#i only met him a WEEK ago and he has already fundamentally changed my brain construction lsjdflsdkjf

[orcelito]

FACE. IN MY HANDS....

i just saw the interaction with dohalim and fahria

ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow

[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 45 – Suspicion with Good Cause

“Miss Lunark, what was the codename of that agent you ran into? Was it Kespar?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Are you sure? Are you sure it was Kespar?”

“She specified it herself. And my ears are more loyal than you’d think.”

Lunark added a touch of playful sneer in her reply, but in turn Tao’s face was rendered much more serious than she had envisioned.

Making a slight regret that perhaps she sounded more aggressive than she had intended, Lunark lifted her gaze to find the largest monitor blinking with life.

Immediately she cocked her head, upon the sight of a woman she had never seen before.

Judging by the color tones of the screen and the faint noises, she presumed she was looking at a screenshot of footage from a security camera.

“Is this what she looked like?”

Lunark’s bouquet-like hair waved side to side.

The picture could have used some magnifying, but difference of appearances of the rat she met and the one in the screen was so very obvious. Even the blind would have noticed they were two different people.

“Eyes, facial line, hair color, hair length... I could go on forever to point out the discrepancies I see. Who is this?”

Tao squeezed his lips for a second upon her retort.

“...This is Kespar.”

Say what?!

Her exclamation silently echoed inside her voice box, having contracted regardless of her will.

“This is Kespar...?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

“I’m positive. I give you my word I’m not the one with a misunderstanding here.”

“...Are you absolutely sure? I know what you can pull off with computers and all, but there’s possibly no way that you’d know every single agent ever registered in the Union.”

Her argument was legitimate; despite the fact that she was once the elder of the Union, during her history as one she had never once memorized names and faces of all agents.

And with the topmost personnel not setting a good example, things were nothing different for lesser agents and researchers.

Not to mention there was no need to stress out one’s brain to do the job, with computers readily available to provide A to Z for whoever they seek.

However, Lunark had overlooked one thing – she was talking to none other than Tao.

“Since my time at the Union, I have taken a liking to hacking. It’s both my specialty and hobby. I used to surf through and collect all sorts of data stored at Union whenever I could, to nobody’s knowledge.”

“...You mean you already knew about this agent?”

“Yep. It took me some time to remember ‘cause I first got to learn about her long time ago, but a conversation with you managed to refresh my memories. And based on what I know, the one you met is not Kespar.”

“...Any chance that you might have learned wrong in the first place?”

“There’s none. This screenshot is not the only file I have to show you what she looks like, and most importantly... Kespar died several years ago during a mission.”

By the end of Tao’s sentence, the invisible net that had been keeping Lunark’s heart barely safe from downfall at last snapped.

In an attempt to somehow retrieve her heart from plummeting towards the soles of her feet, Lunark posed one last question.

“You swear that... That Kespar is dead...?”

“As much as I’d sound like I’m joking, I can swear upon this mansion and everything under its roof. Kespar is dead.”

Nobody would ever swear upon Frankenstein’s possessions as a joke or a lie or an assumption.

Upon processing the fact into her brain, Lunark suddenly felt like the entire world began to shrink into the vortex centering on the bottoms of her feet.

Kespar is actually dead.

However, that orange-haired modified human dubbed herself as Kespar.

Just like the list of dossiers she received.

“But why...?”

Her lips mumbled on their own, momentarily cut off from her cognition.

Tao interpreted the situation as how he viewed it and began to spill the unasked.

“Probably because she had to hide herself – but not too much. Because Kespar is the best alias you could make use of if you want to conceal your true name but maintain your identity as a Union agent.”

<What do you mean by that?>

Tao asked, his curiosity nudging at his mouth.

“According to what I found out when we were still part of the Union, most people there had considered Kespar as a missing-in-action or a renegade, instead of a deceased. And I believe that hasn’t changed.”

<But how is that possible? Even when a random agent that nobody really needs goes dead in no man’s area in Antarctica, Union would have no problem finding out who-when-where-what-why-how and composing detailed record in less than a week.>

“That would have been the case for any other agent. Or should I say, any other time? In Kespar’s case, however, she died at a wrong time, in a way. Back then there was a political struggle of a sort within the Union, and they decided to make Kespar’s death handy. So Kespar’s real data – which happens to be in my collection – is the only record containing her death; any other data have her marked as missing. And they did a really good job of veiling her current status. If you even blink during your search, you’ll end up with the faux data.”

“And with Union’s system completely tattered as of now, nobody would be willing to correct her information. Does that mean it’s safe to suppose she will be remembered as missing-in-action or renegade?”

“Precisely.”

Tao nodded in agreement, with Lunark still frozen in silence.

She could not spare even the slightest of her attention to her surroundings, her mind caught up in review of anomalies that finally started to glint.

During her first encounter with the agent who called herself “Kespar,” she voluntarily flung the name at her, even demanding that she will keep it stuck in her head from now on.

Which is against the fundamental rule and value for any Union agent: anonymity is the greatest treasure.

Now there was more than enough reason for Lunark to suspect that she wanted her to believe she was Kespar.

To top it off, there was another reason why Lunark has come to recognize the orange-haired modified human as Kespar.

On the list submitted by 3rd Elder, the picture of the woman with orange hair and blue eyes was labeled as Kespar for codename.

And there was only one conclusion she could draw from such fact: 3rd Elder and the false Kespar deceived her, and the odds are terribly high that they are as a matter of fact in secret alliance.

“Why, you sly fox... You dare to play tricks on me?”

Just like that, the lab was hit with an unseeable blizzard, her tone throwing delusions at them as if they are stranded in the middle of Siberia during winter.

They kept their eyes fixed on the werewolf warrior, not moving an inch.

“I gave you a warning, and you know it...! You took all that hospitality that you did not even get close to deserving, and you decided you’ll stab Frankenstein in the back! You useless piece of unrecyclable garbage...!”

“W-what do you mean by that?”

Lunark gave them a brief explanation; now she could see no reason to hide it. She could see hiding would be no good at all.

She told them about help she requested from 3rd Elder to deduce who could be shutting down Crombel’s secret facilities, along with the list he produced for her.

She also told them how on that list she read the real Kespar’s dossier adorned with false Kespar’s picture.

The RK’s faces turned awfully beyond pale upon her confession.

“If this is true... There’s no telling what he could be plotting behind our backs as we speak.”

<And there’s no telling what he’ll do to Frankenstein in the future.>

“That does it. I’m going to see Frankenstein right now.”

And make sure I give that sneaky little bastard an unforgettable kiss with the Earth’s core.

Lunark was about to turn upon her heels as she gritted her teeth, before Tao yelled, “Wait! I know you’re in a hurry – and for a good reason – but could you please give me a moment? There’s something I’d like to give you.”

“Do you have to do it now? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“It’s something that can help my boss. So please...”

“Spit it out. And be quick.”

Bewildered at how fast Lunark changed her stance, Tao grabbed the USB on his desk.

‘Sorry, boss.’

Tao knew that if Lunark is to walk up to 3rd Elder now, chances are more than high that there will be a physical skirmish.

And chances were horribly high that Frankenstein would be made part of the skirmish.

At the same time, Tao knew what Frankenstein is going through because of the Dark Spear.

Which is why in preparation of cases that require Frankenstein’s participation in a combat, he had been picking and sorting data that could prove helpful for him.

‘I know you made me promise not to tell anybody. But I’m afraid I can no longer keep your secret.’

