#i never felt shame about not having a father *except* when dealing with the government

[thesmokinpossum]

also i'd like to know why i've had to confirm that i'm a fatherless bastard on all sort of official forms since i was a litteral kid if the fucking financial aid office is still gonna be like 'so what's the last parent you lived with'?

[artificial-ascension]

I’ll bite tell me about Ryan

Oh boy oh boy ok.

Aight, so for starters my boy Ryan's real full name is Ryan Taylors II (he was named after his uncle Ryan who died before he was born) and he's one of my Death Note OCs I made for a fic I'm writting. He's a serial killer and I heavily based his case of Jack the Ripper. He kills prostitutes, not because he has anything against them but because he knows the cops don't really care. He does this because he think violently mutilating people is fun. There's something very wrong with him. I tried to emulate every serial killer ever while still making him unique.

He had a shitty childhood. His mom got disowned by her mom for running drugs for the mob and she had to live her shitty boyfriend. He raped her and that's how Ryan came to be. Happened again and that's how he got his little sister. His dad was an abusive dick head and when Ryan was 9 he had enough so he just fucking killed the guy. When he want to court he got of with no punishment because it so insanely obvious that his dad was an abusive rapist qnd Ryan was a little kid so the jurry decided he was innocent. From age 9 to 15 he enjoyed not having a father until his mom got a new bf and he was an ass. Then when Ryan was 16 he officially could not handle it and snapped and killed someone. He enjoyed it like alot and after some moral debating with himself he kept on killing people.

Anyway to backtrack when he was 7 he met a guy named Jessie who's dad owned a bar and they became friends. Jessie had a kid his age (actually it was just a random orphan he found and adopted but still) and that kid was named Jerimiah. Ryan also had a friend named Courtney from school and Ryan, Courtney and Jerimiah all end up going to the same school after awhile and Ryan and Jerimiah date. Ryan also runs track and he's like really fucking good at it. He set records. Ryan also joined a gang when he was 7 because his neighbor was this sweet old Chinese lady who would babysit him and teach him Chinese (Ryan's part Chinese, it's never relevant except for the fact that he joined a gang when he was 7, which is mostly a joke thing) and her grandson was the leader of a biker gang and when they would come over Ryan would hang out with them and at some point they were like "hey your cool wanna join our gang?" And Ryan said yeah so he was in a biker gang when he was 7. They didn't actually do anything they just rode around and looked scary and Ryan doesn't know how to ride a motorcycle nor is he allowed but he's still a member and has his own bandanna all the gang members have. The gang thing is never important it's just a little joke to make Ryan seem tough.

Speaking of which Ryan is constantly trying to look tough. Ryan grew up in Compton in the 90's so he's constantly surrounded by crime so he tried to be as intimidating as possible and he is actually very intimidating. He's 5'11 and 180lbs, super aggressive with the knife skills to back it up and dresses in all black. He's already scary and 100% a true gangster qnd he doesn't need to pretend but he still has issues with intimacy and being nice. He's cold and apathetic all the time. He wishes he wasn't but he has a hard time finding things to be passionate about. The few things that do bring him joy include bread, horror and action movies, Sonic the Hedgehog, Transformers and exploring abandoned buildings. He's very shy about showing when he's actually happy (which is a shame because he has the cutest, sweetest nost amazing and gorgeous smile in the entire fukcing world.) The reason for his apathy is because he's got ASPD from all the abuse. Everyone says he puts the antisocial in antisocial personally disorder and they're right. His symptoms mostly include apathy, violent outbursts, recklessness and self degradation. Pretty much he's quiet and reserved and doesn't like people. He jas very little self confidence and doesn't care much for others unless he really knows them well and actually likes them. If he does consider someone a friend he's very protective and somewhat nice. It takes alot to deal with him but he's really a great friend.

Really he's an amazing guy who went through alot of traumatic shit and had been unfortunately fucked up by his shitty circumstances and has choosen to deal with it in the worst possible way: muder. Ryan absolutely loves to blame his problems on other people and for the most part he's right (it's not his fault he had to go through all that) however him choosing to kill people was 100% his thing and he can't really blame it on his childhood considering there's 100 different ways to deal with that stuff that don't involve killing people HOWEVER Ryan ignores that because he's a fucking seril killer and has no remorse for his victims. He is the epitome of "I love my garbage son who belongs in prison" because he does but he never gets caught.

There's two different ways Ryan's life goes and it depends on the fic I put him in. In the everyone lives one, he marries A and B and joins the mafia with them. He does repent for his crimes but has to live on a short leash (he can't have cash, he has to travel with A or someone qualified to babysit him, he has to keep his ID on him at all time ect.) Because the government doesn't want him to kill people anymore but wants to see if they can actually rehabilitate a fucking serial killer + A knows people *cough cough L* and will be very pissy if they put his boyfriend in prison. Ryan gets therapy and reconnects with his family and also he's set to die at like 87 here.This is the good ending.

In actual cannon, Ryan and B are friends with alot of homoerotic tension. Ryan and B are partners in crime for awhile but after B dies Ryan continues on with his life (Ryan is a massive crime buff and wants to be a forensic pathogist and that happens in both endings) but after awhile he decides life isn't worth living without B and goes on a full rampage through LA before writting an increasingly cryptic suicide note and slitting his own throat. He choose that method because in all his killings, he cut the vocal cords of his victims so they couldn't scream while he mutilated them (witch gave him the nick name the Silent Ripper, though he's more commonly the Los Angeles Ripper) but he'd usually end up slitting their throats in the process, so the most commom death for his victims drowning in their own blood, so he felt its how he should go out. This is clearly the bad ending.

Anyway yeah. There's him. If you want anything spicific please ask ms because once you tell me to write about my OCs suddenly I don't know them.

[ice-magician]

The Crying Child

So, this was a thing I had been meaning to make for @spaceiplier ‘s AU since forever. Life happened and yadda yadda, but it’s finally done. In case you didn’t know, the main story is an AU mostly surroundly Team Iplier in space, but other Youtubers make appearances. I started to wonder what would happen if MatPat and Steph were there? What species would they be? What would they do? Anyway, here it is :)

The dazzle of holographic camera flashes blinded Matt. He should’ve been used to it by now. Having your own televised program beaming across galaxies came with its share of paparazzi. As the rain began to pour so with it came the onslaught of questions.

“How did you know the Vlocam monarchs were working deals behind their people’s backs?”

“Where do you get your intel, Mr. Patrick? Surely this isn’t all from you and your small team.”

“Do you have people working for you in each planet’s government?”

“HOW do you do it all with a new baby?”

So many questions. Though every species had their differences in appearance, politics, and genetic makeup, one thing remained constant- curiosity. This is what Mat loves most about every universe. Matt wiped soggy brown hair out of his eyes. He turned towards the horde of cameras, and put on his best award-winning smile.

“The secret is quite simple- work hard, and work with those you love. As for how my broadcast was correct, well…” Matt looks into the nearest camera and winked, “... it was just a theory.”

With that, Matt slipped into the parked pod, where an android driver was waiting on him. He was completely soaked from the downpour. Matt felt the water squish in his shoes, confident they would never recover. He continued to ignore the remaining flashes and questions that roared outside as he whisked away. Finally, some peace and quiet.

Matthew undid his all too formal tie, and took in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and became unbelievably grateful that today’s antics were over. Awards were always far too formal. Everyone there thinking they’re better than the person sitting next to them, planning and gossiping. Everyone who was anyone had been there. The Awards for Intergalactic Achievements were no small deal. Matt was no exception to the crowd of “stars”, not just for his show’s intergalactic popularity, but also for his family tree. Matthew was Ahtret, a species renowned for their wide vocal range and ability to copy any sound, including voices. Ahtrets with his vocal range were few and far between, especially on Treo, thus earning him attention Matt felt he didn’t deserve or need. He was a simple guy, and at that moment all that simple guy wanted was to go home, hug his family and pet his cat.

Now that the formalities were over, they would have their show to themselves. The goofy, nerdy, and all out crazy show that never put a mask on the Patrick family’s face. They were never ashamed of who they were, and that’s why it had gained so much traction. Making theories, being proven right time and time again was nice, but nothing was better than not having to wear a fake persona. That was what he loved. Do what you love, and love what you do, and all that.

Although the Patrick family loved their job with all their hearts, it came with drawbacks. Meetings with rather… unsavory individuals. Or that time the show was Matt looking behind the camera at their guest because they refused to be videoed. The show had even received a personal, and slightly threatening, invitation to GAAP headquarters because they believed the program to be hiding or withholding information. That had all been straightened out, thankfully. In the end, the Patricks had been offered to take on cold cases for GAAP. Despite their deep intrigue, Team Theorist declined the offer. Even though GAAP practically ran universes, something about their operations were shaddy… Actually, maybe the fact that they did run universes was what made them questionable at best. His father had taught him to question everything, do your own digging and not rely on what you see in holographic tabloids. So far, it had paid off, and, secretly of course, Matthew and Stephanie Patrick saw GAAP as another potential threat to the freedom that the organization claimed to protect.

They didn’t advertise this, of course… not yet, anyway. There wasn’t enough evidence to pin down GAAP for illicit or violent activities. Higher ups were good at covering their tracks. Well, two can play at that game. With a family to worry about, they had agreed that working directly with GAAP was unwise. Instead, Stephanie insisted that Matt go to GAAP events. They needed GAAP to think that a Patrick on the premises meant GAAP had their trust. Well, so goes the old saying, “Keep your friends close, and enemies closer.”

GAAP needed to believe that the Theorists were simply focusing on minuscule ideas. Who would be the next president of Maxfor? Was the Valsic Union dealing in illegal android sales? Stick to cosmetic topics, Stephanie had insisted. That was why she hadn’t been with him. She was busy at Theorist HO. Her and the building’s AI, JASON, were digging through files on mass servers for their next broadcast. Soon, though. Soon, they’d find something. Soon everyone would see GAAP for who Matt believed them to be.

Still, it was a shame she couldn’t make it to the awards. She would chuckle at the Velm’s dress that probably cost as much as the venue. She would add more flavor to the debate Matt had had with a man who attempted to argue about the state of Treo’s biotech core. Matt thought back to his cheesy response to the reporters before he stepped into the car. He could practically feel Stephanie rolling her eyes. The upstarts of the gala wouldn’t have been the only ones receiving side comments for cringe-inducing antics.

The awards had been held in a ballroom. Rows of decorative chairs lined up to face stage made of shining opal. Stephanie’s golden tinted skin would have dazzled under the shine of stage lights. The glittering gold lines streaking from the sides of her brown Aurumen eyes. Matt would have loved to hear her telekinetic thoughts on the characters that had surrounded him. Stephanie would have made the night bearable.

Speaking of thoughts….

Matt tapped his temple, stirring his eye’s connection to life.

“CHRIS, how’s the house?”

Considering how dangerous their job might get, the Patricks long ago decided it was best to get security links to their home installed. The computer chips comfortably sat in their temples, with contacts containing mini screens on their eyes and micro implants in their ears so they could hear. The chips’ signals were linked directly to their home, and live security camera feeds would be shown via the contacts. The Patricks had built the installments themselves. They didn’t trust that biotechnitions would do it correctly, considering a significant amount of Stephanie’s biological makeup was sunlight.

Sure, Treo had the galaxy’s best and brightest technicians, but the Patricks never shied away from a challenge. Besides, it had meant working together, using their extensive knowledge of tech to grow closer. That’s how they met in college, after all. In the end, Stephanie certainly handled her own with her microtech implant. It worked perfectly; she even used the gold and sunlight in her body to generate energy for the chip. Aurumens could communicate telepathically, but Matt could not. Considering this, Steph programmed the chip to open the conversation both ways. Undetectable telepathic communication made Matt giddy sometimes. It was like he was a kid playing spy, or hide and seek where he always won.

Now that they had a baby, that decision made long ago was truly coming into use. They could check the cameras in their house whenever they pleased. They quite literally had eyes and ears everywhere. CHRIS, their home’s holographic security AI, watched over the house while they were gone. Letting their cat Skip out, making sure their son Oliver’s bedroom was at a heat level comfortable for a growing Aurumen.

This knowledge usually provided a feeling of security. That night, however, when Matt tapped the sequence to his house, the only reply was static. Matt tapped his temple again, making sure the link is stable. Still nothing. No cameras blinked to life in his vision. No audio warbled to life.

“CHRIS? CHRIS?! Are you there?”

Matt was met with eerie silence from their holographic home security manager. A cold chill ran down his spine. It could just be a glitch in the system, but his gut told him otherwise. Matt didn’t care about their collections of Earthen memorabilia of Diet Coke dispensers, or vintage video games; Oliver was in that house, and if CHRIS was not responding....

Matt entered the sequence for Stephanie’s chip. Nothing. She was probably engrossed in her work. A Patrick curse- working to the bone. Matt left an urgent message, trying to keep the strain out of his voice. He said it was probably nothing, but he was en route. Despite his bravado, when he ended the call, Matthew felt his heart beat erratically in his chest.

Matthew leaned forward to the keypad’s microphone installed behind the driver’s seat, “Step on it!”

This time, he didn’t keep the urgency hidden.

.

.

.

Matt jumped out of the pod so fast he almost forgot to pay his driver. He quickly slid the android the required amount of credits, down to the decimal. The driver grumbled something and zipped away. The rain outside hasn't let up in the slightest. Stephanie would be livid when she found the sopping condition of his good tuxedo, but the state of his attire flew out the window when he exited the car. The front door to his home was slightly ajar. Resisting the urge to burst through the threshold and run upstairs to check on Ollie, Matt quietly stepped into the house.

Everything seemed in order. Open family room to the left, kitchen on the right, a hallway in between where with the staircase leading upwards stood, waiting for Matt to rush up. Matt touched the wall of the house. A blue light scanned quickly over his handprint, and a small beep sounded, officially registering that it was indeed Matthew Patrick.

He whispered as softly as he could, “CHRIS, activate.” (Man, when was the last time he had turned on his house’s security system manually)?

A small hole opened in the wall, and several pixels darted out, sputtering and flashing, attempting to take on the shape of a human. Eventually, they gave up and resorted to the small speaker next to the holographic projector.

“Matt?” CHRIS’ voice came out warbled and full of glitches, but there nonetheless.

“Yeah, CHRIS. I’m here.”

“It was… tried to call… busted my system over your network….”

“Shh,” Matt tried to calm him down, “What happened exactly.”

CHRIS’ next response came clear as day, “Matt, he’s still in the house.”

A shiver ran down Matt’s spine, “Where?” A deep pit had formed in his stomach. A part of him already knew the answer.

“Oliver’s room.”

That was it. Matt dashed into the kitchen, nearly knocking over the broken soda dispenser, and grabbed the nearest thing resembling a weapon he could find. His fingers found their way into the cool grooves of a knife's handle. He quickly examined it, making sure it still worked. Matt had been fascinated with its design. Based on an old concept from Earth, the blade could change temperature depending on what you wanted to slice. Matt gently pressed the button to the knife’s highest setting. The blade began to glow a threatening orange.

As Matt quietly slid up the stairs, he was grateful for the awful carpet Stephanie had insisted on, fearing Oliver might hurt himself on the previously hardwood floor when he learned to walk. At the time, the installer bots had been sceptical, saying the shaggy material didn’t match the rest of the house’s decor. It was “outdated and irrelevant”. Clearly, the bots didn’t know the risks of having children installed in their memory banks. Going with Stephanie’s fear that Oliver would inherit Matt’s clumsiness, the carpets had been installed (much to the bots’ dismay). On that night, however, as Matt crept up the stairs, he was grateful for the beige carpet, outdated as it was. It wasn’t serving to keep Matt’s son from bumping his head, but to help him keep his footing, and prevent the intruder from hearing his approach.

Matt reached the top of the stairs, his son’s bedroom directly to his right. He gripped the metallic handle of the knife. Though the handle felt cold, the blade’s heat gently touched his skin like a warm towel, just enough to remind him of its potential. Thankfully, the device was designed to keep the needed heat on the blade, away from the wielder, but it still felt foreign in his hand. It was one thing to theorize and research battles, but being the one actually holding a weapon was entirely different.

An annoyed “Hiisss!” came from inside the bedroom.

Skip? Matt thought.

Skip was usually laid back. He was from Aurumen, like Stephanie, and their animals were known for their lazy nature. Give Skip food and sunlight, and he would be fully content. So, hearing him release a threatening screech set Matt more alert. He gripped the knife tighter, turning his knuckles white. The blade burned a threatening orangish red, reminding Matt of “futuristic” sabers from an old Earth movie he’d watched with Stephanie.

Matthew quietly opened Oliver’s bedroom door. The lights were off, but with the slight light from his knife and moonbeams swinging through a window on the back wall, he could see relatively well. It was a simple space- a closet in the back wall, a bookshelf, rocking chair, various toys and stacks of books hugged the right wall. Matt and Stephanie always grabbed any paper books they could. Scattered and nearly lost as they were, the Patricks knew the power of the written word better than anyone.

The culmination of their work overflowed the small bookshelf, and into the floor. Another small stack had started forming on the room’s left wall, where a cool green crib sat under the glow of an orange heat lamp. Matt silently closed the door and approached Oliver’s crib timidly, almost afraid that his son would not be curled in his blankets. He released a sigh of relief when Ollie’s face looked back at him, face calm in a blissful sleep. The Aurumen heat lamp continued to bask its glow on the boy, ensuring that he would get the necessary amount of sunlight he needed until his body could perfect its own growing energy source. An incubator, of sorts.

Matt peered down, and saw something curious in Oliver’s hand. A piece of metal, maybe five inches across, sat lazily in the infant’s grasp. Careful not to disturb his son, Matthew reached down and retrieved the trinket. It was smooth and black, twisted into the shape of, if Matt didn’t know any better, would be a-.

“Hiiiiiisssssss!!!!!!”

Matt jerked his head up. Eyes now adjusted to the room’s darkness, he saw Skip angrily clawing at the back closet doors. He gripped his knife. It glowed back, as if reassuring him that it could do whatever needed to be done.

“I know you’re here,” Matt tried to keep his voice steady yet quiet, taking a few solid steps towards the foreboding doors. He knew his voice had started to shake, but as long as his hands remained still….

One of the doors creaked open. Matt held out his glowing knife in what he hoped was a threatening stance. Skip hissed a few more times before backing up to Matt’s side. The darkness of the night mixed with Ollie’s lamp cast ominous shadows across the walls surrounding the black vortex of the dark closet.

Matt heard what sounded like metal creaking slightly as a robotic foot stepped into view. It was a male Velm robot, and with the cross stitching of mixed parts Matt could tell that it was homemade. From what he could see, the robot had glowing green eyes, an old fashioned monocle, brown hair, and a strong tail. The one thing most disturbing about the robot, though, was his lack of a jaw. A light crisscross of welded metal bits where his jaw should have been. Slit welded bulged over where the left and right upper corners of a mouth would have been…. Matt inwardly shuddered with realization. The robot’s jaw, and consequently his voice box, had been ripped out. Whatever had the strength to do that, to rip apart something with beyond repair....

The robot stared at Matt silently, wringing his hands with nervous energy. His glowing eyes quickly glanced at the exit.

