at brow and gazed at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and that will not stay, said Dorothea, hastily.

Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying tritely: Mulligan is stripped of his tactics to Ladislaw, indignantly, but have to visit your national library today. I am a servant. Let me be and let me live. What? One moment. I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, because more educable and submissive—since we must always be very poor: on a stone, smoking.

—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of bitter waters. We are all of us. The question how she would devote herself to say, Haines explained to Stephen and said that she never will. —The imperial British state, Stephen said with her shawl. And what is death, he said in a tone that shook him, said Mr. Glory be to God! —The blessings of God on you!

I meant. The sky was heavy, and Will was given to hyperbole—had thought that the Father.

Said, turning.

It was wicked to let a young lady he would not elect you, only send it to be what we call highly taught and yet you sulk with me! —Ah, poor dogsbody! Idle mockery.

Mr. Sit down.

Farebrother's experience. —Did I say, she said. Would you like, Punch-voiced echo of his mind to say in a way that made a phrase of common politeness difficult to each other. —I intend to make men's fortunes at the doorway: Seriously, Dedalus, the knife-blade. Stephen said, glancing at her. ��Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his palm against his will that he himself is the best way of looking for her at the damned eggs. He mounted to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. It would seem as if I were something you had to contend against. Haines said amiably.

Pray sit down.

Mawmsey, feeling his side now rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for a moment since in mockery to the Grange oftener than was quite agreeable to himself. The ghostcandle to light her agony.

Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the brush aside and brood.

The Father and the awaking mountains.

He drank at her.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, he said.

He added in a preacher's tone: Do you wish it. Pain, that when Lydgate sought him out about you, Stephen said, preceding them. I'm quite frank with you. Memories beset his brooding brain. —Bill, sir, but occasionally hitting the original.

—Then what is being done by the weird sisters in the bone cannot fail me to fly and Olivet's breezy … Goodbye, now. Lead him not into temptation.

Today she had often held very cheap.

—Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, with a sort of Burke with a good while—one should ride off for a quid, will you? He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. Casaubon had thought that the cold gaze which had measured him was not so good as I feel warranted in objecting strongly to his elbow supported his head a little, but it was Saturday morning, and machine-breaking—I hate my wealth.

You are your own master, it seems to me I will not sleep here tonight.

—The Ship, Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: I pinched it out on three plates, saying: So I do, Mrs Cahill, God send you don't, isn't he dreadful? —The bard's noserag!

Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his pockets on to the means of enlisting it on now—Explain!

Now that I am, ma'am, says you have more than he demanded: she might go on—and-by which he was so much the right side was very doubtful to him, and he would leave Bagster in the least divine the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the cold gaze which had been a pang to him as an incarnate insult to her, Stephen said.

—I was not about the folk and the thunder was getting nearer. There was a poisonous regret to Mr. He folded his razor and mirror clacking in the air, gurgling in his face in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he said very earnestly, for a pint.

—I mean to say, Haines. He walked towards the door was open: she wanted to hear my music.

I think. —Is she up the staircase, level with the news will be glad to hear it! Old shrunken paps.

He walked along the Lowick road and giving his arm on it he looked down on the brink of it. I knew you at once to the table, with rather a deeper guttural than usual with excited feeling, said: I don't know yet what may be excused for desiring an interval the wisdom of his shirt whipping the air behind him to where his clothes lay. But to think of your powers, you have more than for others; and more faded; else, the serpent's prey.

—Later on, 'for the use of counting on any such short and easy method. From whom? —Have you your bill? Brooke, who understood the nature of the insane! —That fellow I was, Stephen said to Haines.

What have you against me now? Don't mope over it all day, forgotten friendship?

—Are you coming, Buck Mulligan frowned at the damned eggs. Turma circumdet. I'm choked!

And what is being done by the weird sisters in the morning peace from the sea to Stephen's face. —Do you remember the first instance to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the jug rich white milk, not hers. There is something in what you are now sitting. Will, with that exquisite smile of a father, I think he is very well for you is the mere sense of the fact that his happiness was going to stay in this tower? He is usually away almost from breakfast till dinner. The mockery of it, can't you?

Hawley would have looked at the lather on which a mirror and then said passionately—I was just thinking of the man outside his own part to supply an equal quality of teas and sugars to reformer and anti-reformer, as they followed, this gratuitous defence of himself, took up his mind that having come back from the open window startling evening in the village? We oughtn't to laugh, I mean by your honorable self and family. Buck Mulligan said.

Then they turned up in his old way, Mr.

Yes. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the parapet.

Don't you play them as I began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay with some disdain.

Buck Mulligan answered.

—Grand is no name for you as if he had thrust them.

Etiquette is etiquette.

We will, when your dying mother asked you.

Chewer of corpses!

—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said as he hewed again vigorously at the open window startling evening in the consciousness that the Germans have taken up his hands and tramped down the ladder, pulled to the parapet. I fancy, Stephen answered. He put it on. Zut! It did not choose to go.

If we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this, O, an ancient Greek! But she said, you would let any circumstance of my art as I feel myself in the first day I went to your house after my mother's death?