Sighing with guilt tugging at his conscience, Tao began to unlock the USB.

The screen shimmered with several programs, and the lock was nearly removed when Tao lamented, “Oops, my bad. Wrong USB. Sorry about that. Seriously, my mind is not in its right sta...”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...!!!

Out of blue, red-toned noises spread throughout all monitors.

They noticed what this was about; it was similar – no, identical to the phenomenon they witnessed when their computers and communications were made useless on the day they first initiated the QuadraNet.

“No...!!”

Luckily, they had Tao, a master artisan like none other in computers, who experienced this before.

With him as the firefighter, the fire was put out in no time.

“What just happened? Why did we see reenactment of trouble from the QuadraNet incident?”

“...Miss Lunark, did you see how I was trying to remove the lock on the USB just now?”

“Of course I did, though I failed to recognize what exactly you were doing.”

“What about you, M-21? Did you identify the steps I was following?”

M-21 merely tilted his head upon his inquiry.

He would not have recognized it, if Tao did not tell them what he did just before was unlocking the USB.

The only thing Tao did ever since he implanted the USB was playing around with basic programs installed in every computer, in the following steps:

Opening and closing MS Paint for 3 times.

Entering what looks like a secret code on Notepad and saving the file.

Opening a new Notepad file and typing in the same code.

Opening Calculator and deleting the first Notepad file in the meantime.

Entering a certain calculation into Calculator before closing it, to go ahead and close the second Notepad file.

The moment his mind retraced the last step, M-21 felt something knocking on his head.

“Wait a minute...”

“That’s right. It’s the unlocking procedure for the secret USB.”

“Secret USB...? I don’t think this is my first time hearing it.”

“I bet it isn’t. A secret USB is the Union invention created for agents in the old days, when they were sent for infiltrations. If you plug them in like a regular USB, they will display files that seem no worthy of interest. But once you follow a special procedure, it will yield hidden files. And to unlock it, you must carry out the exact steps that make use of basic programs that are installed in every computer available in public.”

“Yeah, now I remember. The procedure is less than a yawn for modified humans proficient in device control like you, but it was deemed inefficient for cases of battle or emergency. Hence it was abandoned by Union long ago.”

“Quite. Which is why I chose it as a method to unlock my USB. At least the current Union agents wouldn’t even dream of such method to dissect my kits.”

The moment Tao’s speech was marked with a period, the lab was enveloped by a dreadful silence.

Because the USB Tao just used was not the one he had kept for Frankenstein, but the one that was laid right next to it, wrongfully chosen by the supreme computer technician due to his lack of coherence.

“...So this is the USB that Yuhyung gave?”

“...Yes.”

It turned out the mostly-new USB that belongs to Yuhyung is to be unlocked like a secret USB.

With new revelation came a new missing link for the occasions they could not dare point out or discuss.

And their question grew into suspicion with good cause.

Now that they have found what could serve as an evidence, they realized evasion is not an option anymore.

Even though some mysteries remain, they will soon be deciphered, once they capture and investigate the human who is to return home.

“I believe I can leave him to you guys. Isn’t that right?”

“You can count on us. You go ahead and give Frankenstein a claw he needs.”

(next chapter)

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen - it’s not Adne but Yuhyung who is the traitor! Very soon his past progress as a traitor will be revealed, via the hints I inserted in the previous chapters. By the way, the secret USB and its unlock procedure are my creation, unrelated to the original webtoon, so I hope there won’t be any confusion regarding this. And we’re slowly moving on to the highlight of this fic. Even though this is a Noblesse fic, I’m aware that there were battles on rare occasions. Which will be made up by the highlight that is approaching. It’s always a challenge to compose battle scenes, but I’ll do my best with this! :)

[nothingeverlost]

Marta the Vampire Slayer

I don’t even know.  I was thinking about my already in progress Cablanca fic, and reading Buffy/Giles fic, and then as I was falling asleep this happened in my brain.  

“It’s all true, my dear girl.  Every Slayer or potential Slayer is assigned a Watcher, to train them in the art of fighting and to aid them in the fight against the dark.  Harlan was your Watcher.”

II

“Where’s Harlan’s body?”  The question came only a few minutes after Benoit Blanc introduced himself as an old friend of Harlan’s.  She hadn’t even had a chance to find out why he’d come or how he’d known, somehow, that Harlan had died.

“It’s at the morgue.  They have to do an autopsy.”  She remembered the strange wound at his neck and the blood that stained his shirt collar.  The cops thought he’d killed himself, because of the knife in his hands, but there was still something about the wound that wasn’t right.

“We have to go there right away.  I’m surprised you’re not there already.”  Mr. Blanc picked up his bag.  “Were there any signs that they might have tried to turn him?  Any blood stains near his mouth?”

“I don’t understand.”  Why would it matter if someone had turned him over?

“It’s a great coup, to turn a Watcher.  His knowledge of his Slayer, of course, is invaluable but what most vampires find satisfying is the potential mind games.  Few things rattle a Slayer more than coming face to face with a demon wearing the face of a friend.”

“Slayer?  Watcher?”  He spoke the words as if they meant something.

“Oh dear.  I was hoping Harlan would have explained at least some of the fundamentals to you.  I’ll have to explain as we go.  We need to be at the morgue as soon as we can; the sun is about to rise.”  He spoke with a Southern drawl that made her think of picnics in the sun but changed direction quick enough to make her dizzy.

“Harlan’s children will be here soon.”  She’d called Linda as soon as the police had allowed her.  Linda would tell Walt and Joanie.

“They won’t be any use in this.”  He ushered her into his car before she’d realized they’d even left the house.  She felt numb, like her brain wasn’t connected to her feet or anything else.  She should have insisted that they stay at the house.  What happened when Linda and the family arrived?  What if the police called again?  And what did he mean by turning?

“The morgue will be closed by now.”  It would be dark outside in half an hour.

“Good, that should make it easier to get inside.  Fewer people to distract.”

“You don’t really mean to go inside, do you?”  Corpses weren’t anything new; she’d had to dissect them for her AP bio classes, and she was planning on being premed next year in college.  She wasn’t ready to see Harlan like that.

“We’re both going to have to go in, I’m afraid.  We need to be certain that he’s not going to rise.”

“He’s dead.”  Blood dripping down his neck and his eyes fading as he tried to whisper something to her.  She hadn’t been able to understand.

“He is, and I’m sorry Marta, I really am.  I know you will need time to mourn him, but unfortunately right now there are more pressing matters.  We need to be certain he stays dead,” he said emphatically.

 “People don’t come back from the dead, not after their brain activity stops.”  It had been hours since she’d found him.  He’d be so cold now.

“There are exceptions.”  He looked at her once, as they pulled up to the red light of an intersection.  Until the car started again he was silent.  “Harlan has been training you, hasn’t he?”

“Someone comes to the house three days a week for judo lessons.  Harlan says it’s important that I know how to defend myself.”  Her mom had always said to make as much noise as she could and then run, but Harlan said you couldn’t always get away.  “He’s teaching me fencing too, but I think that’s more because he misses having someone to spar against.  And we play Go in the evenings, because he says it’s good training for the brain.”

“He’s right about not always being able to run.”  Mr. Blanc parked the car on the street behind the morgue.  “Has he trained you with any weapons?”

“Other than the epee?  He showed me how to use a knife and how to get a weapon away from an attacker.  And he explained a lot of his weapons.”  He had a whole wall of them, some centuries old.  Marta had put it down to his being a mystery writer.  “Sometimes we do archery.  I’m pretty good at that.”