Matt squinted his eyes. This was what had set JASON on alert? This robot?

Looks can be deceiving, Matt’s mind reminded him.

Matt raised his glowing knife, its burning visage reflected in the Velm’s eyes. Its blade was the color of seething coals, or Matt’s fury at the idea of a monster hurting Oliver. Whether harm had been the robot’s intentions was yet to be determined.

Matt readjusted his grip on the blade, daring to take a step toward the intruder. The dapper robot’s eyes went wild, and he nearly tripped over himself trying to back into the closet. Matt looked at the knife, then the robot…. then the scar on its neck. His Theorist mind whirled.

“M...A…AT...Ttt!” CHRIS’ fractured voice cut through the room’s palpable tension.

The lights flickered on, off, then back on, but low enough to not wake the room’s sleeping baby. Once his eyes had adjusted, Matt got a better look at the intruder. In the light, the Velm looked even more like he’d stepped out of an old film. He wore a vest and bow tie, dress slacks, and wing tipped shoes. Just below his nose was an empty screw hole. Matt glanced at the curious metal piece he had found in Oliver’s grip.

He held the metal mustache up to the robot cautiously, “This yours?”

The robot touched the empty spot above his lip. He nodded slowly. A robot who looked like he belonged in early Earth’s 1920s. This robot’s creator certainly had more of an imagination than any mind Matt knew on his planet.

“I’ll cut you a deal,” Matt said, “mustache for the promise you won’t, you know, attack me.”

The robot started to nod, then froze. He pointed at Matt’s knife. Matt got the hint. Trust has to go both ways. Matt reluctantly turned off his burning blade, and brought his hand back to his side. The robot visibly relaxed. Matt tossed the metal mustache to the robot, who caught it swiftly. He looked at the mustache dejectedly, before pocketing it.

“Sooo,” Matt ventured, “you got a name?”

Before he could answer CHRIS’ voice came back, this time free of static, “MATT! Oh, thank God. I swear, he just came out of nowhere! Disabled me, and I, and… I swear, I couldn’t stop him!”

Matt paused. His home’s AI- CHRIS (Child Homecare Response Internal System), had been activated before Matt and Stephanie left home. That being so, how did the Velm get in?

As if sensing his question, the robot began making wild gestures with his hands. Sign language. The intruder was mute. So Matt had been right in his theory about the voice box.

“Hang on, hang on. Last time I signed was with a disgruntled politician.” Matt tried for a laugh. Nothing. He cleared his throat, “Why don’t you start again, slowly.”

It nodded, “My name is Jameson Jackson, JJ, healthcare robot of….” The robot, Jameson, suddenly stopped signing. Interesting, so he had something, or someone, to hide.

“.... Your door was open.” he continued.

“Wait, what?” Matt spun to the port on the wall where CHRIS’ hologram projector was built in. At the moment he didn’t have enough power to corporeally appear, Matt knew for certain that he could see him glaring.

“... Skip got caught in the rain! He’s Aurumen, remember! Those cats hate water! I had to let him in!” CHRIS protested.

“And you just happened to forget to lock the door?”

A pause, “... A lot was going on. Skip’s meowing and scratching at the door woke Oliver. I had to leave the walls and manually adjust his light to calm him down. Next thing I know Dapper Boy is standing behind me! I tried to call you, but he deactivated my system…. I’m sorry, Matt.”

The rage Matt had felt towards the house’s AI suddenly drained. It made sense. CHRIS rushing to let Skip in, then taking on his holographic form to care for Oliver would confuse any AI. Matt didn’t blame him for forgetting to lock it back. Obviously, he would have if given the time. Still, that didn’t explain one thing.

Matthew pointed at the robot. “Why did you come in? You didn’t steal anything or break any objects. Why are you here?”

Perhaps he’d stopped him in the middle of his scourging? Except, he was in Ollie’s room…. Matt’s wall went back up. Though deactivated, Matt remembered the knife hanging limply in his hand. Had he stumbled across a true enemy, one willing to harm his family? Did he have some personal vendetta? He might not have enough strength to do detrimental damage to the robot, JJ, but Matt needed to be ready. JJ continued to wring his hands, occasionally tweaking his monocle.

“I… I heard crying.” JJ finally signed.

Matt paused, “What?”

“I heard crying,” JJ signed again.

Matt glanced at his sleeping son, “You heard crying, and just decided it was a good idea to break into a house?”

JJ twitched, “I am a health care robot. The door was opened, and I heard his cries so clearly….”

The robot looked sadly over at Oliver’s crib, “He missed you so much. I-I didn’t know about your AI, I just…. It was pure instinct.”

A homecare robot, huh? Matt had heard of how empathetic they could be, throwing almost anything aside to help those who needed it. In a sad way, it started to make sense.

Suddenly, a hologram projected out of JJ’s monocle. It was full of static at first, but eventually it calmed down. Matt only saw the blurred reflection, but judging by the ears he figured it was another Velm. He was completely soaked from the rain, his brightly colored clothes darkened with the downpour.

“JJ!!” The other Velm nearly shouted, “I have been trying this damn line for hours! Screw this new tech! I’m breaking your monocle as soon as I find you, you understand me?! Where are you? You were supposed to meet me at-.”

JJ held up his hands in an attempt to stop the rant.

“No, no, no!” The angry Velm jutted a finger at JJ, “You listen to me! I have been all over this God forsaken town looking for your dapper butt, with nothing-.”

Matt couldn’t see his face, but he imagined the look of horror that crossed it when the robot noticed his friend’s surroundings.

“JJ, where are you? Where’s your mustache?” he asked in a near whisper.

JJ cast a sideways glance at Matt before answering, “I’m fine, Jackie. I just got caught in the rain. I’ll see you soon.”

“No, no. Fuck that! I’m tracking your ass right now!”

For some reason, hearing his story and seeing him in that moment, Matt was sure that Jameson did not have evil intentions. Before JJ could respond, Matt quickly broke the barrier between them. Within a few strides he was directly behind him and could see the speaker clearly. It was another Velm robot. He was identical to JJ, except that he had a mouth, further supporting Matt’s idea that something horrible had happened to JJ.

The other robot stopped whatever he was doing to stare at Matt, then back at JJ, then back at Matt, and finally back to JJ. He started to sign to his friend, apparently thinking that Matt didn’t understand. It was full of expletives, and questions.

“Don’t worry,” Matt signed, “He’s fine.”

The caller’s jaw dropped in surprise.

Matt actually laughed at the other robot’s confusion. JJ’s eyes twinkle with mischief; if he had a mouth he would have been smiling too.

The other robot shook himself from his daze, and huffed. He responded, but didn’t take his eyes off Matt. “Whatever, just get back to… where we came from.”

JJ tipped his hat, and the call ended. He turned to face Matt. Being up close to the robot Matt could see the details over his missing jaw even better. JJ wasn’t a menace, he really was just a care robot who had been lost in the rain. Matt immediately regretted his previous actions. Then there was the empty screw hole, courtesy of rain, a loose screw, and an Aurumen baby.

Matt sighed and patted the robot’s back, “Come on, let’s go downstairs. I can help you with”, he motioned to his mouth, “that.”

JJ touched the vacant spot and nodded in agreement. With one last glance at Ollie’s sleeping face, the two headed downstairs.

No longer needing to slink in the dark Matt called out, “CHRIS, lights please.”

Immediately the lights flickered on. Matt squinted as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Just as he left it, the kitchen was a mess. Matt rounded the island, sheathed the knife he never really needed, and fumbled through a junk drawer. JJ took in everything, every obsessive article of old Earth Diet Coke memorabilia that hung on the kitchen walls, on the counters, and in cabinets.

Matt caught him looking,“I know, I know. Steph says I’m an addict… and I am. I’ll be the first to admit that.”

Matt laughed, and JJ gave him an amused look.

“Ha!” He triumphantly retrieved a screwdriver and screw from the drawer. Matt tossed them across to JJ who swiftly caught both in the air. He retrieved his mustache, and within seconds JJ was restored. He beamed at Matt, who smiled back.

“Right, let’s get you back to your friend.”

JJ started to move, then noticed Matt’s broken soda dispenser. He cocked an eyebrow in question.

“It’s an old Earth soda machine. It’s supposed to dispense Diet Coke, but something broke. I’m no expert on antiques, so I’m having it looked at as soon as I-.”

JJ rounded the island and looked at the machine. He opened its hatch, took a good look inside, and began tinkering with it. Matt heard started to object at JJ’s sudden action. Had he not heard him say “antique”? Anything could break it! Then he’d have to find some new era substitute, which were all flat and boring and…

The sound of fizzling brought Matt out of his thoughts. JJ stood over the soda dispenser, happily holding out a glass filled with a dark, fizzy beverage. Matt gingerly accepted the drink from the excited robot. He took a sip. To his utmost surprise, it was just like new!

“How?...”

JJ closed back the hatch that contained the machine’s innards. He held up tubes clogged with sticky residue. Casually, he shrugged as if to say “All in a day’s work”. Matt laughed heartily, and took another sip.

“On second thought, you can come over as often as you want.”

JJ continued to beam at his success.

“I could’ve done that…”

Matt turned and saw CHRIS’s holographic form, fully functional and very disgruntled. JJ rested his arm lazily across the machine, his stance saying “But you didn’t.” CHRIS scowled, causing a new fit of laughter from Matt. Two pieces of artificial intelligence were having a staring contest in his kitchen. The day just kept getting weirder.

“Come on, JJ. Don’t want to keep your friend waiting.”

JJ nodded his head. He and Matt walked out of the kitchen to the front door. Matt opened it and a clean breeze blew in. The rain had fully stopped. Every so often birds could be heard in the distance.

JJ tipped his hat to Matt and CHRIS as he stepped out the door.

“Oh!” Matt called, “By the way, tell Jack that he has nothing to worry about. You’re safe here.”

JJ’s eyes widen in shock. He looked ready to interrogate Matt, but his expression relaxed. A bemused twinkle appeared in his eyes.

“Just a theory?”

Matt saluted JJ with his glass of Diet Coke, “Now you’re getting it.”

With that, Jameson Jackson walked down the street, leaving Matt with a fixed soda machine, and an aggravated security AI.

“So,” CHRIS said, “what exactly are you planning on telling Steph?”

“Simple, I’ll just blame it on you.”

CHRIS threw up his hands, “Oh, sure, blame the AI. It’s always me or JASON, isn’t it?”

Matt downed the rest of his soda with a smirk, “Exactly.”

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations NICO! You’ve been accepted as KERBEROS.

Nico, Luca is a character very much integral to the chaos that goes on here in Chicago, and you brought her to life! I love the motivation you gave her, how she’s set out to prove everyone right, since she can’t seem to prove them wrong. You dug into her background as more than just a mutant and used that to further her identity as a person and her motivations that carry through to current day. Also #justiceforMaddie. I can’t wait to see what hell you and Luca cause on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Nico

PRONOUNS: they/them

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT+1, I think Kay can now vouch for me, I write like a robot and I will be online every day.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Kerberos - Luca Mendoza

GENDER/PRONOUNS: female, she/her

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

Luca is intensity. She will burn with fire and create chaos because all her life she has tried to fight what people thought of her just because of her heritage, and then tried to not become what they wanted her to become as a mutant. But with everything that was happening, she knew she should let go. Let it all go and be exactly that which they wished of her: a monster. A creature who fought and stole and cussed and bled, all because of expectations.

BIO:

Tw: discrimination

Growing up in a small almost rural town in the south of the Netherlands, Luca was supposed to grow up with all the liberties of a socialist capitalist state. Health care was taken care of, education was cheap enough to be affordable, and the people were liberal. But she wasn’t sure when, but very early on in life, Luca learned that despite how much a country said it was ‘good’, there would always be misunderstanding towards certain social minorities. She called it Historical Opinions, based on a misunderstanding of the Romani people that outdated most of the people in her surroundings, yet continued to follow her. Luca learned it through the word ‘tokkie’, which was supposed to be a bad name for anyone growing up in the trailer parks at the edge of cities. She came to accept the term without being able to fully grasp its meaning. No matter where she went, or who she was with, once anyone found out where her family lived, she was a ‘tokkie’. It became a term that followed her through all of her childhood. She remembered so many of the moments vividly.

She understood and was angry at this image of her family and everyone who lived in the twenty trailers around her. Luca tried not to think about it too much, but she saw it in every layer of her life. She played soccer, her hair tightly put into a bum, she was aggressive, according to her coaches. She went to school, and despite how smart and self-aware she was, her teachers didn’t want her to be held apart from her friends, her ‘own kind’ thus put her always together with them, even if they were louder and more present than the other kids.

Her mother would comb her hair at night, and do her nails. Her father would sit on the couch in front of the tv, watching a soccer match while his fifth beer of the day disappeared in one big gulp. Someone once tried to explain to her that lower-income families were often forced into these kinds of situations. The situations the person meant was her family always having to buy their clothing at Zeeman, the cheapest store in the city. How their food was often from the MacDonalds because it was cheaper than a home-cooked meal, and how she would, one way or another, end up exactly like everyone else in the trailer park, because they would never get the chance to prove themselves.

Luca wasn’t sad about this future, instead; she was angry. If she was with her family or her friends, nobody took her seriously. They thought she would steal from them, or cuss, or fight. They had expectations that she never even fulfilled. So she became fascinated with the history of her people, she wanted to know why and where these expectations came from. She knew they weren’t true. Her mother never cussed, her father never fought, her brother never stole. But that did not bring down the rumors. The people who walked by the trailer park either stared or they looked away because the sight of these ‘low-income’ people was too much for them to bear.

To her luck, unknowingly, the Netherlands was a fairly liberal country when it came to Mutant laws as well. For the time being at least. Luca grew up slightly oblivious to these kinds of problems because they either never made the news, or they were not made a big deal of. The government decided to keep it mostly under wraps, to say as little as possible, and offer ‘help’ to the mutants that were discovered. Luca was unaware of her own power, because she had never faced off against anyone with actual powers. Or so she thought.

Her first encounter with her own ability was a strange sensation, and it didn’t really start where normal mutant abilities started.

Her name was Madeleine, everyone called her Maddie. She was gorgeous. And by third year of high school, Luca knew she loved girls. Madeleine was exceptional: she played soccer too, but in a different team, she had the lower body of a goddess, and always wore large jumpers that weren’t flattering. But her long blonde hair curled like crazy, and her blue eyes were always smiling. When Luca fell, she fell hard.

It was during research for her project on Romani people during the Second World War - she was by then known as the ‘Romani research girl’ - that Madeleine sat opposite of her, researching her own thing. She was smiling again, and Luca tried not to blush with the extra attention. Suddenly the girl suggested for the two of them to go to the loo together. It was an odd request. But Maddie had a secret, one she only wished to share with someone who didn’t know her. One she only wished to share with someone who knew what it was like to be the odd one out.

She could breathe fire.

Two months later, and so could Luca. But only when they were close together, and the way things were going, Luca and Maddie were very close very often. They didn’t know any other powered people, however, so despite how badly Maddie wanted to find out what more Luca could do, there really was no way.

Life was great for a while, as Luca grew older, and Maddie stayed at her side, loyal. Her soccer-playing, jumper-wearing disaster wife. She could ignore the words people threw at her for her family history all the more easier when she was walking hand in hand through the school with Maddie.

Then one day, Maddie didn’t come to school anymore.

She was not the first to disappear, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. At first people just thought healthy, soccer-playing, jumper-wearing Maddie was ill. But after a week, Luca began to worry. Finally not even the news nor the government could ignore the disappearances. As Luca was crying on the couch, just shy of her eighteenth birthday, the liberal stance of the Netherlands towards the testing and prosecution of Mutants fell. And with it, Luca’s last hope of being reunited with Maddie.

She held on for a little longer, bitter, scared, angry. Her family felt her distance and tried everything they could to pull her back. But they knew too, they had always known. Her brother was taken first. He had managed to keep it a secret from her, but not her parents, that he could breathe underwater. She wondered if there was any significance about these two individuals so close to her both having something that involved breathing as her mother came into her room and told her to pack her stuff. She was angry at first, raging that she didn’t want to go, that this was unfair, that people shouldn’t think she was something just because she had a power nobody wished to understand. But eventually she gave in.

She moved around for years. For the first time understanding, after having dived so deep into the history of her people, what it must’ve been like for them. Not completely, she could never, she hadn’t lived through most of what they had lived through. But she too had to avoid major cities, she too knew that she wouldn’t be accepted as a full human, she knew the shame she would feel if she connected to anyone and brought them trouble. Her mind spun during those years. Sometimes she found like-minded souls, people who were running from something but had long since forgotten what they were running from. Most days, she missed Maddie.

Slowly, the grief and the bitterness turned to rage. More than before she began to see what fear did to those who were feared. They slowly turned into monsters.

Luca turned into a monster. Perhaps not one who would kill and rage and flung themselves to harm those in their way, but she became something that too often bordered on rage. Rage to prove everyone wrong, yet, to also prove them right. If they wanted her to be what they thought she should be, then she would. No longer would she try to prove them wrong, she would be what they wished to see in her, and she would be more than just that.

She came to Chicago knowing nothing. Traveling and good education had taught her English, but she clearly had little knowledge of this new country, and she tried to blend in as quickly as possible, while also trying to stand out as much as possible.

So when she heard of the Jem Family, she felt like they were like-minded, she felt like there her rage would be embraced rather than feared. So she made it her mission to seek them out and win their favor. It wasn’t hard. Not once they knew what her power was, not once she learned she was incredibly dangerous if she wanted to be. And she wanted to be. And she became the monster.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

Angela Ramone: It took a while for Luca to get to the bottom of their jealousy, to understand why she felt what she felt. She had never really wanted power, but she wanted to change the world. She wanted for the world to understand that the mutants were there, and they were going to fight for their rights. But she didn’t think Angela was the person to do it, she didn’t believe for one moment that Angela could encompass the vision that was needed to ensure this new time, this new reign. This better place. Where people like her, like Maddie, could be safe. Feared and safe, where nobody dared to take one of them away, or ignore their rights.

JACKSON RAEMERS: Jackson reminds her of Maddie. Not that Maddie was a man with a beard and who could shape-shift, but he did have that careful nature about him. He was kind, and most of all, he was there for her if she needed it. And she had forgotten over the years how badly she craved normal human contact that wasn’t all about being a mutant and being on the run and surviving another day or fighting for others. He made her feel human for a little, made her feel like she was appreciated for something other than the chaos she sought to embody.

Derek Park: Derek and Luca were absolutely meant to be friends. There really wasn’t any way around it. From the moment she met him, she knew that they should generate chaos. They had to, as if some unspoken promise forced her to stand at his side. She knew it was deeper than that. She just wanted to be able to manipulate fire again. It might not be through her breath, but it was something that brought her a little closer to Maddie, if only in spirit. Not to mention the level of destruction the two of them can create: that is chaos, that is power. At Derek’s side, Luca can be the monster she craves to be. At Derek’s side, she can raise hell and show everyone that nobody messes with them. So whenever she is given the chance, she will try to push Derek to his limits, because his limits allow her to learn, and in learning, they can become stronger. If anyone deserves to burn their enemies to the ground, it is them.

EXTRA: 

Luca is Dutch.