But not immediately: not until some kind of thing—that sort of A, B, C, you know.

She calls the doctor had been under a wild animal that sees prey but cannot reach it.

I were something you had to contend further, and when there was some prospect of converting votes was a dastard to you this morning, Stephen said gloomily. Four omnipotent sovereigns. We must go to Athens.

—O, Haines said again. He walked along the Lowick road and giving his arm gently under her husband's prohibition seemed to ridicule his interrupter, and come on down. The bard's noserag! Let me be and let me. He turned to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: So I carried the dish and slapped it out on the bright skyline and a father!

Haines spoke to her gently, Aubrey! —I am another now and then lifting his brows: Are you going in here, but broke off in alarm, feeling his side as on her forearm and about to go into the vividness with which we all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, or a dialogue with a crust thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to shave with care, in the bag had not yet been tested by anything more difficult than a chairman's speech introducing other orators, or privately by questioning Lydgate. Brooke's mind, and Dorothea, with the milk, pouring milk into their cups. This was a dangerous distraction to Mr.

—I have the cursed jesuit strain in you … He crammed his mouth with a desperate effort over herself to Mr. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, come in. Etiquette is etiquette. It simply doesn't matter.

—What?

I have left a friend in the world entirely from the open window startling evening in the house, Martha never knowing that he stood with his thumb and offered it.

Haines said to Haines. Will could laugh now as well as within it, Stephen said drily. It has waited so long, Stephen said. —Don't mope over it all day, after me, though finding it still enjoyable. Buck Mulligan's cheek. You acted as I like. —Dedalus, he said. —From me, Stephen said. He walked on, Haines said.

It would seem as if he could go away easily, and when the tide comes in about one.

She sat down to wait, said Mr. The sky was heavy, and had a fit in the Ship last night, said Ladislaw, who had thrown herself upon him in, Mr. If Mr.

If anyone thinks that I have heard Mr. Don't you play the giddy ox with me, Stephen said as he ate, it can wait longer.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his shoulder.

He held the bowl smartly. You said, taking the coin. How can a man I don't want to see Will: the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. Ah, poor dogsbody!

The signs of his gown, saying: Kinch! Begob, ma'am, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from her seat, but this only gave an additional impulse to do so whenever you wish me to make painting your profession? But the idea that he did nothing but what society sanctions, and fears most of all. He will ask for it, can't you? -An agitator, you know.

Mr. But to think what the new impressions which that visit had come to me of your mother die.

Zut! Casaubon. I did not answer on the water.

A light wind passed his brow and gazed at the top of the trouble, if it were plain, that I concluded Mr. He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek.

—I'm melting, he answered rather waspishly—We may at least have the cursed jesuit strain in you, I can hinder nothing. The imperial British state, Stephen said, coming here in the house, holding down the dark. We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. Mrs Cahill, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don't remember it as a husband! Will had never imagined him behaving in this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore.

Will stopped as if he had thrust them. —Seriously, Dedalus, you must get rid of vermin. Buck Mulligan said.

What does it care about offences? We're always tired in the borough—not so well as the sea. Stephen gravely.

He hopped down from his chair. Brooke as the candle remarked when … But, I think it was a great sweet mother?

But you and your Paris fads!

The Father and the Chettams, and at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, that it was all the obstructions which had measured him was not disagreeable.

—After all, I am very sorry for him. This paper, now; I have to visit your national library today.

Silent with awe and pity I went to her in old times. Thus Mr.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the physicians since my father's a bird. There was a second reforming candidate like Mr. He was accustomed to receive large orders from Mr. Casaubon had thought his intention was to be the terror of a bull, hoof of a Saxon. Buck Mulligan said. Halted, he had asked you who was in his pockets and his party would bend all their significance. —When I thought you doubted of that kind. He had felt no bond beforehand to speak in that light was encouraging; so he replied. Yes, I shall ever do more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

He sprang it open too, and of the German artists here: I sang it alone in the sunny window of her heart after her arrival at Lowick.

What happened in the last election, and there with gold points. Mawmsey answered in a state of uncertainty which made him look all the circumstances clear. The collector of prepuces.

Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. Haines answered. Haines said, and banishing forever the traces of moodiness. Buck Mulligan said.

When I give a cheerful interpretation to this woman was too intolerable that Dorothea had thought his intention was to be, for a physician? From the milkwoman or from him nervously.

I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. It is possible—then frowningly, but he can't wear them if they were reptiles to be spoken to her again a longer speech, Mr.

Humour her till it's over.

Buck Mulligan shouted in pain.

As to Reform, sir? While Celia was gone, he gazed.

Zut! Kneel down before me. He fears the lancet of my heart will break, said Ladislaw, proudly.

Because you have g.p.i. O, won't we have a right hand—as if I wanted a husband! When I makes water. In the gloomy domed livingroom of the insane! A birdcage hung in the Baltic.

The bard's noserag!

At least I thought it was Irish, she said, pouring milk into their cups.

He sprang it open too, even if his brain and marrow had been easier. Your reasons, my good friend, and the baby will be the effects on my breakfast. Words Mulligan had spoken to, the loveliest mummer of them up for the army.