“Yes, well it’s going to be too small of a room for arrows, and a knife isn’t going to help you if the worst happens tonight.  You’ll need this.”  He opened the bag he’d stowed in the trunk and handed her a stick.  Sure, it was sharp on one end but it was still a stick.

“I’m going to defend myself with a stick?”  

“Yes, and remember to aim for the heart.  The wood has to pierce the heart for it to work.”  He was already making his way towards the back door.  Marta didn’t have any choice but to keep up, the wood still clenched in her hand despite her confusion.

“What if someone sees us?”  It wasn’t quite dark yet, and he was kneeling in front of the door with a lock pick in his hand.  He might be able to get off, but she wasn’t a white guy with a charming accent.  And she had a weapon, if you could call it that.  She was so going to jail.

“We tell the truth, or at least part of it.  Our friend died today.  We didn’t know the morgue was closed already.”  It didn’t take him much longer to open the door then it would have with a key.  She had to wonder why he was so good at that.  The lights were off, the hallway already dim.  It only took a few steps to get to the room they were looking for.  “It’s always better to at least start with the truth.”

“I can’t lie.”  Even thinking about it had bile rising at the back of her throat.

“Ah yes, I heard about that.  Well I’m sure regurgitation would be just as good at distracting anyone who asked a question.”  He opened the door, holding it for her to enter first.  She really didn’t want to go in, but couldn’t figure out how to say no to him.  “Oh good, it looks like everyone is still nicely tucked in.”

“You said you would explain things.”  She pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her.  It wasn’t actually getting colder in the room, was it?

“I did, and I always endeavor to keep my promises.  There isn’t an easy way to explain this, but the simple version is that vampires are real, and in order to battle the forces of dark there is a Slayer, a girl gifted with the power to fight the vampire and protect our world.  When one Slayer dies a new one is called.  And that, Marta Cabrera, is you.”

“Are you in a mystery writing group with Harlan?  Is that how you knew him?”  She would laugh if she remembered how.

“It’s all true, my dear girl.  Every Slayer or potential Slayer is assigned a Watcher, to train them in the art of fighting and to aid them in the fight against the dark.  Harlan was your Watcher.”

“Harlan was a friend of the family.”  He’d taken her and Alice in, two years ago when their mom had died.  She’d never met him before that, but he’d apparently been an old friend of her father’s from years ago and since she and Alice had no other family he’d become their guardian.

“He has quite the extensive library.  Did you ever see books about vampires and magic in his collection?”

“He writes mystery novels.  Some of them have occult plot lines.”  She might have looked at them, finding them fascinating, but it was all fiction.  It had to be.

“Does he train your sister in fencing and martial arts?”

“She’s younger than I am and doesn’t go places alone.”  She was thirteen now, and a freshman; it was the only year they would go to school together.  Marta had just started her senior year.

“Vampires are very real, Marta.  I’m afraid you’re going to learn that soon.  If not tonight then we’ll start patrolling tomorrow.”

“Patrolling what?”  The tables in the middle of the room were all empty, but there was a wall of drawers that Marta knew didn’t hold papers.  Harlan was in one of those drawers.

“Cemeteries.  It’s the best place to find new vampires other than morgues and I don’t think we should break into one too often.  It’s better if you start out with ones that are new, before they’ve learned to use their strength.”

“I’d like to go home now.”  She didn’t think she could take much more.  Then again she didn’t know how much longer she had a home either.  Harlan was her guardian but he was dead.  He had kids, though she hadn’t met them very often.  She was pretty sure none of them would be interested in taking in a pair of orphaned teenagers.

“I’m afraid it’s time for your first lesson, Marta.  You have your stake?”  Behind her there was a sound of metal rolling.  One of the drawers was opening but she and Mr. Blanc were the only ones in the room.  

“Mr. Blanc…”

“Why don’t you call me Benoit?  We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”  His touch to her shoulder was gentle.  “Now just remember to aim for the heart, alright?”

Marta turned and wanted to scream when a man came lunging at her.  It was a young man, someone she’d never seen before.  Even though she didn’t believe what was happening she was grateful it wasn’t Harlan.  The stake in her hand was weirdly comforting.  

“Aim for the heart,” she whispered to herself.  Maybe she took her own advice, or maybe she just reacted.  When the man - thing - got too close she moved her hand.  A piece of wood shouldn’t be enough to impale someone but she felt it hit flesh.  A moment later he was gone and all that remained was a pile of ash on the floor of the cemetery.

“Good girl.  How do you feel?” Benoit asked.

“Fine,” she answered politely.  A moment later she threw up in the trash can.

It was an hour before they left,  One moment Benoit had been telling her a story about a demon prophecy thwarted a year ago, and the next he had declared that if Harlan had turned he wouldn’t have been so patient.  They were spared that painful task, at least.

“What happens now?”  She asked after they drove back to the house in silence.  

“You will need to train and study with a Watcher.  Tomorrow we’ll start night-time patrols.”

“You said Harlan was my Watcher.”  

“He was a good Watcher and a good man.  He will be missed but the Council would never leave you unprotected.  I did not come just to tell you that you’re a Slayer, Marta.  I am your new Watcher.”  

“Oh.”  She didn’t know what else to say.  It was all too much, and she wanted nothing more than her bed.  Alice was at a friend’s birthday slumber party, and tomorrow she would have to tell her about Harlan.  They would have to figure out what came next, which she thought was hard enough when it meant where they were going to live and who would take care of them.  But apparently, now there were vampires and demons too.

“We’ll work on it all together, a little at a time.  You’re more prepared for this then you know.  I will help you see that,” Benoit promised.

Marta looked over her shoulder when she got out of the car.  The house was surrounded by darkness.  She wondered what was out there, waiting.

[ducksbellorum]

the flower and the flame (listen/download)

 a gale hawthorne/peeta mellark mix - the hunger games fandom - arranged by ducksbellorum

Kiss With A Fist Florence + the Machine Blood sticks, sweat drips Break the lock if it don’t fit A kick in the teeth is good for some A kiss with a fist is better than none There’s always been tension between Peeta and Gale. No one really knows why: maybe jealousy, maybe a weird sort of affection, maybe they sense they’re both fond of the same girl. Even they aren’t sure, but their fights are a fact of life, a universal constant that’s always been. Their mutual grievance manifests in everything from the all-out tussles when they were small to sniping comments now that they’re grown. Gale doesn’t like Peeta. Peeta doesn’t like Gale. It’s akin to pulling the pigtails of the girl you like, but neither realize it.

Live It Out Metric Look at you, I know I’m already dead No concrete adversity Only traps of our own actions How we wanted it to be When Peeta leaves for the Hunger Games, it’s like a death sentence. It doesn’t hit him at first, but one night on the train he realizes that he’s pretty much already dead. So is Katniss too, if he’s really honest. His life wasn’t supposed to go like this, he wants to scream. But strangely, instead of himself or the girl in the next room, the person Peeta’s thinking about most is Gale. Gale, living the rest of his life in the coal mines, doing normal District 12 things. Like Peeta was meant to do. He wonders if Gale will remember him.

Intro xx Instrumental Gale doesn’t like Peeta. Peeta doesn’t like Gale. The Games didn’t change that. Except maybe they did. Maybe one day Gale finds his way over to Peeta’s house in Victor’s Village and doesn’t leave. Maybe they start talking, about the government, about the weather, about Katniss. Mostly about Katniss, the one thing they really have in common. Maybe it becomes a ritual: six days a week shalt Gale labor, and on the seventh day Gale visits Katniss and on the seventh night he sits with Peeta. And eventually they might realize that they really don’t mind each other’s company anymore.