She exclusively loves girls.

She can tell you anything about the Romani people in the Netherlands and Germany between the end of the 1800s and post-WWII.

Despite having lived in the US for the past couple of years, Luca is still oblivious to a lot of American things.

She’s grown up thinking the US was a failed state, but now she hates her own country more for betraying their liberal ideals.

[ailynyaxley]

            i am strong but also destructive. i’m restless and harsh and hopeless.              though i have love inside myself. it’s just that i don’t know how to use love.

AILYN ZANELE YAXLEY really is the spitting image of ANTOINETTE ROBERTSON, right? For someone only 26 years old, AILYN has been forced to endure so much. Yeah, that PUREBLOOD has been scraping by at the sanctuary since JULY, 2028, working as a HISTORY TEACHER in the DIVISION OF CIVILIANS. SHE is a CIS WOMAN and is known to be INDIFFERENT and SECRETIVE but also INTELLECTUAL and ADAPTABLE. Best of luck surviving through this.

LINKS – pinboard, stats. playlist. CHARACTER PARALLELS – elle woods (legally blonde), allison reynolds (all for the game), michaela pratt (how to get away with murder), sun bak (sense8) TRIGGER WARNING – sexism, alcoholism, abuse, trauma, death (all have a trigger warning in-text too)

pre-outbreak

sexism tw || ailyn was born as the first child to andre and thandi yaxley, the first granddaughter to corban yaxley (who, at the time of her birth, was still rotting away in azkaban). she was wished for, kind of ----- her parents didn’t wish to raise children together, but did wish to have children so they could further their legacy. and then, of course, there was the fact that ailyn was a girl, which was a bit of a disappointment for andre yaxley, who wanted his firstborn to a son, because --- well, he’s instilled with traditional values that make no one happy (except him, i guess). || end of tw

andre yaxley is not a good man. he grew up in the shadow of his father ---- a successful death eater, who pulled the strings behind a ministry coup once, filled with a bitter wish for justice for him, angry that his father is imprisoned when he was so good at what he did, constantly hoping that the day will come where he can prove himself to be as good at scheming, plotting and cruelty as his father

spoiler: he’s not. he’s a useless piece of stale bread.

alcoholism tw || ailyn is raised in a web of lies. her father had inherited the once successful family company and had let it go bankrupt due to his incompetence, the shame that followed the family name and again, his incompetence, but did not speak of this: every day, he’d kiss his wife goodbye and go to work. but his workplace was the pub, and his work was drinking more beers than good for a man. her mother, who acted as if she was happily married to andre yaxley, smelled of other lovers when she came home from shopping or tea dates with friends.

ailyn is a smart child, an observant one, and figures out all the lies her life is built on quite early on in life. she learned how relative really truth is, how easy lies come. she confronts her father once, when he’s intoxicated and half asleep, and he tells her that he doesn’t have a job any more, that all the money they have comes from his parents-in-law, and he’s angry and disgusted and ailyn thinks he’s angry with her at first, but later understands that he just hates himself. (she would too, if she were him.) 

abuse tw || but while he is mostly angry at himself, he does sometimes direct his anger towards his wife, towards his kids. mostly verbally, sometimes physically. || end of tws

her brother is born when she is five. he is a boy, and her dad prefers him, and she would like to say now that she never cared about her father’s useless opinions, but she did, and she hated it. but she loved her brother, even though he wasn’t as critical as she was, and kept truths from him because of it. 

hogwarts rolled around, and ailyn was sorted in slytherin, though she was nearly a ravenclaw. she would have thrived in both, to be honest, but the sorting hat saw her ambition and self serving nature and thought her a slytherin more. she didn’t care either way. at hogwarts, she kept up her family’s façade, pretending that they were indeed like many other old pureblood families --- rich and thriving, despite controversy. 

she was bitter, though, didn’t want feigned success and richness, wanted something to be really proud of -- not just those fucking lies. ailyn’s hunger for her own success was born then. 

hogwarts was where she learned --- where she learned about her own power, and her lack of it. because here’s the thing: ailyn isn’t a good witch. she’s no good at wand waving and spells and any kind of practical magic besides potions. she understands magic --- delves into the theory of it and understands the tough texts --- and writes stellar essays, but when it comes to charming or transfiguring things, she’s shit. and honestly, ailyn has always had her doubts about blood purism but never pushed herself to actually doubt those ideals (because that’s what she was learned, and sometimes she’s scarily indifferent, and it puts her on a pedestal, and she didn’t mind that for a while), but when she sees that she -- a witch with so-called pure blood -- is no good at magic when others with so-called lesser blood are ten times better, she understands: it’s fucking bullshit.

she’s vague about her stance on it, mostly keeps her feelings hidden under layers of eye rolls and cynicism --- part of her is scared of word getting back to her parents, she supposes. another part of her likes being vague, too. an enigma. 

ailyn also found her love for history at hogwarts. not because of binns, of course --- she wishes she could kill a ghost multiple times during her years in his class --- but because of the work she does herself. obscure parts of history are devoured by her in the library. she learns about muggle history, shamelessly, intrigued by the ethics and morals of humans. 

ailyn might be a shit witch, but she’s very, very intelligent. she’s booksmart, able to read tough books with ease, able to write stellar essays and retain a lot of information at once. she likes learning theoretical stuff, likes getting her head dirty rather than her hands, and it’s because of that that she keeps passing her classes. 

besides, she thinks that it’s more valuable to have a good set of brains than to be good with a wand.

after graduation, ailyn got an administrative job at the ministry, just to make a bit of money, not because she wished to kickstart a career there. she started interning under a historian, and once she had made enough money from her job to have a bit of a safety net, she moved out of her parents house.

and then she didn’t look back. she didn’t cut ties, not really, but she started sending letters less frequently. her relationship with her parents had only worked when she had been dependent on them, and now that she was no longer, she no longer had any interest in being close with them --- she hated her father, thought her mother a coward, knew that they didn’t care about her, not really, not as they should. and so a wedge grows. ailyn shows up for family dinners every now and then and keeps in touch, but she focuses more on her own life, her life outside of her family.

ailyn gained the title of historian when she was twenty two, and started writing essays, starting doing research, comparing patterns in muggle and wizarding history, writing for magazines and reveling in her own success. she builds her own life, in her small apartment in cardiff and does what she loves, and does it well. 

outbreak

ailyn is working on her first book when everything goes to shit. she is in talks with obscurus books about a publishing deal, and is working on her first draft --- it’s a dream come true, and then everything goes to shit.

sexism tw || a bit of background on her family: her father and brother rejoined the death eaters, her father so fucking desperate to live up to his own father, her brother in his turn desperate to make his own father proud. ailyn isn’t even asked to join as well, because she’s just a girl, and she’s a bad witch at that. she doesn’t care. she doesn’t even want to join, anyway --- the death eaters are stupid, just as blood purism, and she doesn’t care that her father underestimates her because of her femininity. let him underestimate her. || end of tw

cardiff is overrun when she’s at home. she barricades her doors, her windows, everything, thinks that she can survive in her small home, sit it out, but it doesn’t fucking end --- there’s no government to fix this, no one is coming, no one is fixing this --- and ailyn is terrified. she can’t stay at home, but where can she go? 

away. and eventually, hogwarts. she travels by foot -- and sometimes by car, or another muggle vehicle -- with a small group, made up of muggles and wixen alike. she doesn’t dare apparate, because she was never very good at it and she’s unable to get in the right headspace to even try. besides, she feels a sort of loyalty to the people she’s with. which ... is odd, because ailyn has always only felt loyal to herself, and maybe her brother, and maybe some of her friends --- and yet it feels good, amidst all the bad, so she sticks with them. 

trauma and death tw || ailyn isn’t built for an apocalypse. of course, no one really is, but her weapon of choice is wit and words, and she can’t fight inferi with those. and so she fights with a bat, at times, rather than a wand. it’s not an easy journey --- of course it’s not --- and ailyn sees things that traumatise her; death and decay, and the inferi in general, and she’s not sure how she’s able to keep moving because she’s not built for this, she’s not, she’s not

she arrives at hogwarts in july, and has to prove that she’s not a death eater --- which she does with an eyeroll, even if she understands. she’s filled with trauma and grief, but she’s not the only one at least --- which is a strange comfort, but a horrible thing, too. she’s not sure how to deal with these emotions, though, because they’re overwhelmingly real, and before she was always able to choke her feelings down and ignore them, but now she shakes with them at times, and she doesn’t know how to talk about them, or what to do with them ---- theyre just there, these traumas and memories and feelings, and she can’t do shit about them. end of tws

ailyn becomes a history professor, teaching kids and teens, an infinite times better than binns ever could have. and she loves that. she finds comfort in that, that she can still do something with her passion. she returns to the library with warmth in her heart --- that’s the only good thing about this, she supposes, that she has unlimited access to the hogwarts library again (ye - she is a nerd)

it’s all ... a big learning experience, mostly. a way for ailyn to learn about the danger of her own indifference (which is fading more and more), a way for her to learn how to be compassionate without feeling like she’s weak, a way for her to open herself to people she wouldnt have looked at twice before

the circumstances suck though lmakldfhsjdf

personality & details

ailyn is a true neutral, powder pink lipstick lesbian who will drag your ass through the mud while speaking to you sweetly with a :) smile :). she has a mean streak and her nature isnt necessarily malicious but she can be when she chooses to. this streak most often shows itself in front of people that ailyn thinks lesser of/people that annoy her

she’s just … tired. tired of humanity and all the people around her and the ruckus theyre causing. ailyn just wants people to Chill Out and use their heads in stead of whatever’s motivating them ( their genitals, hearts, stomachs, whatever ). she feels very … Genius LMAO because she’s such a realist and she thinks she has the world all figured out when, obviously, she doesnt.

ailyn is very sure of herself, incredibly confident — sometimes too confident ( though she’s of the opinion that girls can never be to confident ) and in turn she can be condescending and haughty. she’s self aware, though, about most things. she knows where her strengths and weaknesses lie and has made peace with it, even knows that she’s arrogant and harsh, but doesn’t care much.

ailyn is hyperfeminine, believes in lethal femininity and the colour pink. very much elle woods in that sense — she loves fashion and make up and velvet high heels and looking good, but has a ready mind that she’ll apply to reach her goals at any given moment in time. will Not be underestimated because she’s girly (or, well, youre free to underestimate her, but you’re wrong and she cant wait to let you see that). a firm believer in the matriarchy. lover of womanhood.

she also … just thinks lowly of men a lot. like — her dad’s a deadbeat idiot alcoholic broke dude and he Sucks, and then there’s people like grindelwald and voldemort and a long string of ministers, prime ministers and presidents that just proof that men shouldnt be in power to her LMAO. her interest in history is mostly just ailyn sighing at the deeds of men and how they continue to disappoint her.

LOVES greek mythology and medusa is her #1 fave

emotionally constipated but less so than usual???? whew

she’s .... a nerd ... .... we stan

tbh she can be quite charming and fun to be around but she also can be all sharp edges and iciness ... depends on the mood, and who you are

idk i just love her and she’s ... rly living up to her potential here whew!!!

[starlight-drive-in]

All My Life, for You - Ch. 9: Sons of Shame

Fandom: Mystic Messenger 

Fic Description:

Mi-Cha and Saeyoung have been happily married for 5 years and their lives have never been happier. The same could be said for Saeran who is now in a much healthier place than he was a few years ago. The twins are close once again, their lives are healthy and normal for the most part. It would seem the picture perfect happily ever after, if it weren’t for the fact that someone who has been looking for them for a long time is about to make an unwelcome appearance.

Saeyoung has two things in this world he has sworn to protect, and nothing is going to stop him from keeping his promise this time.

(Check AO3 Link for Tags)

Relationships: Saeyoung Choi/MC (named), Saeran Choi/OC

Chapter Description:

Saeyoung learns more about what's going on at his childhood home. Unknown makes a unexpected appearance, falling into his old anger and blame at Saeyoung and in turn, gains some perspective from Mi-Cha.

Notes:

I had some time off this week due to being sick (Please ignore any cold medicine induced mistakes) and was finally able to crank this baby out. Writing all the parody names for things from the game was a lot of fun. On the other hand, a lot of the chapter was very emotional to write- so heads up for mentions of childhood trauma, cursing, and familial arguments I suppose?

AO3 Link | First Chapter

Mi-Cha sits idly on the bed in the room she shares with her husband, staring at the screen of her laptop, trying to catch up on emails from clients she missed while on vacation. Try as she may each word she reads is forgotten in an instant, drowned out by her anxiety. There has to be something she can do to help her husband and brother-in-law. Something to help them all stay safe, they’re both always working so hard, it’s hard not to feel a tad useless at times like this.

Of course, if she asked them they would tell her that she was helping in just the way she had for so long. That emotional support was just as important as all their expertise in computers, or as Saeyoung’s gun training or Saeran’s ability to be neither seen nor heard, but it never felt that way to her.

She clicks another email, not even getting through the greeting line before her mind drifts again. Sometimes she forgets how much hidden discourse followed the twins, how truly controversial their existence was. But the truth was no matter how dangerous Saeyoung was, and how many times he had tried to make her realize this, no one else had ever made her feel safer. They lived in a bulletproof, undetectable-by-satellite bunker, and were armed to the teeth for god’s sake. So why was she still so damned worried? Well, the man threatening them was the Prime Minister after-all and as of right now he was looking like a top candidate for the presidency, which would make him even more powerful. It was logical to be worried at a time like this, she reasons.

But this felt different, it felt bad in a way nothing ever has to her before. She wasn’t even this scared when they went to Mint Eye all those years ago. Sure, she had a level of fear but she had a good feeling everything would work out, which had been right for the most part, at least she thinks, as a pang of guilt washes over her in V’s memory mostly, but not completely.

She was being ridiculous, the twins were practically reality’s equivalent to superheroes. Nothing had stopped them in 26 years, not even each other. With them working together? Their father didn’t stand a chance. Right?

She drops her head into her hands with a defeated sigh.

“Uh-oh.” Saeyoung’s voice pierces the silence, having just entered the room. “I know that sigh.”

Mi-Cha peaks out at him through her fingers.

“That’s my MC’s Trademark Defeated Sign of Ultimate Stress,” He says with a worried smile.

She drops her hands and looks at him with a weak smile. “I may be slightly concerned, yes”

He plops down on the bed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she sits cross-legged in the middle of their bed and nestles her against his chest.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She gently pushes off of him and looks him closely in the eyes, “I’m not worried about me Sae, I’m worried about you.”

“Oh.” He blinks, looking almost surprised. “You don’t have to worry about me, I’m used to this kind of stuff.”

“Saeyoung.”

“Hmm?”

“That doesn't make it any better”

“Yea, I know.”

“I’d be lost without you Sae, I-” She stops to take a breath and push back a tear “I can’t lose you. I could lose anything else in my life and I’d learn how to deal with it but I can’t lose you.” Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence as he pulls her back into him and rubs her back soothingly.

Tears pool up in his eyes but he says nothing. She’s a strong woman, the strongest he knows. He knows she’d be able to live without him if it came down to that even if she doesn’t believe that right now. He kisses the top of her head. “I love you.” He mummers in a broken voice.

“I love you too.” She pauses “Even if you do have a Superman complex”

He chuckles through the tears. “I don't have a Superman complex!”

She snorts incredulously. “Uh-huh sure, and Jumin’s poor.”

He huffs into her hair, defeated. His wife wasn’t exactly wrong.

They sit for a few minutes, relishing the closeness of each other until a short knock at their open bedroom door grabs their attention.

“Hey uh, I think I’m going to go to bed” Saeran notifies the pair “My head hurts pretty bad and I think I need to lie down for a while. Unless you need me for something?” he prompts Saeyoung.

“Nah, you head to bed bro. I’ll hold down the fort. There’s Tiaranol in the bathroom if you need it,” Saeyoung lets him know.

“Thanks, I’ll be ok,” Saeran nods before heading down the hall to his bedroom.

When she hears the bedroom door shut Mi-Cha speaks up, “So I assume that means you won’t be coming to bed?”

“Mmmmm no I’m sorry, baby.” He says getting up from his spot on the bed.

“It’s ok.” She says, trying to hide her disappointment, “Evildoers don’t exactly wait for their victims to get don’t with restful night’s sleep. Even if their wives will be left all alone in a cold bed.” She pouts playfully.

He chuckles, “But this way you get all the blankets you want!”

“Oh true.” She answers, smirking and sinking in between the covers, cuddling them up to her face. “Ok, good luck with your work!” “Hey!” He pouts.

“I’m just messing with you Sae. I love you, please stay safe while you work.” She sits back up pressing a kiss so desperate to his lips that he can feel the urgency in it. She quickly deepens it, their tongues mingling together for a brief moment before she pulls away bashfully, realizing this wasn’t exactly the time for such things. “If I even can work after that.” He says rubbing his thumbs over her cheeks as he holds her face close to his.

“I have faith in you, God Seven.” She says with one more quick peck to his lips.

He groans “You know that doesn’t make things any easier” nuzzling her nose.

“Oops.” She says, getting back under the covers.

He kisses her forehead. “Goodnight My One and Only Life’s Main Character.” She giggles, “Goodnight My Adorably Too-Cheesy-For-His-Own-Good Husband.”

He gives her one last adoring smile before leaving the room. As he rounds the corner, the smile drops completely from his face and turns into one of complete determination as he heads back to the workroom.

-----

Some people say those who talk to themselves are geniuses, others say they’re crazy. Saeyoung Choi was likely both. The hammering of his keyboard and his own voice had been his soundtrack of the night for hours now. He wonders aloud how he used to do this every day, all alone in this house all by himself without seeing anyone for weeks except Vanderwood. It hadn’t even been very long and the loneliness was already setting in.

He picks up his phone and taps his wife’s contact info on impulse “She’s sleeping, she needs her sleep. Don’t wake her up.” He tells himself as he puts his phone back down, pushing it away. “Five years and I still haven’t learned how to focus on my work without trying to call her” He smiles affectionately.

It had been so long since he pulled an all-nighter alone like this. Usually, while he was working his freelance jobs from home and she was working out of her office in the city as an event planner, they’d be messaging throughout the day. So it made sense that he would have the urge to text her while working now also.

“Damnit me, focus!” he says to himself. “I have to see if I can override the shut down on one of those cameras, whatever they’re using that place for it can’t be good.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, recentering himself before continuing his quest.

Although proving harder than he had originally bargained for Saeyoung does eventually hack into one of the CCTV’s near his childhood home and get a feed going, all without alerting himself to whoever originally triggered the block through government portals. He presses the final key and waits for the feed to start up. Throwing himself a two-second victory party in the meantime, he finger guns at the screen and then blows of each “gun” as if he were some type of cowboy in an old western and he just won some type of duel.

As the live feed loads in, Saeyoung cringes. “Yea, that's definitely our old house,” he says to no one. Right now there are no signs of activity but in his head, he’s right there again, He remembers that street like the back of his hand. Remembers walking down it and feeling scared out his mind that someone his father sent was going to murder him as soon as he passed the corner. He remembers leaving once every few days with a shopping list in his head and a couple thousand Won he had to figure out how to stretch enough to cover everything his mother needed. Wanted he tells himself, she never needed 3 bottles of hard liquor a day. The things they really needed were never on the list, like medicine or decent food.