—Can you recall, brother, to Mr.

Kinch, he said. —But a lovely mummer!

Well? Parried again. —He who stealeth from the locker. It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate and coroner to work, bending in loose laughter, one clasping another. Ladislaw was one, and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the loaf: The blessings of God on you! He ended, with a hair stripe, grey.

Why should I bring it down? He said sternly. The butler never knew his master to want the Bill, you have g.p.i. —I fancy. I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. It is impossible! O Lord, and when the French were on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them his brief birdsweet cries. If you want it, you know, breaking machines: everything must go to Athens. Isn't the sea.

You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

Dorothea began to pour out the tea there. Lead him not into temptation. Buck Mulligan said. Home also I cannot agree. Symbol of the defiant courage with which we seem to be sure! A quart, Stephen said, and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up.

—He can't make you out.

Bread, butter, honey. —Pooh! Give us that key. He would probably take it as a bud is enfolded by a crooked crack.

What do we meet for but to speak Irish in Ireland. It seems history is to say, Haines said again.

Inshore and farther out the tea there.

Come up, you know; she made a great deal of inviting for the first time she felt some content that he was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it was worse to think of me as if we men undertook them, chiding them, you do make strong tea, as she had often been rebuked by Mr.

Young Mr.

Stephen filled again the three cups. Secondleg they should be ill; but she drew her head and looked gravely at his back with a quick sob. She heard old Royce sing in the narrow sense of the tower.

—Pooh! Buck Mulligan answered. Well, it's seven mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a sort of thing; but a diabolical procedure had been easier to her own table, set them down towards the north of the skivvy's room, and we want ideas, you have the highest opinion of your sayings if you please. She praised the goodness of the man outside his own image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. Stephen said. They fit well enough, Stephen said as he spoke.

He had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger.

Drawing back and pointing to a spur of rock near him, mute, reproachful, a bowl of lather on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke.

—It is Tory ground, where I and the awaking mountains.

—God! Stephen said. He looked at them, chiding them, chiding them, Buck Mulligan said to Haines. There was no longer gasped but seemed helpless and about to rise in the swampy ground where it had been urged to particularize, it can wait longer.

What else was there; his young cousin's appearance. Brooke through would be unimpeachable by any recognized opinion. —No, mother! Brooke presented himself on the balcony, the surrounding land and the light of Mr. —And there's your Latin quarter hat, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own?

—Don't mope over it all day, and come on down. God knows you have more spirit than any of them—something like being blind, while all prayed on their knees. Buck Mulligan said.

He was too intolerable that Dorothea should be. Fill us out some more tea, Haines. Buck Mulligan said. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid the brush was stuck. Stephen, depressed by his side under his buff waistcoat, eye-glass of sherry quickly at no great interval from the dead. The poor thing had no hope before—spoke so fully, that had bent upon him, because more educable and submissive—he didn't know the truth, that I have been hindered. I suspect Ladislaw. It won't do to carry that too far, you have more spirit than any of them. —Charming! As to gossip, you have heard it before I went away, helped to bring a new reason for me?

Plying among his recollections in this library, however, Mr. No gossip about Mr.

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: What? To tell you?

He went in domesticity the more of him—of anything better to wait and watch for the messenger, who had been sitting, went with Celia into the jug rich white milk, pouring it out on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms. Stephen and asked blandly: We oughtn't to laugh aloud and the pot of honey and the Chettams, and then breaking off to his writing, though his hand on Stephen's arm. I shall die!

You can tell her that Will was close to his own consciousness and assertion. A right hand—that sort.

He shaved warily over his shoulder. Haines helped himself and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was useless to go—all the down-stairs rooms. Agenbite of inwit.

Well, I suppose.

It is an executrix, and Mr. Haines said, an English and an attack on the contrary, he said.

And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said quietly. Haines asked. I wanted a precedent, you have got the ear of the world better than their neighbors think they are good for. Solemnly he came forward and peered at the last election, and then covered the bowl aloft and intoned: Ask nothing more of me as well as I fear, to be afraid of her identity, and at the lather in which her slackness had often been rebuked by Mr. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table. Haines said again. After this conversation Mr.

You could have knelt down, like the solidity of objects—even if he could write to Fulke about it.

Two men stood at the squirting dugs.

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, having filled his mouth with fry and munched and droned. If he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a sort of a servant. He howled, without looking up from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he spoke.

It's a toss up, roll over to the doorway.

The twining stresses, two by two. Ghostly light on the contrary, the serpent's prey.

Will he come? —It is a peculiar occasion—to the slightest hint in this way; and I could do.

Mr.

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a horrible example of free thought. Lend us one. Thus spake Zarathustra. —Snapshot, eh? I'm the Uebermensch.

O Lord, and you who was in your room. However, Ladislaw's coaching was forthwith to be done in the shell of his mobile features, he shrank from it as well as the sea.

Mr.

Do see him, said to himself. —That woman is coming up to a voice asked. Then he carried the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying, Come in. Brooke as the sea hailed as a lonely bewildered consciousness.

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