Never Fall in Love Emilie Simon I am a flower And I hurt your hands Don’t say you love Don’t say you care Gale and Peeta have always been vastly different people. Gale is a fighter, a flare, a rebel to the bone. Peeta had always been a lover and a talker, more of a flower than any sort of fire. The Games changed that as well. Now instead of an innocent dandelion, Peeta’s changed into a rose with long and deadly thorns. This makes he and Gale more alike than either wants to admit. They won’t even admit that they’re friends yet. They can’t be friends, it’s not possible. And they certainly can’t be anything more. Not the flower and the flame.

Hands Open Snow Patrol It’s hard to argue when you won’t stop making sense But my tongue still misbehaves and it keeps digging my own grave Even their political views are different. Gale’s always wanted to go, to fight, to shoot up all the things and take back their freedom from the Capitol. Peeta’s quieter, diplomatic, more in favor of a peaceful approach. They argue about it a lot, but each has to acknowledge that the other makes a lot of sense. A year ago, before the Games, they wouldn’t have even listened to each other. But now there was respect and mutual admiration and maybe maybe some sort of affection. Neither is sure what it is. But they both know they want more of it.

The Walk Imogen Heap No it’s not meant to be like this. Not what I planned at all. I don’t want to feel like this. So that makes it all your fault The kiss comes out of nowhere, somewhere between ‘come inside’ and 'do you want tea’. It’s quick, over in an eyeblink, and it takes a minute for their brains to catch up with their lips. But then it does and…

Gale: “I have to go.”

Peeta, a hand on his arm: “Wait.”

They stare at each other for a long minute. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Gale says finally. “I don’t even like you.”

“I love Katniss. You love Katniss. We fight over Katniss. We don’t…”

“I guess we do.”

Another cavernous silence.

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

Sort Of Ingrid Michaelson And if I was stronger then I would tell you no And if I was stronger then I would leave this show And if I was stronger then I would up and go But here I am, and here we go again It goes slow from there. It’s like feeling their way through foreign territory, not knowing what to feel or how much to feel or if they felt anything at all. They continue to see Katniss independently of each other and after visiting her there’s always a short discussion along the lines of: “We can’t anymore. It’s Katniss. It’s always been Katniss. Stay away from me and stay away from her.” But it never lasts. Peeta says once, “If I were smarter or stronger, I’d tell you no and mean it.”

“Do you want to?” Gale asks.

Peeta never hesitates. “No.”

Ashamed Muse There’s always something that makes you guilty There’s still something that you’re dying to tell me Make sure no one finds out Tell me all about it Gale’s sure, and Peeta tells him, that in the Capitol and the other districts men can love men just as well as they love women. But Gale’s a country boy with country values. He’s not nearly as sanguine about the whole relationship with Peeta thing as Peeta is. He doesn’t know whether it’s right or wrong in the end, or how to justify his feelings with his fundamental upbringing. Sometimes he feels ashamed of Peeta, of what they’re doing, and then he feels guilty about feeling guilty. Nothing is simple and nothing is easy. But Peeta understands. Somehow Peeta always understands.

Warning Sign Coldplay I’ve gotta tell you what a state I’m in I’ve gotta tell you in my loudest tones That I started looking for a warning sign When the truth is, I miss you They’ve always known that anything they have together can’t last. The Capitol will eventually come in and screw everything over. Sure enough, when the Quarter Quell rolls around, they do. Katniss and Peeta are back to being lovers, back to fighting in the Games, and likely not coming back alive. It puts a strain on all of them, but especially the boys. Their tempers run short and they say things to each other that they never mean. Gale says he misses Peeta. Peeta says he’s still here, but they both know it’s not as true as it used to be.

Under the Sheets Ellie Goulding Where did the people go? My hands are empty You’re not the answer I should know Like all the boys before, like all the boys before Peeta’s a prisoner in the Capitol and all he sees on television is the girl on fire and the rebellion ruining the Capitol’s peace. They’ve put something in his veins and Katniss is all mixed up with terrible thoughts that don’t belong with her or do they. He’s not sure. But Katniss isn’t a good thought. He tries to focus on Gale then, on all the things Gale had told him about revolution and about love and the way Gale made him feel safe. But the idea of Gale gets twisted too and soon Gale isn’t a good thought either.

Love Lockdown Kanye West I’m not lovin’ you the way I wanted to Where I wanna go, I don’t need you I’ve been down this road, too many times before I’m not lovin’ you the way I wanted to Loving Peeta is ridiculous because Peeta is a traitor and Peeta is against everything Gale stands for. Plus there’s Katniss to consider. Gale doesn’t need Peeta, not emotionally or physically or anything. Certainly having any affection for Peeta is bad for his reputation, being as Gale’s the badass rebel soldier and Peeta’s a drugged-up, traitorous timebomb. That’s what he has to tell everyone else, and even himself.

Yet no matter how often he does this, Gale can’t help worrying about the boy and wanting him back. Yeah, so maybe it makes no sense. But that’s just the way it is.

Edge of Desire John Mayer Don’t say a word, just come over and lie here with me 'Cause I’m just about to set fire to everything I see I want you so bad, I’ll go back on the things I believe There I just said it, I’m scared you’ll forget about me Peeta can see Gale through the observation window of his hospital room. He can see the other boy staring in at him, never speaking, never moving, even when Peeta waves hello. Peeta still can’t remember everything right. He can’t remember why he hates Katniss so much, and he can’t remember anything about Gale. He just has a feeling that Gale was safe, that he could trust Gale. Peeta thought if only Gale would tell him what was right, he’d know. Gale never comes. Gale’s afraid to come, but Peeta can’t know that. All Peeta knows is that something is wrong.

2 Atoms in a Molecule Noah and the Whale Held together, holding each other With no one else in mind Like two atoms in a molecule Inseparably combined After everything is said and done and the rebellion is become the government, they talk again. There’s a lot of yelling and lot of accusation. Gale trying to justify the things Peeta has done and Peeta trying to reconcile his actions and Gale’s actions and both of them trying not to say I missed you. But after all the screaming, Peeta says softly, “I dreamed of you.” Gale tells him that it can’t be the way that it was. They both understand. But as they stand there looking at each other, they understand that maybe they could rebuild something better.

Fragment Trespassers William The only thing cautious now’s My hand not to break you I cannot promise any of the things I want to But I could not want this any fragment more than I do They build it up again. It’s slower this time, and less sure, but they do it. Before, Peeta had made promises and Gale had made plans and they’d dreamed together. But they were old now and the time for dreaming was long past. Peeta had Katniss and the children and Gale had his work in the new government. They didn’t see very much of each other. But they met as often as they could, just to talk, like old times. And yet, not like the old times at all. They could never love like that again. But they could remember.

Bonus: Dare You To Move Switchfoot Maybe redemption has stories to tell Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell Where can you run to escape from yourself? Where you gonna go? Gale and Peeta have a tradition when they’re together. They do shots and confess sins. It’s more comfortable than confessing to a priest and forgiveness is guaranteed. Plus you can drown your sorrows in Haymitch’s very best rotgut. Sometimes it gets silly, pranks and jokes and little things. But more often their sessions are serious. Gale remembering the bomb he’d designed consuming Katniss’ sister and Peeta reliving the death of everyone he’d killed in the Arena. They drink in silence. They can’t forgive themselves. But they can forgive each other, and maybe one day together they can start to heal.