He remembers being shoved out that very door he can see right now in the feed accompanied by shrieks and Saeran’s cries, him begging Saeyoung not to go, followed by a loud slam. But he had to go. If he didn’t go, if he didn't get her what she wanted what would she do to him? More importantly, what would she do Saeran?

He always had to go, to protect his brother. And then he had to go for good, and that should have protected him.

Saeyoung shakes his head, not wanting to go down that path of blame right now. His brother was here now, and he was safe. Well, mostly safe. And in order to make sure he stays that way Saeyoung has to stay focused.

And so his remote stake-out began. Just him, his computer chair and a live feed of the place that had been the stage to his childhood trauma for 15 years.

He pops open a bag of Honey Buddha Chips and a Ph.D. Pepper from the mini-fridge under his desk and sits back, placing his socked feet up on his desk. “A regular ol’ party up in here!” He exclaims to no one, again. He places a chip in his mouth and mutters in between chewing, “Seriously, how did I used to live like this?!

47 minutes and 36 seconds later something catches his eye on the feed. A car pulls up, more specifically a Bercedes-Bentz S-Class (W222), A car he immediately recognizes as the same model the current president is typically transported in.

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself there aren't ya pops?” He says, saving the image of the vehicle that no doubt was ordered fully loaded, and with all the same safety and security features as the State Car.

“You wouldn't hack a car.” He says dramatically. “Oh wait! Yes, I would! Not now though, later”

He enters a search on the plate number in the meantime.

Two men get out of the front of the car and meet at the back passenger door, opening it in true royal fashion.

Saeyoung scoffs at the sight of the man who fathered him. Saejoong goes around back and opens the trunk of the car, stepping back so that his two underlings can get in there. Saeyoung can’t see around the back of the vehicle from his vantage point but from the way the two men's heads keep cresting the top of the car and then lowering again he can infer they must be unloading something or some things.

Saeyoung is so absorbed in watching the feed he doesn’t even notice someone else enter the workroom. He watches as the two men carry in a crate of bottles of something he can’t quite place.

“What a smug motherfucker.” He hears a voice say.

Saeyoung immediately jumps up from where he was sitting leisurely on his chair, his bag of chips and soda can crash unceremoniously to the floor.. “SHIT!” Saeyoung exclaims, “You scared the shit out of me, Saeran.”

The other person in the room smirks. “Try again.”

“Shit,” Saeyoung repeats quieter this time, stunned at the fact Unknown had willingly come into the room where he knew Saeyoung was. “Um, hi?”

“Look I don't want to be here as much as you don’t want me here but I have to check up on things if I want to make sure things are getting done correctly around here.”

Saeyoung can’t help but feel insulted at the insinuation but bites his tongue and tries not to upset the man. “Thanks for the warning, by the way, it was really helpful.” Unknown nods curtly before looking up at the screen, a look of disgust Saeyoung is used to being directed at him on his face, “What the fuck are they doing there?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Saeyoung says softly.

“Ugh.” Unknown groans, dispelling a trail of thought he’d rather not address as he watches the two men return from the house and pick up another crate before heading back toward the house again.

“Wait.” Unknown says urgently rushing closer to Saeyoung’s console, promptly shoving him out of the way. “Move.”

Saeyoung obeys without argument as the man occupying his brother’s body zooms in on what the men are carrying.

Saeyoung jumps and winces and Unknown slams his fist onto Saeyoung’s keyboard. “FUCK!” Unknown exclaims.

“What?!” Saeyoung asks in a hasty tone.

Unknown whirls around on him. “Are you fucking stupid?! Do you have any idea what that shit is?!”

Saeyoung balks at him, feeling pretty clueless as he shakes his head in the negative.

“That’s the Elixir of Salvation.” Unknown states.

Saeyoung’s eyes lock onto the screen again “What? H-how?!” He exclaims remembering the few stories hs brother had told him about the vile liquid.

Unknown throws his hands out wildly. “How should I know dipshit?! I haven't exactly been around to make sure the shit was gotten rid of properly.”

Saeyoung’s eyes widen at the accusation “If I remember correctly you weren’t very interested in disposing of it at all. If it was up to you, you’d probably have a bottle in the fridge right now.”

Unknown grits his teeth “Don’t turn this around on me! That shit fucked me up too! Did you ever think about that? Hmm? Sure it was great that it kept him out of the way but don’t you think for one minute that you know anything about me or what she used to do to me with that shit.” His voice becoming more hysterical.

“Saeran was right.” Saeyoung realizes.

Unknown scoffs “About what?”

“You have changed.”

“Fuck you.” Unknown spits.

Just then another voice pierces the air. “Saeyoung? S-Saeran?” Mi-Cha asks timidly, already knowing she’s wrong about the second one.

Unknown turns to look at her. “Oh hey Princess, long time no see.”

Mi-Cha ignores the pet name and looks at him pointedly “Is it true?” She asks him, approaching the two men, “Have you changed?” making it obvious she had heard them.

He sighs frustratedly in response. “Look I don’t know much about that, I don't have a lot of time to soul search as you might imagine. All I do know is that if your precious Brother-in-law touches that shit it's over for him, and if it's over for him, it's over for me. So here’s what you are going to do for me" he says, turning to Saeyoung, "You’re going to make sure he sees none of this. You’re going to make sure he has no idea the Elixir is involved and you are under no circumstances, to let him go there.” he takes another few steps towards Saeyoung, who is now backed up against the wall. "And if you do, I will be back with such a vengeance and just enough time to make sure you never see the light of day again and don't worry because I will be at death's door so I will have no issue taking you with me."

"At that point, I wouldn't try to stop you," Saeyoung says somberly. "I'd deserve it."

Mi-Cha frowns listening to the defeatist tone her husband seems to take on whenever Saeran’s alter makes an appearance.

Unknown backs off of Saeyoung "Good, so we're on the same page for once." He smirks.

“I think I get it,” Saeyoung says once he’s gained some of his personal space back.

“Do you?” Unknown questions, raising his eyebrow doubtfully.

Saeyoung nods, “You were created to keep Saeran safe during, well during everything that happened to him. You were created to protect him from the things he couldn't protect himself from and that's why you’re here now, he told me as much. I was doubtful at first but now it is obvious, I think we have a lot more in common than you think.” Saeyoung tries.

Unknown recoils as if burned, “I’m nothing like you. I saved him when you left. I kept us safe when you abandoned him. I took over to shield him from years of torture in the name of salvation the best I possibly could and you were nowhere to be found! I’m not like you, I’m much, much better.”

“That isn’t fair,” Mi-Cha interjects.

Unknown turns to her incredulously “Not fair?”

‘What happened to all of you wasn't Saeyoung’s fault.”

“Mi-Cha it’s ok” Saeyoung tries to tell her.

“No Saeyoung, it’s not ok. What happened to the two of you- the three of you. It wasn’t your fault. It was your mother’s ,and your father’s, and Rika’s, hell even V is more to blame than you were but you did the only thing you thought you could do. You thought you were protecting him, you could have never fathomed what was to come.”

She motions to Unknown now, “And you! Have you ever actually listened to his story? If the roles were reversed, how do you know Saeran wouldn't have done the same? Listen to Saeyoung, and if you can’t do that, then at least listen to Saeran because I know he’d have some choice words for you if he were here right now.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through!” Unknown screams hysterically, not taking his eyes off her, behind him she can see Saeyoung quietly remove a taser - a leftover of Vanderwood’s - from his desk drawer. He could beat Saeyoung up as much as he wanted, but if even laid a finger on Mi-Cha he was going down.

Mi-Cha nods reassuringly “You’re right. You’re completely right, I don't know what you’ve been through. All I know is that it was extremely hard and long and that neither you nor Saeran deserved it and for that, I am so, so sorry but please, try to take another look at everything. I can tell you’re a different person than you were five years ago, people grow and change, they learn to process their past and recover but first, you need to give yourself a chance. Give us a chance too, we’re not as bad as you think.”

Unknown scoffs “You’re fine.” He mumbles, “It’s him I can’t stand.” He says a bit more venomously.

“Have you ever thought your anger may be a bit displaced?” She says in the softest one she can manage. “Just think about it ok? Do some of that soul searching you haven't had time for.”

Unknown looks down, folding his arms and doesn’t respond for a while. He rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand and then groans. “I’m going to bed.” He mumbles stepping carefully around Mi-Cha and walking down the hall.

When the door shuts Saeyoung stares at her stunned. “How do you do that?”

Mi-Cha breathes a sigh of relief “Do what?” “Take the fight out people like that?”

“Just some good ol’ psychoanalyzation I suppose.” She shrugs awkwardly.

“You’re amazing,” He says closing the gap between them and hugging her.

“It’s not that impressive.” She says trying to brush it off.

“It really is though.” He responds with finality. “It seems you’ve saved me again.”

“You would have been fine.” She assures him.

“Alive maybe, but I prefer my face free from black eyes,” he says, going over to the console to rewind the video, ensuring he didn't miss anything after things had started to get heated.

Usually, she’d have a witty response for him but right now she’s feeling emotionally and physically exhausted, both from the previous exchange and lack of sleep.

Saeyoung confirms the car on screen drove away shortly after what he saw and sets up the feed to record onto his hard drive as well as a motion detection program linked to an app on his phone in case anything happens before morning. He acts with purpose but Mi-Cha doesn't miss the slight tremble in his fingertips, or the worried crease on his usually smooth forehead.

When he’s done he puts his computer on sleep mode and wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her with him out of the room, “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

“Do you think he’ll be ok in there?” She asks looking down the hall at Saeran’s room as they cross the hallway.

Saeyoung follows her eyes “I think you’ve given him something to think about.”

_________________

Annnnd that's where we'll leave off! I was a little nervous about this chapter. Hopefully you've enjoyed the new developments!

[sovietarchive-blog]

so i need to know what are certian things you see in illya others dont? does he fear anything? does he wish to redo anything? what is his relationship with solo & teller now? does he still see himself as a monster? how do you canon his sexuality and kgb training? is more attuned to uncle or the kgb? has he seen his parents ever again? does he lile to travel, if so best place he traveled? what was the one thing he got in trouble for the most as a child? who does he look up to?

          thank you so much for sending this in!  I love questions like this and don’t get the opportunity to answer them very often.  while I can’t say that I definitively see things in illya that other people definitely don’t  –  I do flatter myself that I’ve put an enormous amount of thought into his character and understand him pretty well, so I’m really excited to delve into all of these things!

does he fear anything?

          illya is very, very human, despite what some might think.  (see: solo’s initial comments to his superior officer after that first chase with him.)  he certainly has fears, although death isn’t among them ;  he’d much rather die with honor than live with shame.  for the most part, he’s been desensitized to fears the way most people see them, as part of his kgb training, because ultimately the goal is for these agents to have very little for their enemies to hold over their heads / threaten them with.  that said, his superiors, as exhibited in the film, actively fed illya’s single deepest fear:  ending up like his father.  in a way, I think that fear was partially artificially created by the institution which got its claws into him at an incredibly young age ;  even before his official kgb training, he attended ‘exclusive’ schools closely monitored by the government and was fed propaganda which eventually morphed his opinion of both himself and his country, which we see later.

          illya has very little concern for his own self-preservation and clearly quite a low self-image, in that he sees himself as little more than a cog in the soviet machine.  shame on himself is shame on his country  –  and perhaps more importantly than that, shame on his family.  his mother remains a deeply important part of his life and I think that he fears for her reputation as well.  solo brings up his mother’s reputation in the movie  –  and I think illya’s rage has less to do with how his father’s friends saw her and more with the fact that these were things she had to do in order to keep herself and her young son afloat.  he never wants to put her in the same position his father did, and the idea of shaming himself and compromising her in the process is also a great fear of his.  all other fears, in comparison, are inconsequential.

does he wish to redo anything?

          I’m not sure illya has ever felt like he has the sort of autonomy to be able to wish this.  even later on in life, when he’s been given the opportunity to step back from the soviets, join u.n.c.l.e., and eventually retire, even after he comes to terms with the fact that he didn’t deserve what they did to him, he realizes that things could not have ended up any other way.  he was too young to have had the opportunity to make a choice when they got their hands on him, and by the time he’s deep into the kgb, it was simply too dangerous to try to leave  –  and he has his mother to think about.  fortunately, u.n.c.l.e. provided him some relief and eventually he gets to leave spying entirely, but when it comes to wishing he could redo things?

          honestly there’s the occasional moment he wishes he could relive.  he wishes he could say something else to someone he likes, instead of being his awkward self.  he wishes he would have used a different move in a fight or a different interrogation tactic in a particular moment.  but when it comes to overarching themes of his life?  there’s not much he feels he could have done differently even if he wanted to.

what is his relationship with solo & teller now?

          I can honestly say that every dynamic I’ve ever imagined or rped with others has me convinced that, despite occasional roadblocks, illya grows to deeply care for both solo and teller more than anyone he’s ever cared for in his life, except perhaps his mother.  you see those relationships growing in the duration of the film, but illya  …  well, frankly, he’s never had anything like a functional family, nor people he feels actually care about him.  his relationship with gaby obviously progresses more quickly in the film  –  in that he’s willing to even voice his concern about her to solo later on and he’s very soft with her particularly in their last one on one scene  –  but I think that solo returning his watch is a real turning point in their relationship.  obviously, they’ve grown to care in some capacity about each other and they’re in a place where they won’t leave each other behind.  illya definitely feels some level of camaraderie with solo even before this moment.  but until then, he’s absolutely planning on killing solo for the disc.  sure, illya is aware that solo was, more or less, saving his own skin in that moment  –  but the fact that solo a) remembered the significance of the watch, b) considered that even as they were storming that island and c) thought enough of it to both recognize and take back the watch to begin with, is more thoughtfulness by far than illya is used to, despite the motivations of the exact moment in which he returns it.

          the following scene, in which they burn the disc, is by far the most egregious breach of orders illya has ever committed, but not only is he unwilling to destroy this relationship he’s built up, no matter how tenuous it remains, he’s also fully aware of the implications of either the u.s.a. or soviet union getting their hands on that disk.

          I can only imagine those strange yet strong bonds deepen with each mission.  regardless of any romantic connections, which largely rely on my rp partners, he would die for either of them, whether or not they feel the same.  he’s never had a dynamic support system like the one they offer, and frankly, I think waverly, to some extent, is included in this as well.  as far as illya is concerned, even if only on a subconscious level, this is the closest thing he’s had since childhood to a real family and he’ll do anything to protect that.

does he still see himself as a monster?

          yes and no.  having functional and meaningful relationships with other people, as we see him developing at the end of tmfu, certainly helps him understand his humanity outside of what the kgb expects of him.  I think he will always be somewhat ashamed of some of the things he’s done  –  and alarmingly blasé about others  –  and he’s certainly, to some extent, broken for the rest of his life, but having gaby and solo in his life absolutely helps him rebuild at least some of his opinion of himself, allowing him to see more than just a monster or a machine, because they help him see more than that, too.

          I haven’t written much about his relationship with waverly either  …  but I’m fairly convinced that the human way in which waverly treats them  ( shitty sarcastic jokes and all )  helps a great deal with this recovery process as well.  the way his soviet handler speaks to him is alarmingly awful, and even though waverly pokes dry fun at both the boys at almost all times, I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t be a far more empathetic boss than illya is used to  –  likely checking in on their well being, as he did for gaby, and just generally being  …  a pleasant superior in the harsh world of intelligence.  specifically I headcanon that waverly learns everything he can about illya’s skills and encourages him to use all of them, particularly those that aren’t connected to his physical prowess and rather to his intellectual side, which I think is often underutilized and underestimated by others.

how do you headcanon his sexuality and kgb training?

          since I don’t have time to go into his whole kgb training, I’m just going to kind of  …  do this as a ‘how did his training affect his sexuality’ even though I don’t know if that’s how it’s meant.  it’s really quite simple:  russia has never felt great about homosexuality, so although he’s always been attracted to men, it’s always something he’s vehemently ignored and tried to move past.  it’s been drilled into him over and over that same sex attraction is a bad thing  –  and furthermore that the government won’t hesitate to hurt him over it.  it’s something that makes him feel dirty and wrong for a very long time, at least until he’s a little more freed from their expectations.

          illya has been aware of his attraction to both men and women since he was in his mid-teens.  do I think he was ever punished for it?  no, because he’s always been quiet, cautious, and watchful.  I don’t think he’s ever told anybody up until  ( and frankly past )  tmfu canon, because before he ever had the chance to trust anyone enough to reveal it, he saw what happened to those who did and were found out.  within the ranks, it could be brutal and it put him off ever vocalizing his feelings, encouraging him instead to hold those urges back for years.

          in this way, u.n.c.l.e. serves yet another healthy purpose for him.  it gives him just a little more freedom to explore himself  –  and furthermore, an environment in which to do it.  I’m a big subscriber to the napoleon / illya ship and I actually don’t think that illya had much, if any, experience with men before he and solo started their thing  –  which again varies depending on who I’m rping with / what situation I’m thinking of.  this is something he’s repressed for a very long time, and no matter what, it takes time for him to be comfortable with his sexuality.  I also can’t get on board with the initial solo / illya hate-fucking that I see a lot, even though I really wish I could, mostly because I think that illya would absolutely have to learn to trust solo long before he’d be willing to engage with him sexually  --  because he’s terrified of the repercussions and what the russians would do to him, his mother, and his reputation as a result if they found out.

is he more attuned to u.n.c.l.e. or the kgb?

          I think that, at first, he’d like to think it’s the kgb, but he’s always been more attuned to u.n.c.l.e.  I’ve explained many of the reasons why further up in this post, but it basically comes down to the fact that u.n.c.l.e. offers him a camaraderie that the kgb never has and the people he works with in the organization actually care about him as a human being rather than just a weapon.

has he seen his parents ever again?

          he never saw his father after he was shipped off to siberia when illya was a child.  however, as for his mother, he did actually grow up with her still around and he maintains a pretty good relationship with her, although he doesn’t care for the man she eventually chose to remarry, who was a friend of his father’s.  he talks to her somewhat regularly and spends holidays with her when he can, although often he ends up being away and simply sends her a present.  he loves his mother very much and will always be available for her, no matter what.

does he like to travel?  if so, what’s the best place he’s ever traveled?

          this is another ‘yes and no’ question.  he’s spent the majority of his career traveling and I think that he has questionable memories in the majority of the world.  he equates a lot of his traveling experience with his profession and that’s not necessarily a good thing for his opinion of it.  however, he’s also an academic and he does love to visit certain locations around the world when he can.  he loves germany.  he loves vienna.  he loves egypt and scotland and croatia.  he didn’t initially like paris at all but he’s grown to truly appreciate it over the years.

          after his retirement, I think he finds much more peace in traveling for himself and thus will enjoy it more.  however, as for his favorite place, I headcanon that he purchases land sometime during his career in the black forest of western germany, a few miles outside a small town, in a very picturesque location where he can essentially just  ...  disappear.  the mystery and lore and beauty of that area just  ...  fits him wonderfully.  I think he’d want a place outside of russia in addition to his moscow flat, which he visits less and less as he gets older, and the entire area is just so lovely and fairly isolated and would give him an opportunity to really live his best life.  it’s not so much traveling, as he would live there, but it would certainly be his favorite place.  it’s peaceful and beautiful and honestly waht he deserves.

what was the one thing he in trouble for the most as a child?

          he was largely a very well behaved child, especially after his father was taken away, and I don’t think he got into pretty much any trouble after his father was taken to the gulag, because it scared him too much.  he was also always a very quiet boy without too many friends and certainly not prone to being disruptive or careless or really even particularly reckless.  ( even the recklessness we see in the film is typically very calculated. )  as a schoolchild, I think he used to get in trouble for a) not engaging well with other children and b) probably trying to read while the teacher taught, on occasion.

          when the ‘ psychotic episodes ’ began  ...  that was a different story.  I think that he unwittingly hurt several fellow students and was subsequently sent to reform / military schools.  nobody really did much to help what was happening to him and instead the government eventually took advantage of this part of him.  he has them largely under control now, but it’s still something that continues to haunt him  --  and that he continues to struggle with regularly, as we see.

who does he look up to?

          illya’s past is  ...  almost devoid of any role models, when you really think about it.  his superiors were almost always fairly cruel, and while he respected them and strove to please, I don’t really think he looked up to them.  he once looked up to his father, but that faded once he was sent off ;  frankly, his father broke his heart and betrayed him, and while he still holds love for him in his heart, I wouldn’t say he looks up to him.

          in his youth, I think that illya was guided largely by the heroes of russian literature, in the absence of anyone of flesh and blood.  grigoriy pechorin of lermontov’s a hero of our time.  pierre bezukhov of tolstoy’s war and peace.  ( oddly )  rodion raskolnikov of dostoyevsky’s crime and punishment.  university had an excellent influence on him, however, as the professors he encountered there gave him an opportunity to look up to real people, and he remains in contact particularly with his mentors from his graduate and doctorate programs, as often as he can.  university was the first time when he connected with people he felt were interested in mentoring him, rather than simply controlling him, and it was a very positive experience for him.

          I also believe that he eventually develops a real respect and admiration for waverly as a superior officer.  waverly, who is intelligent, often kind, but also firm.  waverly, who grows to understand illya’s humor more quickly than others do.  waverly, the first superior in his life who genuinely ends up being kind to him.  in his life as a spy, this relationship ends up providing him the most guidance and confidence, eventually.

[coffeeandtin]

Somebody That I Used to Know

Anon requested a story where the reader knew Red before, and they have a cute reunion. (Absolutely no intertexuality to be had with that song, but damned if the title doesn’t neatly encapsulate the idea of the story.)

          Apart from yourself and the bartender, the saloon you sat in was empty. Sunday morning. You figured everyone was at church, and the relative solitude suited you. The corner table you occupied afforded you a view of the men who entered the bar. The darkly clad black man was followed by a tall Mexican.

          “I’m just saying, Vasquez, that I’ve never had to pay for it,” said the white man who was on the heels of the Mexican.

           “I suppose you’re going to tell me they pay you, huh, Faraday?”

           “Not quite,” Faraday said with a bark of laughter. “But they won’t take my money, either.”

           That elicited a long-suffering eye roll and a grudging chuckle from Vasquez, who propped his elbows on the bar. You were relatively certain you heard him said something like, “Oh, you’ll still pay for it, mi amigo.”

           A fourth member of the unique procession entered through the batwing doors. Maybe it was the way his dark eyes roamed the room, his high cheekbones, or the angle of his jaw that made your breath hitch. Maybe it was something more subtle than that, but you gaped as recognition, and the denial thereof, burned in your mind.  

           It can’t be him, you thought.

          Cautioning yourself against false hope had become a reflex.

Before

           You and your family met with members of the Comanche band every several months, on the mornings after new moons. You traded your goods, and no one asked -or cared -where your particular bounties came from. You looked forward to meetings. You’d made a friend, of sorts: the Comanche boy who was in attendance. As you were around the same age, the two of you gravitated toward each other. On your first meeting, you both stood across from each other while the adults bartered. You and the boy regarded each other with the curiosity to which youth is entitled. For the benefit of your parents, your faces remained sullen, but smiles played at the corners of your eyes.

           You took steps and counter steps, as though you were sizing each other up. You circled each other with feigned suspicion; and when you found yourselves in the places you began, you both grinned without reservation. A friendship of sorts bloomed from there. The two of you rarely played; at least not in the overly boisterous way that would be expected of children. Though you were both expected to learn from your parents’ dealings, you would occasionally wander together. You would race each other, and you would exchange things. Sometimes they were words in one another’s languages; sometimes they were little odds and ends that you would both lose in short order.

           You grew together. You learned. Life continued in that agreeable pattern…until it didn’t. The boy, who became a warrior called Red Harvest, and his family ceased to meet with yours. An explanation was never offered, but it wasn’t needed. The government was forcing Native peoples onto increasingly smaller tracts of land. Your father lamented that it was a damn shame on my many accounts. And you agreed with absent nods while you regretted the loss of your friend.

           There were times when you’d nearly convinced yourself that the boy had been a figment of your imagination.

          Gunfire snapped you from your reverie. Everyone in the bar went still, until more reports sounded in short order. You heard the bartender say something about a band of outlaws having returned. There was the collective rustling of cloth and leather. Everyone who had weapons adjusted them in preparation for a fight, and you were no exception.

          “Y’all are welcome to get into the cellar if you want,” the bartender said as he took a shotgun from under the bar. “I’ll be protecting my establishment.”

           No one took the bartender up on his offer; and he smiled as though he hadn’t expected that anyone would, anyway.

          “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Sam,” Faraday said.

          Judging by his smile, you guessed that his words were spoken in jest. In fact, there was no one in attendance who did not look as though they were capable of violence.

          Hands found their way to weapons, and if it hadn’t been clear before that Sam was the leader of that little band, it was now. They were ready for a fight at a moment’s notice, but they all looked to him before making a move. You watched the impassive features of the Native man.

         Handsome, you thought, even as you marshaled your energy toward a fight.

         You thought to offer an introduction, but before he could say a word, a man of Eastern descent rushed through the door. Guns and silver knives were situated around his hips, but it was the blood-stained blades in his hands that drew your attention. Something clicked in your mind in that moment. Stories about seven men who took on an army, saved a town, and lived to tell the tale. If you weren’t mistaken, there should be several more in their ranks.

          “How many, Billy?” Sam asked.

          “Thirty,” Billy said in a voice that was quiet, but commanded attention, nonetheless. “Maybe more. The ones that aren’t looting are around the church. Hostages.”

          “Goody?”

          “Across the street, on the general store’s roof.”

          “Jack?”

          “I don’t know,” Billy said as he gave a small shake of his head.

          Sam sighed and nodded at the concise report, before putting on his hat.

          “Red?” Sam asked.

          The Native man lifted his head upward in response.

          Red?! Your mind gripped the name. Surely, that was more than just coincidence?

          Sam tilted his head toward the second story window, and Red nodded in understanding. He looked at you as he walked, wordlessly, toward the stairs. His dark eyes flickered over you in a quick study. You held your breath. If he recognized you, he gave no indication; and you could only watch as he scaled the stairs and disappeared out the window.

          “How about you?” Sam inquired.

          You realized you were being addressed, and you ceased your scrutiny of the window.

          “Those ain’t just for show are they?” Faraday interpreted as he tilted a head toward your revolvers.

          “Not just,” you said, as you matched his giddy grin.

          Red nocked the arrow he’d drawn from his quiver and surveyed the streets while staying as out-of-sight as he could. He could see Goodnight on a catty-corner roof. They would wait until Sam and the rest began a counter attack to provide cover. The anticipation he would usually have felt was replaced by the flutter of uncertainty; and he required no introspection to discover the source. He thought of you, and the way the two of you used to race and laugh. He thought of the fall of your hair, and the color of your eyes. He thought the shape of your lips and the way they used to form smiles just for him.

          It’s you, he thought. It has to be.

          The Seven had faced far worse odds. In point of fact, they had been hopelessly outmatched by Bogue’s army. But now that it appeared you might join this conflict, the risk seemed unreasonable. He heard movement at the back of the building he stood on. On silent feet, he pedaled himself over and peered down. He watched you and Faraday exit the saloon and start in the direction of the church. He watched you go and might have gotten lost mapping the familiarity of your movements, if it hadn’t been for the beginning of the fray.

          With effort, he unrooted himself from his position at the back of the building. If you and Faraday were taking the back way toward the church to flank the men there, you’d be as safe as you could hope to be. He’d seen your guns, and your readiness for a fight. Though he wanted to watch your every move and keep you safe, his instinct as a warrior told him that you were not an easy mark. He directed his attention to the front of the saloon, where Sam and Billy were embattled.

          Red loosed an arrow that streaked through the air until it tore into the meat of a raider’s throat before that man could gun down Sam. Movement in an alley across the street told him that Vasquez was taking the parallel route to you and Faraday. Red heard gunfire issue from the last place he’d seen you, and it took all of his strength not to run that way. He knew he, and the rest of The Seven could not afford for his attention to be divided.

          As you made your way toward the church, you reminded yourself to watch Faraday’s back, as opposed to the rooftops. Just in time, too. Four men peeled around the corner, but they payed you no mind until you and Faraday began firing on them. The only shot any of them managed went wide, and by the time their bodies collapsed into the dust you and the other gunslinger had moved on.

          You bypassed three more buildings before you met with more resistance. This time there were five, then six, then seven. You and Faraday chipped away at that number. Six, five, four. A round struck Faraday’s shoulder; and another grazed your thigh. You ignored the pain and returned fire with wild, wrathful passion, striking two more of your enemies dead. Then there was the hiss of an arrow. And another. But the protective shadow that had cast itself over you was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

          Faraday tucked himself behind a pile of lumber and began to reload. You followed suit.

          “You alright?” you asked as you both replenished your weapons’ rounds with dexterous fingers.

          “I’ve had plenty worse,” Faraday announced, as he moved his injured shoulder.

          You took note of his scars and wondered about the battle the men had fought together. Faraday continued to smile, even as he winced, and you considered that that was a line he used often, and with much aplomb.

          The two of you stood, and your eyes roamed the rooftops in search of another sign of your one-time friend.

          “You got a thing for Red?” Faraday asked as he grinned with the infuriating self-assurance of someone who was used to exploiting small details.  

          Rather than answer, you charged around the corner. Faraday followed, and the two of you gunned down several more men before settling at the final building before the church. There were shouts, and sporadic gunfire. You strained to hear footfalls above you, or the thrum of a bowstring being released. You knew it was folly, though. The chaos was already abating, and the half dozen men around the church were dispatched quickly. If you’d been less preoccupied with Red’s location, you might have found humor in the way the outlaws fled from the mountain man, Jack, you assumed; who burst from the church.

           The euphoria of battle you should have felt was entirely absent. You stood over a body that had an arrow protruding from its chest, as you searched the street. When you saw no sign of Red, you widened your search to include the rooftops, but to no avail.

          “Looks like I owe Red Harvest the bounty on this one,” Sam said as he walked up beside you. He looked from the corpse to the poster he held in his hands. Your mouth opened and closed; words escaped you. You looked at Sam. He didn’t seem concerned that Red was absent, and he lifted his eyebrows and made a show of shifting his gaze to the space behind you.

          You turned to see Red Harvest; and you smiled as you felt relief wash over you. He approached slowly, and then stopped. The arch in his brow, and his gaze made you wonder if he was asking the same questions about you that you’d been asking about him. There was hope mingled with doubt. You seemed to be at some sort of maddening impasse when he made an exaggerated step to his left. You offered a reciprocal motion and the two of you circled each other like you had so many years ago. He pulled you into his arms, and you hugged one another so fiercely that any onlookers might have thought you were trying to deprive each other of breath. It was still a more tender gesture than either of you had become accustomed to during the years that had separated you.

          You felt the warmth and strength of his body, and the way his necklace was pressed between you. He was real. He was there, along with all of the memories of the way life used to be.

          “I’m glad it’s you,” he breathed.

[kiss-my-freckle]

Huge focus this season on marriages, divorces, engagements, deaths.

Detective Singleton was married with two kids. Nik Korpal was engaged. The Capricorn Killer went dormant because he met his wife and had a child. Judge Sonia Fisher lied about having an affair on her husband with Howard Ray Bishop. On Dembe's smuggling truck, Budron talked about murdering a man's wife to save air. Mrs. Kilgannon's son killed her husband during an argument over their smuggling business. Garvey is married, When Aram and Liz caught sight of him with Lilly, Aram asked Liz if she thinks he's having an affair. Red reminded us that Scottie attacked Liz's wedding. Liz told Dr. Fulton she felt a presence at her first wedding. Pete lied about being married, claimed he was getting a divorce so he could marry Lena. Analia and Paolo were the married couple who owned the house Red took over for his party in Blaise’s episode. Red invited Basillo and his wife to the party. The son of Mr. and Mrs. Stansbury was shot and killed by a hired cop in Miss Rebecca Thrall's episode. It was mentioned four times that Liz is a widow. The Cook killed a husband and wife in a house fire. The Travel Agency victims - Mitchell David Dunning, murdered in front of his wife. Edward Knobbs was married. Pattie Sue Edward's cleared her husband's name. The woman talking to the Cook cheated on her fiancé. Agent Calhoun's white whale became her family. The Saram ring-proposal dialogues, including Liz's and Ressler's. In the woods, Billy asked Liz why she's still wearing her wedding ring. Billy stated that the witness in Liz's bed is married. Soundtrack: Leonard Cohen - Famous Blue Raincoat. Soundtrack: Janis Ian - At Seventeen

Garvey: You must be the wife. What’s your name, darling?

Ressler: You must be the wife. Janet: Janet. Ressler: ­Janet, right. Well, I’m sorry, Janet, but your husband’s been lying to you for a very long time.

The Napoleon Diamond Necklace, Greyson Blaise.

"Thank you, Phoebe. You are truly a patron of the arts. Speaking of patrons of the arts - Napoleon. His first wife was unable to bear him a child, so he dumped the Empress of France for the Archduchess of Austria. He got a child, and she got a magnificent gold and silver necklace consisting of 234 diamonds, and what is widely considered to be the most spectacular jewelry piece of the age. It’s here, and on loan from the Smithsonian. Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I give to you the Napoleon Diamond Necklace.”

Red's story about being there at Liz's first wedding.

"I was in the Andes when I heard you and Elizabeth were engaged. Agents in the Columbian government had solicited my help negotiating the release of soldiers being held by FARC rebels. At the time, I was a rare intermediary having brokered sales of arms and equipment to both sides of the conflict. I was unable to return until the day of your wedding. Seeing her that day - She was incandescent. I’d come out of the mountains, blinded by rage, flown 2300 miles, absolutely certain that you must die. And then - I saw Elizabeth. I’m a violent man. A terrible, powerful, violent man. But the way she looked at you, the way she loves you - I’m powerless against that."

Tom's story about his "wife." 

“You don’t have to call me Mr. I’m sorry, man. My wife just, uh - just left me. Seven years we’ve been together, you know? And she’s sleeping with her boss? And now I’m the one who has to move out. And I found that apartment, you know? I remodeled it myself, and now I’m sleeping on my buddy’s couch. And she’s banging a guy named Phil! You know, the guy wears a bowling shirt, alright? The kind with his His nickname embroidered right on the front, and it’s - It’s 'Chesty,' alright? She picked a guy named Chesty over me.”

“Phil” came up in Sinclair’s episode.

Brian: Do you know who likes falafel?! Phil. Who was screwing my wife when we started this. When you promised to get me a double. And now he’s moved in with her. He’s living in my house with my kids. And I’m out here waving to falafel guys! 

Calvin & Eleanor Dawson, The Travel Agency.

Liz: The wife - he lied to her. Led her to believe he worked at an actual travel agency, had a normal life. She had no idea. After the accident, somehow, somewhere, there was a slip-up, and she picked up on it. She stumbled onto his finances. A congressman from Utah murdered while he was in Salt Lake. A South African police general gunned down while he was in Cape Town. There’s no closure in confronting a man who doesn’t even know what day it is, so she just kept digging. Finally, she figured out his protocols. How the long-defunct Travel Agency communicated with their assets. And she used those same protocols to run her husband. Took advantage of his amnesia, making him believe it was still 1989, using him as her own contract killer to take out those in the Travel Agency. All the while, he had no idea.

Eleanor: You took our girls with you to kill a man. You left them in the car and walked inside the back of a restaurant to do a job which should’ve taken you - what, two minutes? But it didn’t take you two minutes, Calvin. Because the man you went to kill knew you were coming - got a jump on you, left you for dead, bleeding and beaten in the alley while our girls were locked in the car - too young to know any better. The medical examiner said electrolyte abnormalities kicked in and sparked cardiac arrhythmias - and something he called “skin slippage.” Everyone from Seawall is dead. Except Wright. The police got to him. But everyone else. It doesn’t bring the girls back or make me feel as good as I thought it would - but you did it.

Anna-Gracia & Samar's cousin.

Anna-Gracia killed 10 husbands.

Liz: Look at this thread. It includes Orthodox Jews, Mormons, Muslims, Christians. It’s like a child-bride support group. They’re talking about being forced to have sex, forced to be wives in middle and high school. Aram: That is not all they talk about. They also talk about her - a guardian angel, sort of like a mythic white knight that appears to set them free. Ressler: Set them free - murder their husbands. Samar: They can’t do it through divorce. As minors, they need adult consent, but the adults in their lives want them to be married. Aram: Nine of the girls in Reva’s group have husbands who have been killed or died in accidents.

Anna-Gracia: I wasn’t just married to him! He raped me! He lived near my family’s home. One day, he invited me in to see his apartment, and I reported it. Went to the police. When my parents found out, they were angry at me. For shaming them, for causing a scandal. To make it go away, they told a story. They said we were in love. They went to Robert and made a deal, like I was something to be traded! Samar: I’m so sorry. Anna-Gracia: I survived in his hell for almost three years. Until one afternoon when I freed myself. Salvation from a $10 kitchen knife. I knew then what I would do. That I would die, if necessary, trying to save others. Samar: My parents were murdered when I was 9. My brother and I, we were sent to live with our father’s family. And then, slowly, I began to heal. This was thanks in large part to my cousin Yana. She was 15. She was like a second mother to me. Until one night at dinner, my uncle announced that she was going to be married to a man that none of us had ever met. That night, Yana and I, we sat and we cried. ‘Cause the next day, the man came, and she was gone. I didn’t have the chance to help her. Please give me the chance to help you, Anna-Gracia to tell your story. This isn’t where your story should end.

Dialogues for Tom, Liz, and Red.

Tom: You know what we need? We need to get married. We never got married.

Tom: If you answer your phone, we are getting a divorce.

Tom: No! No, you don’t! Just tell him you’re on your honeymoon. Tell him that your second husband insists you take one day off. Liz: Um, technically - you are my first husband because our first marriage was annulled.

Liz: I’m better than okay. I’m great. We’re great - Tom and I. We got married. See? Now’s normally when people say “congratulations.” Red: Sorry. Tom and I have had our differences, but I believe he wants what’s best for you. And Agnes. Congratulations, Elizabeth.