[readonline]

In the back of my closet is a small cardboard chest with brass handles and latches that has followed me to every new address; it’s the first thing I find a place for as the moving truck pulls away. An old sticker on the bottom says it was purchased at Ross for $26.99. The only remaining contents are three wrapped presents marked in my mother’s tidy cursive: “Engagement,” “Wedding” and “First Baby.”

My mother, who put her business degree to use running a small nutritional beverage company with my father in Santa Rosa, Calif., while raising my older brother and me, was always prepared. By day she made marketing slogans, distribution strategies, five-year plans. By night: bubble baths, pillow forts, bedtime stories.

She and I had the same February birthday. Each year my parents arranged elaborate parties. She once spent a week making a school of origami fish to swim through tissue paper seaweed across the ceiling of our dining room.

When I was 3, she learned she had advanced breast cancer and immediately began to prepare by researching every available treatment: conventional, alternative, Hail Mary. She flooded her body with chemotherapy and carrot juice.

Each day, she would sit for hours at our long oval dining table, her straight dark hair tied back, surrounded by piles of paper, studying dense, technical paragraphs.

“Medical research,” my father said as he shepherded me from the room.

She was always looking for a way to survive.

When I was 7, the materials on the dining table began to change. Wrapping paper and ribbons took the place of her highlighted pages as her arms worked busily under the dark fuzz of her shorn head. Scissors swished through gift wrap. Paper creased under her fingers. Ribbon cut to length with one snip. Knots came together with a tiny creak. Swish, crease, snip, creak.

She had begun assembling two gift boxes: one for my brother and one for me.

There was a rhythm in the room. She bent closer and closer to write the labels as her vision began to fail, a result of the cancer having spread to her brain.

Inside, she packed presents and letters for the milestones of our lives she would miss — driver’s license, graduation and every birthday until the age of 30. When the boxes were full, my father carried them up to our rooms. She died 10 days before our shared birthday.

That morning, when I turned 12 and she would have turned 49, I woke up early. The box sat three steps from the foot of my bed. Just as my mother had shown me, I lifted the latches and opened it.

Neat rows of brightly wrapped presents glowed like the spring tulips that were just coming up in the front yard. I opened the package marked “12th Birthday” and found a little ring with an amethyst at its center. A white card curling around the present read: “I always wanted a birthstone ring when I was a little girl. Your Granny finally bought me one and I loved it more than I can say. I hope you like it, too. Happy birthday, darling girl! Love, your Mommy.”

I slid the ring on and traced her writing with my fingertip. Her words, written to bridge the gap between us, cut through space and time.

When I got my first period and couldn’t bring myself to talk to my father about it, a four-page letter from my mother (marked “First Period”) laid out practical advice: “Take time to make friends with yourself. Take time to learn what interests you, what your opinions and feelings are, find your own sense of the world and which values you hold most dear.”

As I read, I wanted to fall through the white, lightly textured page and into her arms.

“Please try not to lose yourself,” it continued. “These are challenging years. Call on me for help when you feel confused.”

On the morning of my high school graduation, a strand of pearls made a sound like a maraca as I drew them from the box. Her note read: “There seemed to be a tradition in my family that when girls graduated from high school, they received a string of pearls. Well, my string of pearls never arrived.”

That’s because my mother, bound for adventure, skipped her senior year, and bought herself these pearls when she finished business school. She wanted me to know there was more than one path to walk through the world, and that I deserved to be celebrated. I wore the pearls that afternoon as I crossed the football field to accept my diploma.

Year after year, my mother traveled forward in time to meet me, always in the guise of a little package with a pink ribbon and a little white notecard: “Happy 15th!” “Happy 16th!” “Congratulations on your driver’s license!” “You’re a college girl!” “Happy 21st!” “Happy birthday, darling girl! Love, your Mommy.”

Each time I opened the box, I could, for the briefest moment, inhabit a shared reality, something she imagined for us many years ago. It was like a half-remembered scent, the first notes of a familiar song, each time, a tiny glimpse of her.

When I was a child, opening the next package felt like a treasure hunt. As I grew older, it began to feel like something far more fundamental, like air or community, something like prayer. Her messages met me like guideposts in a dark forest; if her words couldn’t point the way, at least they offered the comfort of knowing someone had been there before.

A decade after I lost my mother, my father followed suddenly. She had spent years preparing her exit, but with him I blinked, and he was gone. The morning of his memorial, the box stared back at me with nothing to say. There was no letter for this.

I tried to conjure her voice but couldn’t. My father left no clues or letters. The only parenting I would have, from 22 on, was in the box.

When I hit 30, the nearly empty box sat in my Brooklyn apartment, clashing with the furniture. Only those three packages remained: Engagement, Wedding, First Baby. They sat in their shiny cardboard and pink ribbon, expectant, waiting.

The problem was, I didn’t know if any of those things would happen. I didn’t know if I would choose them.

I had been living with someone for three years. I didn’t know if I ever wanted to get married, but I was in a committed, loving relationship, and whatever advice my mother had about committed, loving relationships, I wanted it. Now.

I felt 12 again, and rebellious, as I pulled out the thick envelope marked “Engagement.” My fingertips felt cold as I opened it.

It read: “My dearest little girl, of course you aren’t so little anymore as you read this but, you are little as I write. You are only 7 and I am facing the terrible sadness that you will be growing up without me.”

With the smooth pages crinkled in my grip, I found her hopes for what my marriage might look like.

“A true marriage is a marriage of what is most sacred in both of you. One must have an ease about both giving and receiving, a capacity for forgiveness for oneself as well as for the other, a personal sense of balance that is not dependent on the balance of the other, a kind of loving detachment.”

I didn’t know if I was capable of loving detachment. There was no detachment in the love that made the box, and no detachment in the love that opened it.

“I’m so sorry to be leaving you. Please forgive me. I know a box of letters and tokens can’t begin to take my place, but I wanted so badly to do something to ease your way through the future. Love, your Mommy.”

For 20 years I have pulled mothering from the box, but I don’t know if the next 20 will include the milestones she planned for me. I often wish I could lift the latches, jump inside and ask her which path I should walk and how I will recognize it. I want to ask if the life I’m carving for myself looks anything like she would have hoped. But I know this time travel only works one way.

After I read the engagement letter, I put it back with its unopened package and closed the box. Those three final secrets will remain secrets, for now. Maybe I’ll open them tomorrow, or in 10 years, or 20.

There’s comfort in knowing there’s a little left in the box. My mother’s gifts, her letters, are a constant reminder that I have already been given what every child, what every human, needs: I have been fiercely, extravagantly, wildly loved.

[lurkingcrow]

I need to stop thinking so much about the tragedy of SW.

So I was up early waiting for Eurovision to start, and it struck me that actually, there were still quite a few characters around as of RotJ who could have had some idea about Luke's parentage but canonically either never did or never said. And then this popped into my head.

It is only after the frantic chaos of their retreat from the Yavin system dies down that Mon Mothma allows herself to stop and think about the rebellion's newest hero. Before, there was no time  to do anything more than rejoice in their good fortune, but now? His name is Skywalker. He was with General Kenobi. He carries a lightsaber and flies like he breathes and wears the face of a hero decades gone. She wants to laugh. "Where there is Kenobi, you will always find Skywalker not far behind". It seems time could not change that fundamental truth.