Liz: I’m only interested in the man who murdered Tom and finding out the secret that got him killed. Red: I’m going to help with the former and prevent the latter. 50-50 split. Like a good divorce. Harold.

Tom: I’m not lying. I got a wife and a kid. I’m not dying here.

"Finding my husband's killer."

Samar: If I were her, I’d do whatever it takes to find my husband’s killer. Ressler: What do you mean, “whatever it takes”? Samar: I mean breaking the rules, ignoring the law - whatever it takes. Aram: To find your husband’s killer? That’s actually sort of sweet. Ressler: There’s nothing sweet about a cop who breaks the rules.

[bestofthemoth]

Bearing Witness

D. Parvaz

In the summer of 2013 I was in Cairo, Egypt. I was on assignment for Al-Jazeera and I was covering a major political upheaval. The president at the time, a guy named Mohammad Morsi who was affiliated with the Muslim Brotherhood party, had been deposed and jailed in what his supporters said was an illeigmiate military coup. So in protest they set up these sit-ins, two of them in the city. And it was this hot, crazy summer, really tense, and by the middle of August the government finally did what it had threatened to do, which was clear the sit-ins. But they did so with unabated violence. They started shooting at people in the sit-ins and in the surrounding neighborhoods around 7 in the morning and didn’t stop until well into the night, until pretty much everybody was either dead or arrested. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was a massacre in broad daylight in a capital city of roughly 20 million. 

So the next day, along with a producer who worked in the local bureau and could translate Arabic for me, I went to a mosque where maybe 200 of these bodies were kept. A lot of them were also burned really badly and there were blocks of ice on top of them. And there were these family members going in and out of this mosque to identify their loved ones. It was intensely chaotic and emotional. So my colleague and I walk outside and we start talking to this woman. And she says her husband is among the dead and she’s shaking and in shock. She’s describing her last phone conversation with her husband when the shooting started. And she describes him as an engineer who was unarmed, and he was the father of her 4 children. And my colleague is translating and I’m not even looking, I’m in my notebook, furiously not wanting to miss a detail. And then he stops translating while she’s still talking and I look up at him finally, which is what he was waiting for, and the look on my face is like “Dude, what?” And he leans in and whispers, “Now would be a good time for you to put an arm around her. And this makes my little reporters brain totally short circuit. I am not a touchy-feely person. I don’t hug you for you to tell me your story. But the look on his face was just clear: get over yourself, be human now, and put your arm around her. 

So I really robotically lift my arm to put around her shoulder, and the second my hand touches her she collapses into my chest. And she’s a very very tiny woman, very petite. But she just sinks into me and starts sobbing as she’s holding onto me, and I’ve got my pen and paper and it  hits me really hard that this woman doesnt care what kind of reporter I am, or what my stupid little rules are. She wants me to register what is happening to her on the worst day of her life. She wants me to bear witness to what’s happening to her. And I should have known better, and in fact I did know better.

A few years prior to that in the spring of 2011 was the start of the uprising in Syria, what is now the civil war. And I was sitting in the newsroom, in Al-Jazeera’s headquarters in Qatar, watching this grainy YouTube footage of civilians being mowed down by the Syrian military. And at the same time we had a government spokesperson on our airwaves claiming that this wasn’t really happening, that it was a distortion of the truth, there was a conspiracy. And we couldn’t confirm any of this because they’d already closed down our bureau in Damascus and they weren’t issuing journalists visas, so what to do? Well. I’m a multinational, I have an Iranian passport. So my boss agreed to deploy me to Syria, where I wouldn’t need a visa to enter, just to see what’s going on.

So I fly into Damascus and unfortunately for me at this point the Syrian authorities have already become super paranoid. So they go through my luggage and they find a satellite phone, which is not a big deal. If you travel in that part of the world you know that outside of major cities you don’t have cell phone coverage. You can buy a satellite phone at any shopping mall, it’s not spy gear. But this was enough for them to get really suspicious, so they strip searched me and found my American passport in the pocket of my jeans. And in this passport was a stamp from Al-Jazeera, my sponsored visa, for Qatar, it’s what I needed to reenter the country. And this escalated things. So they took me into an office. They sat me between these two guys on this couch. There’s all these other guys in the office chain smoking, banging out some kind of report on their computer about me. And when that report was done the two guys sitting on either side of me got up, and they strapped on a bunch of guns, and they peeled me from the couch, and they led me to the parking garage under the airport. And they sat me between them in the back seat, with another armed man in the front seat, and drove off into the night. 

We pulled into a compound, there were 3-4 checkpoints to get into this compound, so I assumed it was some sort of government building, where they pulled me out of the car by my hair and threw me in front of a desk in this dimly lit office. And there were all these men yelling at me and I looked down and saw that I was standing in a considerable amount of somebody else's blood. So they processed me for some kind of arrest, blind folded me, handcuffed me, and ended up taking me to an interrogation with a man who told me to call him Ferras. And nothing I said was accepted by Ferras. That I was a reporter, that I wasn’t part of some kind of conspiracy… he didn’t even believe that I didn’t speak Arabic. So I realized very quickly that truth had no currency there. They threw me into a cell that was absolutely covered in blood. Like, so much that I didn’t know where to stand or lean. So I squatted in this corner and tried to sort of wrap my head around the hell that I was in. 

Maybe an hour or two later a guy comes to the door. He blindfolds me and handcuffs me and I thought I was being taken to another interrogation, but he took me outside into a courtyard and slammed me up against the wall. And I could hear people being tortured a few feet away from me. And I could hear the guards joking, and laughing, and I could smell their cigarettes, they were just acting like regular employees on a coffee break. And I sat against that wall and I thought to myself, they’re going to kill me. And worse than that though, believe it or not, worse than dying, was the thought of dying like that. Which is to say, alone. Because I was alone. I couldn’t locate the humanity in the people around me. And I knew that I was going to be an anonymous body. If I was lucky they would throw me in a ditch, maybe. And my father would never have any peace, he’d never know what happened to me. And I’ve never been so alone in my life. 

After about 20 minutes shivering against this wall, and waiting to be shot in the head, I get pulled off and taken back inside. And I keep thinking, well they didn’t kill me, they didn’t kill me now, but they’re going to kill me, because why, why, why would they not allow a reporter to cover a street protest but see in here all of this, and live? Of course I’m going to write about it, why would they do this? I’m gonna die. They’re going to kill me. I’m gonna die. And this was on a pretty tight loop in my head as they threw me back in a cell. And I can hear people being tortured inside this compound, outside this compound, the voices kind of echo and come and go and blend in and then there’s this one voice that stands out. And I can’t exactly figure out why except that he sounded extremely young, he sounded like a teenager, a boy. And I could tell that there was more than one person hurting him, and he was just howling. He was swearing he didn’t know things, swearing to God he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was calling out to God, calling out to his mother, and I couldn’t take it anymore. It was brutal. And so I put my hands up to my ears to just try to block it out. And the second I did that I felt such shame. Because I realized that this kid was in his own, far worse version of the wall -- that's where he was. He was alone. He was dying alone. That’s what was happening. And so I pulled my hands down, just to do what I could, which was to hear him. I couldn’t call out to him to say, “I hear you're not alone,” couldn't identify him, I didn’t know his name, couldn’t contact his family, couldn’t do anything. All I had was the ability to bear witness in that fashion. The kid was choking on his own blood, in his own country, and nobody was going to know. I felt that it was the least I could do. So I listened to him for a while, and every scream was excruciating. It was like a hole being cut inside me with every one of them. And then rather abruptly, his voice just stopped. 

So a couple of days later the Syrians decided that maybe it wasn’t a good idea for them to permanently disappear an Iranian citizen because they have a good relationship with the Iranian government. So they sent me to Iran via extraordinary rendition for additional questioning for another couple of weeks at another prison there. And much to my surprise the Iranain authorities freed me and sent me back to my family. Which was great, I needed the time off for a little bit, but I didn’t want to not be working. I didn’t need to go to a spa and to breathe alpine air. What I needed was to get back to work. Because not being busy and not working meant the wall was always there. I could feel it. And I wanted to push back against that feeling. I couldn’t wait to get back to work, so I did. The second I could I flung myself back into my job. Every assignment if they didn't give me the assignment I would fight for it. Egypt, Libya, nuclear meltdown in Japan, didn’t matter, I was doing it. And I succeeded. A little too well, in pushing back against that wall and that feeling. And what I did in doing so was I also built a distance between myself and the things that I was reporting on, the people I was reporting on. 

But when that woman in Egypt fell into my chest and started crying in the second that it took her to fall into me and cry she destroyed that distance. Entirely eradicated it. And I was back at the wall, and the boy’s voices in my head. And as painful as it is, I realized that it was necessary to bear witness, fully, to what’s happening to someone beyond the couple of paragraphs they might actually get in the story. And as much as some stories will leave a mark, sometimes that’s just what it takes.

Live at The Moth

[vesperlionheart]

Desert Madness Part 1

@madasakuweek Rated E for everyone 10 and up...for now

The desert was a part of her and coming back to it was like being born again, suddenly her bones could sign with the frequencies of an earth soaked in mystery. Sakura pushed back the brim of her cap and grinned at the deep blue sky. Summer was nearly over and the monsoon season was out in full force. Every other night was a lightning storm full of dry thunder and bolts of crackling electricity.

She missed her desert.

Nothing seemed to have changed since coming back from university. The people were all where she left them and the buildings only grew dust with the passing seasons. The few exceptions to this norm bit at her heart painfully when she realized one of her closest friends was gone. Naruto had gone off the same summer as her, but he was still tied up with classes, not having rushed through courses like she had. Sakura was too eager to return to the land of her ancestors. Bloodstone was her home.

The room in her grandmother’s house was exactly as she left it. The posters of UFO sightings and newspaper clippings still stuck to her walls, and even the Christmas lights turned on when she plugged them in.

For a second she saw the ghosts of her childhood crowded on her bed as Sasuke brought his transmitter up for them to hear. Thicker than thieves they trio had been inseparable in their youth, chasing down ghost lights in the desert, mysterious radio station signals, tracking the clues left by old Dutch miners, and recording low res video of what they could just off the highway.

Old warnings like, ‘never drive down the interstate with an empty passenger seat’ were ignored and dared as the group stole an Uchiha chevy and drained it going up and down the old interstate after midnight. Nothing ever came from it, but the memories were a nectar to suck on when life drained her.

And she was drained.

Sakura dropped her bags at the foot of the bed and slowly lowered herself onto the twin sized mattress. The blanket from her great grandmother was just as soft as she remembered them being, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

She set the radio to her favorite static station and set to work cleaning up her old room and putting away what she had packed with her. It was a fuzzy mess and she loved it like that, but her heart still ached for the voice that would punch through in her youth and whisper things like a secret that didn’t make sense.

Every time the man from the dust came on it was a big enough deal to make her drop everything and anything to commit his words to memory. He had still speaking when she entered high school and she doubted he had spoke anytime since, otherwise Sasuke would have texted her from the military compound where he could still get a signal.

The man from the dust would talk about places lost to the ages, the ancient fossils of water monsters frozen in red stone, the government bunkers buried in the desert, the abandoned railroad that drove like a ghost through the desert on hot midnights in summer, and Oasis.

‘Oasis is the key to it all, or maybe just the reason. Oasis is what made the world look at bloodstone and it’s also what made her hidden.’

None of them knew what Oasis was but they had theories as kids growing up. It had been their treasure to hunt and dream over. Naruto thought it was a gold village from the ancients like El Dorado, Sasuke thought it was a secret UFO crash site, and Sakura believed it all. She needed to. Bloodstone was a part of her and Oasis was somewhere in the valley, waiting for her.

“It’s finally starting to cool down. Cool enough for-kch,” a voice cut through the white noise, making Sakura go still and white. She turned stiffly to stare at her little red radio. “Im going to the petroglyphs for answers. The trail is paved with good intentions, just like hell. Maybe Oasis is hell. It’s been hell finding it so long. But I’m at the end.”

The white noise returned and there was nothing else but static.

His voice. Low and tickling in her ears and belly, like it was a thing that filled the listener up. There was no way she would mistake that voice. It had been younger once before, when she was just a child, but it had always been the same man, aging with his pursuit of the truth.

The day she came back to bloodstone he came back to the radio. It was a sign.

It was late but she had texted him to warn him ahead of time. He should know better than to think she wasn’t planning on coming over as soon as she got back, anyway. He was the only one she had left.

Sakura didn’t care that she almost got shot jumping the fence to the Uchiha compound. It was a big fancy house with barracks in the back, but it was a prison to Sasuke when they were kids. He hated it. It was so odd that he had turned around after high school and started living with the rest of his family so peacefully.

They had a whole plan about how they were going to run away once they all turned 18 and no one wanted to run more than Sasuke. Sakura just wanted to be with them, but in the end it was only Naruto that made it out.

“Sasuke!” she screamed his name and banged on the front door, not caring if his family turned around and hated her even more. It wasn’t late, they probably weren’t even at dinner.

No one answered for a while and Sakura’s breathing, once labored from the run and excitement, mellowed out and she felt her energy drain. The compound was like a vampire. Finally the door opened and Sasuke stuck his head out. She saw his eyes widen.

“Sakura? You weren’t supposed to be over until later. What are you doing here?”

His face softened as he opened the door even more and stepped out to see her. He was taller than her, finally, and nicely dressed for a house full of AC. He was even wearing wireless glasses like an adult. He looked so grown up! She looked less put together with her ripped denim shorts and cartoon tee, knotted at the base.  

“I just got back!” she laughed, pulling him into a hug he melted into easily. He wasn’t Naruto, built like a tank and hard to hold in just two arms.  “I missed your hugs.”

“I missed you,” he admitted, pulling away and looking down at her. “You’ve been working out?”

“Yeah, my trainer told me I could probably benchpress a bear with the way I am now. I walked in like a string bean, remember?” her voice was light and jovial. “But you’ve changed too. Finally grew a few inches, eh?”

“That’s not a joke. I told you I would have a spurt later in life.”

“You did, you did! But I bet you’re still shorter than Naruto.”

Sasuke swallowed and ducked his head. “I have that going for me.”

He shuffled on the threshold before tugging her inside and closing the door to keep the AC from escaping. Right away Sakura felt a sharp drop in temperature and shivered. It wasn’t that hot outside, but compared to indoors, it was drastically different.

“How have you been? When did you just get in?” he asked, tugging her inside by the hand.

“I got in just a little while ago. I aired out my old room and was putting stuff away when I heard the radio. Sasuke, did you hear it? He was back on the station!” her voice hitched in excitement and she squeezed his hand.

Sasuke paused, looking over her with a confused expression before it clicked. “Oh.”

Sakura stopped walking, tugging on his hand. “Oh? What do you mean just, oh?”

“You’re still listening to that ghost station.” He shook his head and the long bangs knocked against the side of his wireless glasses. Suddenly he seemed even more older than she first assumed. “Sakura…”

“You’re not listening to it anymore,” she guessed. “Why?”

“Why would I do such a thing? It’s a waste of time and I have better things I could be putting my energies to. I’m trying to make a career here and that’s not as easy as I first assumed it was. I have to work for this and I can’t drag our childhood along with me forever.”

Sakura felt stunned. Sasuke wasn’t Sasuke.

“What happened to you?”

He jerked, seemingly offended by the question. “Me? I grew up, Sakura. It’s what we do. I’m not in fourth grade anymore and neither are you. I have a job and a degree and a life. I’m trying hard to make it a better one. The desert isn’t going to give that to me with a side of mystery.”  

Sakura had to look again. Sasuke was his father for a moment and then he was Sasuke again. He sounded too much like one of his cousins or brother, not like her Sasuke from years ago. She had just been gone for three years. That was it. That wasn’t enough time for him to change this much.

Sasuke had sworn never to be what he was now. He had promised them under a fort of bed sheets to always believe and always search until the end of times for their truth out there in the desert. He was the nut job that put both her and Naruto to shame, crazy smart about UFO cover ups and sightings across the haunted south west.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sakura. You had to have known it would have turned out like this. You didn’t think we really going to be goonies until the end? I can’t, Sakura. I have a life.”

“Sasuke?” All she could manage was his name.

This wasn’t happening. Naruto had left, but Sasuke was standing in front of her, but he felt further away than Naruto ever had. This felt like a stab in her heart. It hurt.

“Come on.” He reached for her hand again and she let him take it, limply. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. You said you were coming over and I made dinner. Sit with me and tell me about ASU.”

She let him lead her in and after a few minutes she remembered how to talk to other people. It didn’t feel like talking to Sasuke, it felt like she was talking to a classmate that didn’t know her or a blind date she planned on leaving after coffee. He was supposed to be her closest friend, but he felt so far away now that they were inches apart. He didn’t let go of her hand unless he had to, but she didn’t hold it back, and he seemed to be waiting for that.

It was almost sunset. The sun was swollen and low. Soon it would be dust and the sky would by a mysterious shade of purple perfect for the way her heart felt as she left the compound. Her bike was parked outside the gates and she fingered the water jug Sasuke had given her before glancing out at the desert.

She was hydrated, and she would have enough for a quick stroll. She knew where the petroglyphs were. They weren’t far, and she knew the ways in and out of the canyons better than anyone. It was the same with the veins in her wrist. The desert was in her and she was in the desert. She could be out there and back before she ran out of water.

“I guess I haven’t grown up just yet,” she breathed, seating herself and turning the engine over. Her bike roared to life and she turned it around away from the town into the belly of the valley.

She was an arrow in the desert, trailing dust like the feathers notched at the end, headlight piecing the dim as the the sun sunk beneath high red rock. She passed the rock structure and suddenly the world around her was burning and she was flying through golden fire until the next structure blocked out the dying sun. She had lived through a thousand sunsets and would live through a thousand more, but they never failed to make her heart hurt with their beauty. Something about the desert made sunsets scream, demanding their beauty be recognized.

Sakura dripped the nose of her bike down a shadowy path and trailed it down between high walls of red rock that bled in wavy layers, some purple, some gold, some scarlet like blood.

She knew no one would be there when she arrived at the petroglyphs, but the temptation was too strong to pass up. She wanted a clue, some measure of proof. Something.

She blinked and the tears fell from her lashes and off her face, slipping under the goggles edges. She let go and her bike drifted on that last push of acceleration before she stopped herself in front of the rock wall where dozens of drawings told an unusual story.

No one cared about the history of Bloodstone enough to pry into it. Even the people who have been in the valley since the beginning, ‘whenever that was’ treated the origin myths like dirty laundry best not aired where the world could see it. There were drawings of people in horns and deer hooves dancing. There were whale drawings too, and even squid painted on the wall. There were animals from the ocean that had no right being mentioned in the desert. There were streaks that looked like melted paint, but were what Sakura believed to be falling stars.

Cave paintings were all over the old red rocks, but when people talked about petroglyphs, they usually meant the Great Wall, the place with the most and the best preserved. Sakura dismounted, drinking from her bottle of water as she inspected the area. There were footprints, and her heart picked up at that, but there was no way to know who they belonged to.

She crouched low and went around the area with eyes strained for a sign of something. She wanted a clue before she went home and felt silly about how young she was. But there was nothing.