As a senator Mon had  known many of their Jedi protectors, but her interactions with the Republic's most famous Generals had been surprisingly limited given their friendship with Bail and Padmé. She fights back the grief, both new and remembered, that rises at the memory of her friends. On the other hand, she thinks while blinking back tears, she had never been quite as recklessly brave as them, never had a reason to be on the front lines where the fighting was closer than the holocam footage ever showed. 

But while she had never known Anakin Skywalker well, she knew enough to wonder at young Luke's existence. While the Jedi were not necessarily celibrate (as many a whispered tale would tell) they were dedicated to their calling, and the war had left little time for one of its busiest generals to have been involved in such liaisons with civilians. Also, Mon recalled overhearing  more than a few conversations bemoaning the Hero With No Fear's complete lack of interest in his more ardent fans. Yet somewhere out there had been a woman who had carried his child, who had passed on his name even as the Jedi were branded traitors to the Republic, who had given the Alliance this final piece of hope and she wondered...

"- coming from someone with the brains of a shaak doped up on gooja weed!" Her musings had apparently brought her all the way to the hanger where it seemed Leia was once again involved in vigorous debate with Captain Solo about his personal failings. To one side she can see Chewbacca leaning against a stack of crates while Skywalker physically inserts himself between the aggrieved parties in an attempt to stop things from turning physical. She would have continued walking past, perhaps made a note to gently tease Leia about it during their next meeting, except... Luke's body language looked so familiar, like a vaguely remembered dream from years ago. Then he raises his hands and turns to each of them and Mon knows that tone of voice. Mon knows that smile. Mon knows that manner of peacemaking and had wept for the woman who wielded it like a weapon. And here it lives again in a boy from Tatooine. It doesn't seem possible. But perhaps?

She purposely marches herself towards the small group, making sure to keep her expression pleasantly neutral. Leia is the first to spot her, stopping mid word to stand a little straighter. "Mon! Is everything alright? Our meeting's not for another couple of hours yet."

"No, nothing to worry about." She is quick to reassure the princess. "I just had some spare time in my schedule and thought I'd see how Lieutenant Skywalker is settling in. It can't imagine it has been the easiest of transitions." Luke flushes. "Uh, yes. I mean no, Ma'am, I'm fine."

Mon smiles kindly. "Good. No problems with the other pilots then?" 

"Oh no! Everyone's been great!" His smile dims a little. "With all the losses it helps to have each other to hold on to you know? And apparently Biggs talked a lot, so Wedge says it's like they already knew me a bit before we even met."

Internally Mon winces. The point of this talk had been to get a feel for the young man, not to raise ghosts barely laid to rest. Luke's expression is decidedly reminiscent of a kicked puppy, and she takes the opportunity to keep the conversation moving. "I do know. We've lost a lot of good people in the last few weeks. Which is why we need to take good care of those of us left behind. I assume you've been checked over by medical?"

Luke rubs his shoulder. "Yes ma'am. I'm all up to date on my shots too. They were a bit peeved I couldn't give them an exact birthdate for their personnel files though."

Mon suspects she may regret this line of inquiry. "Oh? Difficulties converting the local calendar to galatic standard? I know binary systems can be tricky to convert. Still, I wouldn't worry too much, as long are you are of age - the Alliance does try to avoid employing child soldiers wherever possible."

That thought sends Captain Solo into a fit of laughter, and Mon sees Leia send a surreptitious kick his way which only seems to make him laugh harder. Luke is blushing again.

"Shut up Han! Uh, no Ma'am, actually converting my age's never been a problem for me. It's just..." His voice trails off. " I was born sometime around Empire Day, the first one. Aunt Beru said they never knew for sure, just that I couldn't have been more than a few weeks old when a friend of my parents left me with them." His expression is bittersweet. "I'm guessing that was Old Ben. He might have known more, but I never got the chance to ask."

There is a wealth of loss and regret in that statement and Mon struggles to process the implications. Leia, force bless her, has no such trouble, immediately moving to reassure her friend.

"Well! I'm glad I'm not the only one to suffer that particular irony!" She says, reaching up to loop an arm around his shoulder. "Officially we only celebrated the date on the Alderaanian calendar, but every year some Imperial lackey would comment on how lucky it was to have a princess who shared the Empire's birthday." Leia smiles wickedly. "And every year I would have to demonstrate the flammable nature of Imperial dress uniforms. It's a shame how unpredictable fireworks can be isn't it?"

Luke laughs, and in an instant the overall mood of the room lifts. Not to be left out, Solo interjects. "So you two share a birthday huh? I can see it. What with the tendency to destroy Imperial property​ and all it's obvious - you two were clearly separated at birth. Shame their majesties kept the evil twin though!"

Leia's semi-outraged shriek sends their newest hero further into a fit of choking laughter. It only becomes louder as the princess launches herself at the smuggler intent on wiping the smirk off his face, and soon Skywalker is doubled over, clutching at his stomach. To be fair, the non-stop litany of insults being wielded by both parties is impressive in its creativity.

Leia takes a moment from her asssult to ensure his continued well-being before attempting to enlist him in her argument. "Luke, tell Han to stop being ridiculous!" As Luke looks up, Mon is taken back to the days of the Clone Wars and the footage of General Skywalker about to undertake one of his signature risky manoeuvers, with a toothy grin and a calculating glint in bright blue eyes.

"Oh I don't know. I always wanted a little sister! Even one who needs to curb her pyromania. Maybe I should arrange another dip in the waste system for you?" This time even Mon can't keep a straight face as Leia attacks, laughing all the while, and sets about wrestling her teasing friends to the floor.

Obviously forgotten in the wake of some much needed levity, Mon turns to leave. Yet as their fond bickering fades into the background some clicks on her brain and Mon feels her heart begin to race. Luke Skywalker was born as the Republic fell. Padmé Amidala died as the Empire rose. Mon remembered the funeral, the cameras capturing the sombre passage of the funeral bier, the blue silk of the burial dress and the white petals scattered around the face of the fallen senator. And her stomach, full and round with child.

She had wondered at the time who Padmé's partner had been, why she had gone to such lengths to hide her impending motherhood, but now it all made sense. An affair with a Jedi, particularly one as high profile as Skywalker, would require the utmost secrecy to avoid both scandal and the loss of two of the Republic's greatest assets from the ongoing war effort. It would also explain the mysterious circumstances surrounding her death - one of the Emperor's political rivals, carrying a Jedi's child in the midst of a bloody coup? She has no proof, but Mon's gut tells her that the son of her old friend is currently standing in the hanger behind her, unknowing of his heritage and the danger it carries.

 She decides then. General Kenobi had successfully hidden his friends' child from imperial eyes for almost two decades. Now it is Mon's turn to protect their legacy. With a firm nod the Chandrillan steadies herself and heads back to her office. She has a lot to think about​.

I'm not sure where this came from, but there's at least one other POV I'm playing with, and the possibility of it becoming an AU. So forth now consider this an incomplete drabble :)

[joanofsnarrrk]

Charted: Domesticity Stateside - Part 2

It’s been nearly a year since I posted the first part of this series, Charted: Domesticity Stateside, which documented my need for a happy, domestic ending for the Adventure Family even before I played Uncharted 4. Since then, I’ve played U4, let it change me as a person fundamentally, and almost immediately started on a sequel, which after close to a year, I’ve finally completed. So please enjoy Charted: Louisiana, Libertalia, and Lemurs! (Or, the running tally for life after Libertalia goes as follows: one marriage salvaged, two family members gained, and three attempts at trying to convince your wife that a lemur is a suitable house pet.) 

It can also be found here: AO3 - Fanfiction

The move to Louisiana is an exciting and somewhat stressful affair.

The offer for their current house comes in on a Tuesday at the close of the business day in early June. It comes in at a decent amount over their asking price, so even though they haven’t finalized anything on the new home—let alone put in an actual offer yet—Elena assures the realtor on the other end of the phone (through the smile that’s threatening to split her face in two) that she and Nate accept. When Nate hears the news, he spins Elena around, his smile mirroring hers.

“We’ve never had a plan before,” he says in response to her concerns about the timetable for the move. “Why should we start now?”

So Elena hands in her two-weeks to WFTV ABC 9 that Wednesday, much to the disappointment of Gary, who works in editing (“Viewership is gonna go down without you providing a weekly dose of explosions overseas.”), while Nate focuses all of his energy on packing up the inordinate amount of books and artifacts they’ve come to accumulate within the last three years (“How do we have seven copies of The Science of Adventure?”). They try to goad Sully into helping by offering a box of Cubans and a bottle of really good scotch. Eventually, he caves, but only in helping them load the packed boxes into the moving truck (“There’s not enough treasure in the world that could convince me to get in there; Nate’s a damn hoarder.”). They try the same thing for Charlie and Chloe, but they’re both in Berlin, no further details given (“Keep us updated though, will you?”)

Before they know it, Elena takes one last video of the old place—including reactions from Nate and Sully (which she promptly uploads to Instagram, Chloe and Charlie her first two likes)—and they’re traveling down I-12, everything packed and ready for Louisiana.

About an hour into the drive, Elena receives a call with a ‘225’ area code. Over speakerphone, the realtor tells she and Nate that their offer has been accepted, and they’ve barely hung up before Nate comments, “Guess this means we can cancel the hotel arrangements, huh?”

It’s nearly dusk by the time they finally arrive at the new place, legs and arms stiff from the close to ten-hour drive. Once they’ve done the walkthrough of the new place, they make a pact to start tackling the unpacking tomorrow. In the meantime, they both collapse on the front porch, grinning lazily into the setting sun. Nate procures a small bottle of champagne, that’s regrettably lukewarm since the ice in the cooler melted about two hours ago. He pours it into their empty Popeye’s soda cups, and they toast to their luck and their new home.

“You know what would make this place even better?” Nate eventually asks. Elena’s at his side, her head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of it.

“Hmm?” she asks as she snuggles up against him, her eyes closed against the deep orange glow from the horizon.

“If we got a pet lemur.”

ii.

Admittedly, leaving the life and moving to Louisiana ends up affecting Elena more than she thought it would. She still writes, of course, and everyone in the neighborhood is pleasant enough, but it doesn’t take long for a desire for the familiar to set in, which is how she ends up buying a pre-owned PlayStation 4 after she runs out of excuses to give to Chloe and Charlie for not getting one in the first place.

Apparently, Chloe and Charlie play shooters online

“I’m telling you,” Chloe says over Bluetooth. Elena’s still trying to work out how to turn the system on, not quite able to wrap her head around how the machine has changed in a few generations. “You’re going to love it.”

After randomly pressing buttons, Elena hears the faint beep and sees the blue light turn on when she presses the right one. She smiles at the PlayStation logo that appears on the screen and the low hum of the console. “But I don’t play competitively.”

“Yet,” Chloe assures, her voice tinny over the earpiece. “You don’t play competitively yet.”

“I don’t know, Chloe,” Elena counters. The screen is asking for her login information and a bunch of different setting preferences, and since when did a game need to be connected to the wireless? Apparently, video games became a lot more involved than the last time she played. “I think I might just be a bandicoot and fruit collecting kind of girl.”

Chloe sighs. “You’re only saying that because you’ve yet to experience the utter satisfaction of completely destroying insecure men at virtual combat and then trash talking them afterward.”

It had felt pretty great schooling Nate with Crash Bandicoot. Maybe Chloe has a point.

“Fine.” Elena’s shoulders sag as she lets out a sigh, her eyes on the screen. It’s asking for some kind of username? She wracks her brain for a moment before settling on Sunshine. The screen informs her that the name has already been taken when she hits enter, so she amends it to Sunshine07, adding the year she met Nate and Sully. That works. “But you can’t make fun of me when it turns out that I am terrible at this.”

Chloe laughs on her end. “I can make no such promise!” she protests, as if the mere thought goes against who she is fundamentally as a person. “But if it makes you feel better, Charlie is absolute rubbish at it, and I keep him around anyway.”

Another line emits static as it comes to life. “Oi, watch it!” Charlie’s voice comes in over the mic. “I hold my own well enough, thank you very much.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Chloe asks, her smirk audible.

Charlie shrugs, or at least, that’s what Elena imagines he does. “Absolutely we are,” he assures her. “And it’s no worse than bullying children online, which I believe is your claim to fame.”

“That is absolutely not fair; it was one time!” Chloe protests, immediately on the defensive, despite Charlie’s laughter in the background. “How was I supposed to know? The foul nature of his username suggested someone nearly twice his age. All the more reason, I say, to keep young children from playing games made for adults.”

“Oh, sure,” Charlie says, still laughing, “blame the parents.”

Elena lets their back and forth play out, before focus naturally swings back to the game they’re trying to play. Turns out, she has to friend both of them before they can start playing. Within moments, she receives friend confirmations from brighteyezz and Charles_of_Arabia, and after a minimal amount of coaching, she manages to get the game inserted and loaded.

“Okay,” she says, Bluetooth mic in place, her legs pulled up and under her on the couch, and the game’s home screen illuminating the TV, “let’s take these knuckleheads down.”

There’s only a minimal amount of snickering that comes through her mic in response.

iii.

“Tango on my six. Someone take this douchebag down.”

“Say no more,” Chloe responds. Like clockwork, the guy behind Elena takes a head shot. She watches the screen as his skull explodes in a truly gratuitous display of violence and guts.

“Oh, beautiful,” Charlie chimes in. “That guy’s been a right arsehole since we started, camping at all our spawn points and mowing us down, no mercy whatsoever. Humiliate him, Bright Eyes.”

“With pleasure,” she coos, changing her mic from their private party chat to the general lobby. When she finishes, they’re down one player in the lobby, and Elena beams.

As it turns out, Elena’s really good at shooters. To the point where Chloe and Charlie actually begged her to join their clan after a few months and play with them regularly. And even though it’s only ever been about having fun and relieving stress for her, Elena can’t help feeling a sense of pride that the three of them have developed a bit of a reputation in the online community for being pretty unstoppable. Her personal stats alone are enough to keep most trolls off her back, so she generally doesn’t have to verbally retaliate. But even if she has to, she can hold her own, thanks to Chloe’s tutelage. Charlie, on the other hand, is embarrassingly bad at trash talk, much to Chloe and Elena’s amusement.

Her attention is momentarily torn from the game when she hears the front door open. Nate’s not normally home this early, and Elena’s never been fully upfront about her new gaming hobby, so it takes him a moment to adjust to the sight before him, after he toes his shoes off and dumps his bag on the floor next to them. Elena’s sitting on the edge of the couch, her body leaning forward, her headset (a minor upgrade) on as she issues commands to Charlie and Chloe. She smiles widely when he sinks into the couch next to her.

“You miss me that much that you’re talking to yourself?” he asks as he wraps his arm around her shoulders, planting a kiss on the top of her head. It’s distracting enough that she misses her next shot, giving her opponent the chance to shoot her, which he does. Chloe has a stream of expletives in response, which Elena pointedly ignores.