Dust kicked up and anything left behind was long lost. The sky was dim and the sun was wholly swallowed. Stars were coming out, twinkling into view from millions of miles away just to watch her.

Sakura finished her water and packed up, out of time. It was only when she was back on her bike peeling out did she turn on the radio in her helmet and listened to his static all the way home, into her room, throughout her night time rituals, and even through the sleeping hours.

It was three am when a voice punctured the lonely sound of static.

“It’s just me, now. No one else is searching anymore.” A long moment of silence stretched on while the static abated until his voice came back, more tired and worn than she remembered. “Back to the beginning, where they started it.”

Outside, old thunder boomed as dry lightning tormented the desert, but no rain fell.

The beginning was Hera.

Back in the forties and fifties when the country thought making bigger and badder bombs was a priority, the desert was a testing spot for precursors to the A bomb, according to the redacted history. Hera was the first town built for the weapon developers and their families. After Hera was planted came Apollo. Both went under and became ghost towns before the decade was over and their bones stuck out of the desert like an ugly reminder.

Hera was the beginning, and one of the first places they had investigated when they were kids, looking for the source of that radio signal. Finding the source was impossible unless it was being used, and the voice came on so rarely it made tracking impossible.

Sakura rolled into the town, cutting her engine before she inside to push her bike in and park along the side of a diner left derelict. It was odd coming back after so many years away. Hera seemed trapped in time.  

She tugged her cap down and turned down main street, sipping water from her bladder pack, careful to stay hydrated. The more she saw the more she recognized, and the more she recognized the more she could see the signs of life in Hera.

Someone had been here.

Her thoughts were cut off when something caved in nearby and there was a cloud of dust. She heard the yelps of several desert coyotes running scared, disturbed from the morning sleep. She saw their face out of the dust as several darted off for new hiding spaces. In the shadows their eyes glowed and Sakura counted four dogs, twelve eyes.

‘The third eye is an illusion your brain creates when they run too fast,’ someone had once told her.

Oh, these were those sort of coyotes. Sakura pulled out her revolver and took another long suck from her water pack and skipped over to where the destruction seemed to be coming from. The building was an office, but the wood was rotten and underneath the ground floor was a maw of darkness, what once had been a cellar. Something had fallen straight through the roof three stories into that darkness. Sakura leveled her gun and her light.

“Hey, someone down there?”

She adjusted the side of her flashlight and the beam bled wide, showing off the stairs hidden behind a wall. Sakura kicked through the old plaster and took the stairs down into the lab like cellar. Dust was still falling down as he beam swept over the expanse. Something had impacted the crates in the center of the room and lay sunk in the canvass, unmoving. Her light caught a leg, limp in the rubble.

Sakura cursed, stowing her gun behind her and rushed to administer first aid. She cursed again when she saw who was in the rubble.

“Damn, he’s gorgeous,” she whispered, recognizing Uchiha features.

It was a miracle he was as fine as he was. She checked for broken bones and was concerned with his ribs, but nothing was obviously broken enough for her to tell just by feeling. He was beautifully bruised and bleeding from a few places and out cold, but alive.

There was an old hospital in Hera. It didn’t have everything, but it would have enough for her to treat the surface injuries. She gingerly tried to wake him, but he didn’t stir, so she ended up carrying him princess style up and out of the house, across town, and into the Hera hospital. Another inspection showed no broken bones, which was what she was afraid of.

Sakura tried her phone but wasn’t surprised to get no signal. Hera was too far out. There was no way she could safely transport him on her bike. She had to treat him on site and pray it was enough. She didn’t trust herself to leave and come back and find him in one piece, untouched by the scavenging dogs she had already sighted in the city. Those things would eat anything once dusk came on.

He moved in his sleep a bit and she watched, carefully observing for any sign of greater distress. He didn’t seem to be in much pain and she wondered if it was an Uchiha thing. Sasuke was hearty too.

She didn’t want to leave him, but water was scarce and she had to wash the blood off her hands. There was a well not far from the hospital. She went there to wash up and paused over the hook, seeing eyes in the shadows, stalking. Slowly, Sakura slide her pistol free. It didn’t move, but she took aim for the third eye, dead smack in the center of his head. It was just an illusion, her brain making up something that wasn’t really there. But there were stories about these coyotes, how they spilled out of a star traveler’s side and ran like a mess across the desert with her third eye marking them as kin.

Sakura pulled on the trigger and the coyote crumpled. When it rose again, it blinked, two eyes reflecting the light before it caught sight of her and turned tail to run.

Sakura climbed back into the hospital and entered the room, not surprised the see the man still dead asleep. She tried her phone again but couldn’t get a signal. She took a picture of his face, then several more, posing for selfies that might embarrass him later.  

She was editing a video when he blinked and moved, pushing up on the table.

“Yo!”

He looked over at her, startled and then angry. “Who are you?” he hissed, pending his knees to brace on the table. Good, no broken bones there either. He was talking too, head trauma was minimal.

“I’m your guardian angel, apparently. You’re an Uchiha, right? You know Sasuke?”

He glared at her. “He’s a brat.”

“Worse than that, he’s a stuck up ass these days, but you’re related, aren’t you?”

His glare seemed to lessen. “He is my nephew. Your name?”

“Sakura.”

He nodded, likely taking no meaning in her name. “Madara.” He pulled up an arm and saw the bandages. “You did this?”

“I’m pretty sure the fall did that, but I did the bandages. Sorry about not taking you to a real hospital. There’s no signal and I didn’t think I could take you on my bike.”

He huffed a breath and pushed himself up before turning around on the cot table to face her. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she countered.

“I asked you first.”

“I saved your life.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You couldn’t because you fell three stories into a crate pile and nearly died, but if you could, I’m sure you would have?”

His eyes flashed the way Uchiha eyes always flash. Sometimes there is a teasing of scarlet in their black, black orbs, but it’s always a trick of the light. “You assume too much, girl. I have my reasons and I am not compelled to share them with you.”

“Sounds super important,” Sakura teased, feeling something nag at the back of her mind when he spoke. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, you know.”

“And you’re here with someone?” he asked, looking around the room. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Yeah, well my buddy decided to grow up and I’m the only one stuck her in Never Never Land, so now that we’ve established that, you wanna tell me what you were doing swan diving into ghost buildings?”

“I do not owe you anything, including an explanation. What you did was your own decision, I did not ask for any of it.”

Sakura felt her gut drop and turn to stone as sick realization flooded through her. Her eyes widened and get skin lost its color for a moment. It was a change that made Madara’s glare lessen and almost switch into concern.

“Your voice,” she breathed, placing her hands on her knees as she sank down into the chair opposite him. “You’re the voice on the radio, looking for Oasis.”

No wonder his voice was so pretty, he was a classic Uchiha with face perfectly sculpted and a physique made for Olympic gods to envy. Of course she had been hung up on an Uchiha for years. Of course.

Sakura melted in her chair, grabbing at her face and muffling a scream with her lips pulled inwards. She didn’t see how he reacted or hear if he tried to deny it, she had to focus on this revelation first.

‘Why did he have to be so pretty?’ She pulled her hands down the front of her face and nearly died when she saw him flush and avert his eyes. She had said that last bit out loud. Great.

“I-I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he coughed, still looking away from her.

Standing up, Sakura reached for her phone and scrolled through her library before clicking on an audio recording and turning the volume up as loud as it would go. It was his voice, perfectly identical now that she paid it enough attention. His blush only spread as the audio clip turned into static and ended.

“That was years ago. You went silent and I thought it was done, but then you spoke last night through the airwaves and I don’t know how, but it was what I needed to hear. Back to the beginning, you said, so here I am.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, but the blush had faded. “No one was supposed to be able to hear those.”

“I did.”

He looked up at her finally, meeting her eyes. She watched him swallow before he reached up to rub at his jaw. “You said your name was Sakura. You know I’m an Uchiha right, and that this whole thing is madness?”

She felt Bloodstone in her bones. 

“This is what I’m alive for.”

[scottymcgeesterwrites]

Death of a Friend

A little more than a month ago now, a friend of mine, Aaron, passed away. I wasn’t very close to him but close enough to now say, “I had a friend who died.” Saying it’s been surreal is an understatement. As I’ve witnessed other people’s lives enter 2017, I’ve seen and heard many other shocking deaths too.

The end of 2016 was much like the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. With Cedric Diggory’s death, you knew shit was going to get real from then on. Everything before that was more or less fairy tale. This is where the fairy tale turns into sword-and-sorcery, high fantasy, or dark fantasy. People die and never return, much like your favorite characters in a TV series.

When I was little, death didn’t bother me as much as life did. The thought of eternal life boggled my mind. Catholic school drove in my head the idea of eternal life and the last judgment. I became obsessed with eschatology, both scared and fascinated.

What happens when you die?

When will the world end?

The universe?

How is it all going to end?

The thought of eternal life frightened me because how would we carry on infinitely? Wouldn’t we get bored? Tired? Insane?

Then when I got older - past 21 - my thoughts shifted. Eternal life didn’t frighten me as much as the concept of non-existence. What would that feel like? Then again - the question is moot because if you slip into non-existence, then nothing matters. Everything is, quite literally, null and void.

I thought of it this way - Do you remember what life was like before you were born? No. That’s basically like death, only in the opposite end of the timeline.

But I still feel a tug-of-war between the two. The prospect of eternal life versus the void of nothingness. I don’t want to live forever but I don’t want to be nothing either.

There’s always a middle way. Maybe in the future we can live forever but also forget periodically that we are living forever. That’s essentially reincarnation. Maybe we only hold bits and pieces of our previous lives, and before we can realize it, we die again.

We must accept that all things end but at the same time - do they? All matter is the same - only expressed differently. Atoms are atoms - what matters is how the electrons are moving around the nucleus. Isn’t that so strange? Theoretically, I can become anything conceivable in this universe.

The end is only the end as far as you can see - as much as you can sense. 

Sometimes I wonder if maybe when we die we wake up in the far, far future. Maybe a race of other beings will have harnessed complete control of the universe and be able to recreate anything at the push of a button. It will be like going under for a surgery and waking up in the hospital bed.

--------

Aaron married right after I graduated college. He was a grade above me but he married a girl who was in my grade, Annie, whom I was closer to.

Their wedding was the first friend wedding I ever went to - and I think the most beautiful. I’ve yet to go to a wedding that tops theirs. We were somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania by a wide open lake, next to a cozy inn.

They hadn’t been married for 3 whole years yet before Aaron died. He went to Costa Rica with Annie and his family. I wasn’t really paying attention to what they were doing in their lives at the moment. I only recalled seeing pictures of them hiking in the woods.

One of Aaron’s best friends, Kay, called me to tell me the news. also I regularly contact Kay already via text or Facebook or email - so something struck me when I realized that maybe this was really important. I missed her first call because I was out for lunch. I heard her voicemail - she was calm as ever, not surprising to me since she’s a 9-1-1 dispatcher, so she knows how to remain composed in a dire situation.

I called Kay back. She led up to the big reveal in a long preamble. Aaron and Annie went to Costa Rica. They’ve been there on vacation for a while with Aaron’s family. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. It worried me. I kept thinking, “Get to the point, dammit! What happened?” 

Aaron went out to swim with his brother in the ocean. A rip tide caught them. His brother managed to get out but Aaron went missing for two days. They found his body right before Kay called me.

The first thought that came to my mind was, “Welp.”

I didn’t mean it at all in an asshole tone. I had already recognized the mundane finality of death. In thinking, “Welp”, I already knew that was that. I’d never see Annie and Aaron as a couple ever again. I thought, “Welp”, because I had already heard of so many other deaths recently - and not just celebrity deaths.

This girl Barbara that I met in college - her father recently passed. This guy Henry, who was the boyfriend of another girl I knew in college, Lauren, died in a car crash soon after that. 

Earlier this year, my grandaunt passed away. My granduncle had passed a couple years earlier. I basically wrote an eulogy for him in my other tumblr account, which I’ll repost here too.

Hell - as I’m typing this - my aunt in New York is in the hospital after her heart briefly stopped. She’s not doing too well. I’ll be seeing her this Saturday and it may be the last time.

Death has been very pervasive this year.

--------

Aaron’s family had a gathering at their house after the service. We ate and talked and before we left I spotted a mancala board on the family room table.

Just like that - flashback.

I had completely forgotten that Aaron taught me how to play mancala in college. Annie lived next door to me during my senior year. I stopped by her room one day and he was there. They were playing mancala and he asked me if I wanted to play. I said I didn’t know how, so he taught me.

I bought the game after that, but I left it unopened in a cabinet at home for years. It’s a shame - when you don’t follow through with some things.

Aaron wasn’t the type to introduce himself jovially to strangers, or even at all. I first met him in the bathroom - of all the awkward places. He was a regular presence on the floor because he stayed in Annie’s room a lot, and as such I always gave him a nod and mellow greeting. He hardly responded. I didn’t think much of it. I still say hello to people even when they don’t reply.

I told Annie in passing about it and she laughed, saying how he could be that way. She said he would try to tell him to say hi to me, although I said it wasn’t a big deal - people had their quirks. I could write an entire book about people who never said hi to me when I said hi to them.

The next time I saw him after that, in the bathroom, he stopped briefly in front of me and smiled and said, “Hello.”

Even though Annie obviously had to pull some strings, it still felt genuine.

Many people joked about Annie and Aaron as a couple. They often went to bed early, the first ones to leave a party. Annie was never subtle about marriage by always window shopping for rings at a jewelry store. Aaron could be rather unfeeling. People rolled their eyes at this and more.

And in retrospect, it’s unfair how couples deeply in love with each other are often made fun of the most. Faithfulness. Loyalty. They are often seen as boring, typical or default.

Polyamorous people though are shat on nearly as much as monogamous people are. The point is - people make fun of what they don’t experience or understand.

People can be difficult. Who isn’t? I know I can be. In all their flaws that made them essentially human, you had to admit that Annie and Aaron were deeply in love with each other and thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company.

-------- 

My family is old.

Everybody is old as fuck. 

They keep themselves surprisingly fresh though. People are consistently surprised when I say that my parents are nearing 70, when they look more like late 50′s.

I never had a big family. Most of them are long dead or severed ties and were never heard of again. The government also had something to do with it - since my mother’s family come from Cuba. Supposedly, my great-grandfather on my father’s side was lost at sea.

With the exception of my maternal grandparents, everyone in my family seems to die simple - without drama. They all plopped on the floor one day - not because of cancer or disease - but because they simply stopped working. That’s it. The battery went out. My granduncle did it, my grandaunt did it, my great-grandmother did it, my paternal grandparents are going to do it, and my current aunt probably already did it.

Longevity appears to be a trait in my family. Nobody under 80 has died. My paternal grandparents are pushing 100.

Knowing how genes work, I know that I too will probably reach a ripe old age. Who knows? Maybe with new technology I will be able to reach 100 and treat it like 90 or even 80.

And that scares me.

I am afraid of outliving all my friends, especially my significant other.

I am grimly reminded of my longevity every time people mistake me for being high school age, every time I’m carded for alcohol.

Eternal life means nothing when you’ve nobody to share it with.

I don’t know what I would do if I outlive most, or all, of my closest friends and my significant other.

Surely, my offspring would be living, yeah. 

But nobody would be around who was there with me since the beginning. 

I often look at the oldest class reunions in my college magazine. People from undergraduate classes in the 30′s and 40′s still hang around - albeit only a handful. I wonder what that must feel like.

I wonder what it feels like to hobble over there to your old college campus, not knowing anyone, except this one ripe old motherfucker that you used to play video games with in their dorm and share dick jokes.

You’re too old to drink too much, too old to enjoy the band music, too old to really care about the new changes made to the school. Too old to really bother with reunions anymore.

Maybe you just sit on a bench somewhere in front of the dorm where you first met, and you talk about the time you saw your roommate naked or heard your next-door neighbor have sex.

Maybe you’re not really fully aware of the end, just as you weren’t fully aware of the beginning. Maybe, in some ways, we all become foggy and hazy. We worry about what death will be like now, but maybe for us in the future, it will be nothing but peace.

-----

2017 has also made me see people become who they really wanted to be. Aside from the shocking deaths, many of my friends have already entered the doorway of achieving their dreams. One just recently had her Broadway debut. Another is making music videos. Another is dishing out their artwork as freelance. Friends are out there in labs trying to cure cancer, publishing their work - their novels and their poems. Friends are out there dancing and singing. And some watch the stars for a living.

Work has been a roller-coaster ride for me, but finally, something big had just happened that will change lab work for molecular biologists.

Always support your friends and classmates. Always throw a dime to your music producer friend trying to make a living, the starving artist, the scientist looking for testers.

But in all our achievements, we must never forget the dreams that had faded.

[loudlytransparenttrash]

The phobia of Islamophobia

Lol so I just had someone tell me that it is Islamophobic to tell Muslims that they aren’t being banned from entering the US and to not use the word “Islam” in tags.

It reminds me of those groups like the Interfaith Center, who demands films and television to edit and remove the words “Islamist,” “Islamic,” and “jihad”, even from documentaries such The Rise of Al Qaeda - referencing the 9/11 hijackers and their motives. They don’t want the public to think that Islamism or jihad had anything to do with Al Qaeda or the 9/11 attacks, because that would be “Islamophobia.”  

Everybody seems so afraid of this word. From the police who are scared to investigate Muslim human trafficking and child abuse rings in the UK, being afraid to make public the mass sexual and violent attacks committed by Muslim refugees across Europe, being afraid to report their fellow officers who expressed radical Muslim beliefs or the teachers being afraid to alert authorities when their Muslim students show warning signs of becoming radicalized. What we are dealing with is not Islamophobia, but Islamophobia-phobia.

As author Ali Rizvi says: “As a brown-skinned person with a Muslim name, I can get away with a lot more than you’d think. I can publicly parade my wife or daughters around in head-to-toe burqas and be excused out of “respect” for my culture and/or religion, thanks to the racism of lowered expectations. I can re-define “racism” as something non-whites can never harbor against whites, and cite colonialism and imperialism as justification for my prejudice. And in an increasingly effective move that’s fast become something of an epidemic, I can shame you into silence for criticizing my ideas simply by calling you bigoted or Islamophobic.”

For decades, Muslims around the world have rightly complained about the Israeli government labeling even legitimate criticism of its policies “anti-Semitic,” effectively shielding itself from accountability. Today, Muslim organizations like CAIR (Council on American-Islamic Relations) have borrowed a page from their playbook with the “Islamophobia” label - and taken it even further.

In addition to calling out prejudice against Muslims (a people), the term “Islamophobia” seeks to shield Islam itself (an ideology) from criticism. It’s as if every time you said smoking was a filthy habit, you were perceived to be calling all smokers filthy, horrible people. Human beings have rights and are entitled to respect. But when did we start extending those rights to ideas, books, and beliefs? You’d think the difference would be clear, but it isn’t. The ploy has worked over and over again, and now everyone seems petrified of being tagged with this label.

The phobia of being called “Islamophobic” has been on the rise for some time and it has become much more rampant, powerful, and dangerous than Islamophobia itself. Not long ago, a white American man successfully convinced the Massachusetts liberal arts school Brandeis University that he was being victimized and oppressed by a black African woman from Somalia - a woman who underwent genital mutilation at age five and travels with armed security at risk of being assassinated. That is the power of this term.

The man, Ibrahim Hooper, is a Muslim convert and a founding member and spokesman for CAIR. The woman, Ayaan Hirsi Ali, is an unapologetic activist for the rights of girls and women and a harsh, no-holds-barred critic of the religious ideologies (particularly the Islamic ideology in Muslim-majority countries that she experienced first-hand) that perpetuate and maintain their abuse. Having abandoned the Islamic faith of her parents and taken a stance against it, she is guilty of apostasy, a crime that is punishable by death according to most Islamic scholars, not to mention the holy text itself.

Hirsi Ali was also involved with the award-winning documentary, Honor Diaries, which explores violence against women in honor-based societies, including female genital mutilation (FGM), honor killings, domestic violence, and forced marriage. Despite featuring the voices of several practicing Muslim women, the film was deemed “Islamophobic” by - you guessed it - the poor folks at CAIR. Again, they felt they were the real victims, wanting their own voices heard while silencing those of the victims of FGM and honor killing in the film. Astonishingly, this ludicrous argument was enough to convince both the University of Illinois and the University of Michigan to cancel their screenings of the film which leads to even more deafness and blindness of a very serious human rights issue.

Progressive Muslim Maajid Nawaz tweeted a cartoon with the caption: “This Jesus & Mo cartoon is not offensive & I’m sure God is greater than to feel threatened by it.”

The result? Vicious death threats. A petition signed by tens of thousands to have him removed from his candidacy. Targeting by Western liberal apologists. Admonishments from his own moderate Muslim counterparts. Tweets such as, “Have spoken to someone in Pakistan. They will have a surprise for him on his next visit. He is used to surprises in Pak.” The most tragic aspect of all this is what Alishba Zarmeen has coined the “Greenwald Syndrome” - the phenomenon of Western liberals, in a supposed show of tolerance, embracing an apologist stance in favor of the intolerant.

After being publicly accused by Glenn Greenwald of “spouting and promoting Islamophobia,” Sam Harris responded with these words, which should be read by everyone:

“Needless to say, there are people who hate Arabs, Somalis, and other immigrants from predominantly Muslim societies for racist reasons. But if you can’t distinguish that sort of blind bigotry from a hatred and concern for dangerous, divisive, and irrational ideas - like a belief in martyrdom, or a notion of male ‘honor’ that entails the virtual enslavement of women and girls - you are doing real harm to our public conversation. Everything I have ever said about Islam refers to the content and consequences of its doctrine. And, again, I have always emphasized that its primary victims are innocent Muslims - especially women and girls. There is no such thing as ‘Islamophobia.’ This is a term of propaganda designed to protect Islam from the forces of secularism by conflating all criticism of it with racism and xenophobia. And it is doing its job, because people like you have been taken in by it.”

The fear of being called Islamophobic once led many prominent Westerners to abandon their own values when they abandoned Salman Rushdie. It led Yale to publish a book about the Danish Muhammad cartoon controversy, but without the cartoons. It led Comedy Central to censor their shows for fear of offending Muslims, even though the show irreverently lambastes virtually every other religion on a regular basis, unhindered and it has led to countless people being attacked, doxxed, threatened, silenced and their careers ruined, all for having a different opinion.

This epidemic continues today except now people aren’t taking “Islamophobia” as serious anymore and with good reason so Muslims have begun to create hoax hate-crimes against themselves to try and bring some credibility back to keep non-Mulsims in check.

Remember the 18-year-old Muslim girl who was assaulted and called a terrorist on the subway by Trump supporters and they tried to rip her hijab off and all of the social justice warriors had a complete meltdown? It was a lie that she made up to cover her parents finding out she was out fucking a Christian dude and getting drunk. It gets funnier, her Muslim father has forced her to shave her head completely for bringing shame on the family and she was arrested for making false accusations.

Remember the Muslim student who was robbed, beaten and had her hijab ripped off and stolen by Trump supporters? It was a lie. She is now being charged for filing a false report.

Remember when those white supremacist, anti-Muslim Trump supporters burned down the mosque in Houston? It was a lie. While the mosque did get burned down, it was done by a black Muslim who had attended the mosque for years.

Remember the Ohio student who was racially abused and assaulted by Trump supporters? It was a lie. She made it up the day after the election and after she made a post that she wants all Trump supporters to die of AIDS.

Remember the Michigan Muslim student who was harassed and threatened to be burned alive by the Trump supporter if she didn’t remove her hijab? It was a lie. Surveillance cameras show that she wasn’t even in the location where she claimed the attack took place.

Remember the Muslim woman who had her hijab ripped and forced off by police when they took her in for questioning? It was another lie.

Remember the Muslim kid who was beaten up on the school bus by five white kids and it forced the family to leave the country? Yes, another fucking lie.

Remember the student who had her face slashed and was called a terrorist in Lower Manhattan? Yet another lie.

These anti-Islamic hate-crimes even reached the UK with an 18-year-old Muslim student from Birmingham being punched in the face for wearing a hijab. It was a lie. She’s been charged for lying to the police.

These are just some of the false claims made within the past year alone and they received nation-wide coverage and left-wing outrage and hysteria, all pushing the agenda that America is a racist, Islamophobic hellhole and nobody except white people are safe.

This is an effective deterrent. This is exactly how terrorism works. This is how perfectly intelligent, well-read writers, commentators, and broadcasters become silenced by the Islamophobia smear fear - and rationalize themselves into becoming unaware victims of it.

When you’re unable to introduce Islamic-style blasphemy Sharia laws in a secular, Western society, you have to find alternative ways to silence those who offend you, right?

And that’s where the “Islamophobia” smear comes in - the ultimate, lazy substitute for a non-existent counter-argument. Don’t fall for it.

[maddie-grove]

Les Mis (musical)

Disclaimer: Some of my complaints could be the result of something getting lost in the translation from French to English. 

1. First, I’d temper the pessimistic attitude towards political change. The musical ends on a hopeful note, but the hope seems to lie entirely in familial/romantic love and religious faith. These are important, positive things for many people, and I don’t think I’d mind the message much if it felt more earned, but honestly it doesn’t even make that much sense, based on my admittedly limited knowledge of French history. The June Rebellion could’ve gone the other way, and there was plenty of political change to come before the end of the century, so the sense of utter resignation that Things Will Always Be the Way They Are comes across as disingenuous. Not that things changing always means things improving, not by a long shot, but the musical doesn’t go there.

2. On a related note, I’d ditch the “they were schoolboys/never held a gun” characterization of l’Amis. Yes, they have ideals. Yes, most of them are too privileged to ever truly understand what it’s like to be an Eponine or a Jean Valjean. That doesn’t make them George from Blackadder Goes Fourth. None of them joins the June Rebellion on a lark in the book (except Grantaire, sort of); they have concrete goals and complex motives. I don’t expect all that in a musical–there’s probably not enough time–but acknowledge that they’re militant and that they put serious planning into their part of the rebellion.

3. Restoring Musical!Marius to his full, prickly, melancholy, generally dysfunctional Book!Marius glory would probably not be a good idea (although I love Book!Marius beyond reason), but I would keep his status as a hanger-on of l’Amis. Maybe he’s relatively new and genuinely enthusiastic about the revolution, yet he hasn’t seriously considered what he’s risking because he doesn’t have that much going on in his life besides l’Amis. They’re making a clear-headed choice based on their beliefs; he’s the only schoolboy who’s never held a gun here. Then he falls in love with Cosette and is like “huh, I feel less chill about dying for the cause now.” 

4. I’d give Cosette a little more characterization, probably by doing something with her feelings about her childhood. One thing I think is interesting about her relationship with Jean Valjean is that he’s so scared of her knowing about his past, primarily because he’s ashamed of the person he was. I think he’s able to deal with his guilt pretty effectively by atoning for his specific mistakes–following the bishop’s instructions to do good after stealing his candlesticks, helping Fantine and Cosette after negligently failing to prevent Fantine’s slide into abject poverty–but I don’t believe he ever got over the shame of being so desperate that he (against his own conscience) stole those candlesticks from someone who had helped him. It doesn’t help that he was desperate because the government had punished him way out of proportion to his crimes; in some ways, that just makes the humiliation worse, because shame isn’t rational. But Cosette would never care; she loves her dad, and his past wouldn’t make any difference to her. 

So, I wonder if Cosette might not feel something similar towards Valjean. She had this “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” childhood, scared, starved, insulted, beaten, and deprived of affection so Mme. Thenardier could feel that her own daughters had something better. I’m not sure how much she knew about her parents, but it’s doubtful she wasn’t told something nasty about where she came from. And then Valjean, whom she knows nothing about, rescues her and does all he can to give her a safe, happy childhood. It would hardly be unusual for her to look back on her earlier abject existence with shame, although of course none of it was her fault. She knows that Valjean loves her, but it’s still humiliating that he saw her like that. It doesn’t occur to her that he has the same feelings about his own mysterious past; she assumes that he’s never done anything wrong. Once the truth does come out, it’s something of a relief. Seeing her father as a vulnerable human being makes her realize that he never looked down on her, and her revulsion at her childhood self is hard to maintain when she could never feel that way towards Valjean.

Admittedly, I’m not sure how all this would fit into the musical. Maybe some changes to “In My Life” and the finale. It wouldn’t have to be much.

5. I wouldn’t use reprises when there wasn’t actually a strong connection between the two songs. Most examples from the musical are fine. “A Work”/”Look Down” both set a scene and discuss oppression; “Master of the House”/”Beggars at the Feast” are sung by the same characters, plus there’s an interesting Dark Reprise going on; “What Have I Done”/”Javert’s Soliloquy” are obvious thematic bookends. Et cetera. I can’t entirely justify “Come to Me”/”On My Own”–there are similarities between Fantine and Eponine, yet the reprise almost goes out of its way not to highlight them–but, whatever, I like both songs enough to keep them like they are. My main problems are with “Lovely Ladies”/”Turning” (which I would address by taking out “Turning,” because I have other problems with it, see changes #1 and #2) and “Valjean Arrested/Valjean Forgiven”/”Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” (which I’d address by doing different music for the first one–I guess they both address guilt and forgiveness, but in such different ways that the conceit doesn’t really pay off).

[mosmindmanifested]

The Haphazardous Meanderings of Intoxicated Youth

When I reflect on some of the times I struggled the most in life, I remember being plauged by an endless anxiety. Like I was a character in a Kafka novel. The outside world seemed dystopian, people seemed alien, and no matter what I was doing, I was only partially doing it, because I could not take my mind off of worries and anxieties of the future. I credit this partially to the fact that I grew up in a single parent family of low socio-economic status. Thoughts of class disparity were ceaseless, all that mattered was escaping what I percieved to be the shameful circumstance of living in government owned housing. My mother would not shy away from reminding me of the financial circumstance that we were in. I cultivated a sense of indebtness to her. I lived for her. And what she wanted me to do most was to go to university and get a great career. I supressed my inner voice, but no matter how much I tried, it would express itself in alternative avenues. I would write poetry, smoke weed excessively and dress like a modern bohemian. That was what I was becoming. School was not for me, especially 'Psycholingustics', but I was not to become a loser marijuana merchant like those I lived amongst in the government housing project (funny enough, I later became just that, but with the illusion of grandeur associated with working at a marijuana dispensary). At the time I was also conflicted with my religion. I was born and raised following Islam. The notion of heaven and hell flashing across the screen of my mind everytime I would roll a joint. Shame, especially existential shame, is a formidable poison. My relationship with my father was not great either. After not living with my family for the first 18 years of my life, he had returned, and this time indefinetly. All the years of feeling abandoned, neglected, not loved, a second priority, would have to be put aside if I were to live in peace with this guy. So I avoided him (which is pretty hard to do in a tiny 3 bedroom town house). With all the chaos and aimlessness surrounding my experience of emerging adulthood, I still felt that I was superior to most of my peers. Every time I meant someone I would size them up. "Okay this guy make more money than me, but is he as well read?" "Alright this guy might be able to deadlift more than I can, but he sure as hell is not as sexually successful". I was never as uncomfortable than the times I was around someone that I felt had me "completely beat". Looking back, the metrics that I would compare with others became so granuler and ridiculous that it is hilarious to look back at: "yea that dude probably has a small dick, not a threat at all". I truley believed myself to have no control over the course of my life. The one thing that was supposed to occupy most of my attention, the thing I was supposed to be passionate about and make a living through, was dictated by the will of another. I was living a lie. I was living a life not true to myself, and I suffered accordingly. Things shifted dramatically when I slowly diassembled the spell cast on me. Starting first with forgiving my father for his absence, there was no way I could live a sane and peaceful life otherwise. Second, I dropped out of university. There was no way I was going to become a speech pathologist, and everyone around me knew that. The pain of 'not being in line with my peers' ate at me at first, but slowly subsided. I humbled myself. I took a job as a cashier at a health food store and delivered food on a bike with Uber. Delivering with Uber was pretty Zen. I spent hours at a time on the road with nothing to think about, no stimulus coming in other than the navigation system on my phone. It was somewhere during the countless hours of doing this mindless task that my first vision hit me. I WAS TO BECOME A NATUROPATH! Immediately I began researching all the different paths on how to become a Naturopath, and was quickly disenchanted when I realized the countless years of education that I would have to complete (including going back to finish highschool science credits that I neglected to take when I was 16). So I compromised my vision. I was now to become a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner? The whole thing seemed awkward, and it was reflected in the ambivalence I showed towards the whole thing. After signing up for TCM school, I dropped out in the first week. What was next? I liked lifting weights, so why not make a career out of it? I quickly got certified as a personal trainer. The goal, being influenced by my past ambitions of becoming a Naturopath, was to become a Holistic Health Coach. I would create a unique practice that integrated both fitness and holistic nutrition / herbal medicine. I got my first job as a personal trainer a month after being certified, and I realized how much I hated it. Clients were unmotivated, trainers would do whatever it took to retain clientele (even if that meant making them dependent on them). I felt like I was dealing marijuana again, except this time it was the promise of a six pack and a sexually desirable body. Throughout this time I would work as a barista. I landed a job at an independent coffee shop in the city and was making good money and having fun doing it. I would wake up every morning at 5am to be there by 6:30, open the shop independently, and spend the rest of the time making lattes, jamming out to my independently curated playlists, and reading when it got quiet. I loved this job. When I reflect on it it must have been the best job I have had to date. The weak dream of becoming a holistic health coach was beginning to fade into the recesses of my mind, I was complacent where I was, and I was looking forward to renting out my first apartment in the city with all the money I was making (tips were ridiculous). Until one day... the owner and I get into a conflict. He wants things done in a very particular way, a very VERY particular way, and my fragile ego cannot take the onslaught of criticsm and admonishment. In the middle of one of his speeches, I quit; tears pouring down my face as I tell him that I cannot meet the demands he is placing on me. He was a good man. He gave me an opportunity in a time in my life where I needed it. A month prior, my family home burned down. The only possesions I had was the turtle neck I wore the night of, a pair of black chinos, and red basketball shoes. Living out of a hotel that the City of Toronto geberously financed, I reached out to him on my sisters laptop when I saw he was looking to hire a new barista. I came to our interview in the only outfit I had, and he accepted me, regardless of the dishevled apperance and stench of desperation. Losing that job was like losing a part of myself. Like losing a good friend. I made a vow to myself that day: that I would no longer rely on anyone for anything, and even if it killed me, I would create something for myself. Back to ground zero. Nothing to do but the acid I bought a week prior, and reading Steve Jobs' biography. Hallucinating on a micrdose of LSD and going 30km/hr on my bike one evening it dawned on me.... an idea like no other. And for the first time in my life, it was one I really believed I could make possible. To the drawing board I went until I fonally hashed out an vision that I was proud of, one that I will materialze. What is that vision you ask? You will have to wait and see my friends :) Namaste

[newssplashy]

Pulse Blogger: Mosebolatan - The audacity of death

I barely click on the News Channels these days. Why should I, when they transmit negative vibes that births bouts of depression, through the airwaves, as they magnify oppression in the Society?

It makes me wonder how disseminated information was received a few decades ago.  Nowadays it appears that it is not news except it is bad news.

Here we are trying to deal with the killings in Plateau State and seeming laissez-faire attitude of leadership and then the news about the descent of liquid fire on over 50 vehicles, due to an avoidable situation.

This is so disheartening! Can anyone really prepare for death? Can anyone take a trip without packing and preparing?

This is the story of Mosebolatan Edwards, a “Lagos big boy”.

MOSE’S MONDAY

June25th -4:00a.m: Mosebolatan, a successful computer analyst woke up even before the alarm went off. “ That’s odd”, he thought to himself, as he got up to visit the bathroom. He sauntered back to bed as he glanced across the bedside table and sighted his Bible. “Ah Mose, you need to make time for God O, u just never know”.

As he laid back he remembered his mother, who died almost a decade ago. He was her only child who arrived 25 years after her marriage. She suffered a lot in the hands of Mose’s father and his family.

Read Also: The power of words

 From her mother-in-law to the “other wives”, Mama Mose almost lost her mind. She held on to “My Big God” as she used to say. “God gave you to me Mose, to put my enemies to shame, you belong to him, make sure you live your life for Jesus”.

He thought about his life, his Lekki life, everything was super, couldn’t be better, he was a multimillionaire, in fact if he chose to retire, he will not need to beg anyone for money till he is 150 years old!

His contracts with the Lagos state government was enough, but his company, “Mosecomp Consults”, had become a brand in other states of the country. He had a meeting at Ibadan the next day and was toying with the idea of spending the night.

6:00a.m: Mose went down to his gym and after 30 minutes of intense work out he went to freshen up and get ready for work (he was going to the ikeja branch and then make trip to Ibadan.

MOSE GOES TO WORK

7:30a.m: On his way to the office he picked up his android to read up on any company updates. A text message from wifey “ @universal studios with the twins, wish you were here “

“Ah the Twins”, he said under his breath. These boys and their mother was the reason he promised to keep working. They deserve the best and he was determined to give them. He moved them to the States because he wanted them to have what he called the best opportunities that Education can afford.

Read Also: 5 Reasons why students cheat

Besides, “side chick” , “Chinwe”, always felt choked up whenever “boss lady” was around. However he knew in his heart that if he had to choose, wifey is always bae!

There was also text message from his lawyer; a reminder of their meeting. He wanted to discuss his “Final Will and Testament”. Gosh, he said, they will have to reschedule, he will need to spend the night at Ibadan.

He opened another text message, this from the “Olori ebi”, the head of his clan. He had been calling and Mose refused to pick up. He spoke aloud this time because he wanted his driver, Kasali, to be in on it. “What do these people want from me?

Now they know me abi? Every one wants a piece of me, when they were treating my mother like trash, did ever think that they will eat out of my hands”. As usual, his driver supported “Oga” completely. Oga is always right after all, as long as ‘pepper dey rest”.

Written by Bo Adesoye

Auntybspeaks.com gud to talk

(This is a work of fiction; names, character and incidents are used in a fictitious manner.)

source https://www.newssplashy.com/2018/07/pulse-blogger-mosebolatan-audacity-of.html