“Hey, you. You’re home early,” she says, covertly muting the mic and snuggling into Nate’s side. He tightens his grasp in response,

“Yeah, pretty light day for salvaging,” he explains, idly tracing random lines on her shoulder. It’s super distracting, which is how she misses another shot. On cue, Chloe and Charlie have some choice words for her. Nate’s gaze is trained on the screen, which is how his next statement comes to pass. “Did that fox with pants join the army in the sequel?”

Elena snorts. “It’s a bandicoot,” she says reflexively. “And, no. This is a completely different game.”

“It looks violent,” he concludes, which she can’t help noticing the irony after everything they’ve been through. After a beat, he adds, “Can I try it?”

She hands the controller over to him willingly (recognizing this match as a rare failure at this stage, anyway) and watches in awe as Nate somehow outdoes himself by playing abysmally. Amazingly, his hand-eye coordination is pretty terrible for someone who used to require precise dexterity to swing across buildings and caverns. Hiding her laughter becomes an impossibility when, after five deaths in a row (two of which happened as a result of pushing the left joystick too far, so his character just kept running in circles), Chloe and Charlie go ballistic.

“Elena. Sweetheart,” Chloe says slowly, trying in vain to restrain her fury and failing. “Have you hit your head and become concussed? Because that’s the only explanation I can conjure for the shit show that is your current performance.”

“Absolute bollocks! Get your head out of your arse and play like you know what a video game is,” Charlie demands, decidedly more forthcoming with his frustration.

“Guys,” she finally chimes in, switching the mic from mute. She’s giggling too hard for anything to be very coherent, but she presses on. “It’s not me, it’s Nate.”

The sound of their collective outrage (“Bloody hell,” barks Charlie) is so loud that Nate can hear it, even over Elena’s laughter. When he asks who she’s talking to, she wordlessly switches her mic to external audio, the sound of Chloe and Charlie making fun of him now projected into the living room. Nate’s ears go slightly pink, and Elena only feels a little guilty for being unable to stop laughing.

“Ha, ha, laugh it up, guys,” he shoots off sarcastically, tossing the controller back in Elena’s lap. “I may not be able to play video games, but I did discover Shambhala, you know.”

Charlie groans, and Elena pokes Nate in the side, booing at him. Chloe actually blows a raspberry in response.

“Oh, come off it, Nate. That excuse lost its appeal the first thousand times you used it.”

“Yeah,” Charlie adds, “don’t make us dislike you anymore than we already do for you being a shit player.”

iv.

When Jamison’s wife, Carla, invites Elena to join her for her yoga class late one Thursday afternoon, Elena can’t say anything but yes. Jamison and Carla were the first ones to make Elena and Nate feel welcome when they moved to Louisiana, and they consistently invite the two of them over for dinner every month. Elena can’t ignore the small amount of guilt that may or may not be playing a factor in her decision.

She can, however, ask a friend to come with her. A friend who arrived from Berlin two days ago and is currently sleeping on their couch. A friend like Chloe.

“I simply don’t understand suburbia,” Chloe says, saying the last word as though it’s the most repulsive concept she’s ever heard.

“First of all,” Elena counters through laughter, “where we live hardly classifies as ‘suburbia,’ and second”—she gestures to her stomach—“you go surprisingly soft when you’re not running for your life from some mythical, collapsing city.”

“Yes, but why must I suffer because of your choice to leave the life?” Chloe demands as she holds the studio door open.

Elena thinks for a moment. “Because you’re working on being a really good friend?”

Chloe’s head falls back as she barks with laughter. “And you are apparently working on being a really bad liar?”

“Oh, come on,” Elena coaxes. She goes so far as to link her arm with Chloe’s before they enter the studio. “It’s gonna be great!”

v.

It’s not great, for the record.

Carla neglects to mention that the yoga class she attends is hot yoga, which Elena can only compare to doing yoga smack dab in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali. Just when her body adjusted to the temperature inside the studio, the ventilation system would pump even more hot air into the confined space. She doesn’t even bother with the showers afterward, just pushes her way out through the front entrance, where she braces her hands on her thighs and gulps in the clean and comparatively cool air.

“It’s…gonna be…great, huh?” Chloe gasps, following suit as she slides down the side of the building, her legs sprawled out on the ground. Much like Elena, she’s drenched in sweat, droplets of it dripping from her hair into the red, water wicking material of her tank top. “Please be sure to engrave ‘it’s gonna be great’ on my… tombstone once they scrape my body off this sidewalk and…bury me in a shallow grave.”

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, unable to laugh like she normally would due to exhaustion. Unlike Chloe, Elena has on an old, baggy t-shirt, which is now plastered to her body, almost obscenely. “Remind me to—” She has to stop momentarily, her lungs stubbornly not cooperating with her desire to breathe. She collapses next to Chloe. “—Remind me to…forget it. I’m so exhausted, I forgot what I was going to say.”

“I won’t…hold it against you,” Chloe promises, trying in vain to keep her breathing even, “if you promise to never do this again.”

That makes Elena laugh. Then, it makes her cough violently. “Deal,” she wheezes.

Carla, freshly showered and rejuvenated, exits the studio, glimpses the two of them and chuckles, not unkindly, before going to get the car started.

vi.

Not even a week after arriving back stateside from Libertalia, and Nate refuses to drop the subject. Madagascar did nothing to change his mind.

“Elena—” he begins, still engrossed in whatever National Geographic article he has pulled up on the computer in her office. His furrowed brow and overall determination make her shake her head.

“No way,” Elena interrupts. One glance at the computer screen, and she knows. She just knows what her well-meaning, but beating-a-dead-horse husband is about to say. “We are absolutely not—”

“But they eat mostly plants, they’re mostly solitary, and,” Nate continues, as if Elena wasn’t speaking, “it says here…that many of them exhibit female dominance, so…y’know,” he explains by way of not explaining when Elena stares at him blankly, “they’re obviously feminists.”

Elena snorts so loudly, it covers her laughter. Mostly. “Sure, obviously feminists.”

“Yeah,” Nate says in response, grinning infectiously, “girl power and all that.”

“Nate, you are actually exceeding the levels of crazy I expect from you,” she admits. When it looks like he’s about to protest, she places her hand over his mouth. “I love you, but we are absolutely not getting a pet lemur.”

vii.

“Not it!”

Nate looks at his wife, exasperated, once they both realize they said it at the same time. Elena, mouth contorted into an ‘o’ of surprise and finger pointed accusatorily, tries to stop the grin that breaks out onto her face, but she fails.

Miserably.

“I totally said it first,” Elena claims, though it doesn’t help that she is laughing.

Nate scoffs. “You totally did not.”

“Oh, come on,” she tries again, nudging him with her shoulder. “I meant it when I said we would have to share doing paperwork.” She sighs. “If only you would carry your half of the weight.”

This time, Nate starts laughing. “Elena, you are so full of crap. I just finished a week’s worth of phone calls and permit applications for our dig in Malaysia yesterday, so don’t you start.” He scrubs a hand over his face before he catches sight of something behind her, and his eyes light up. “Okay, how about I play you for it?”

Elena’s eyebrows rise. “You sure that’s the smartest move there, cowboy?”

“Nuh-nuh-no, I learned my lesson last time,” Nate replies, leaning back in the desk chair. He gestures to the bookcase behind Elena. “No, I’m talking about those.”

She follows his line of sight to the off-brand Nerf pistols that had somehow migrated from the attic to their living room. Her smile grows larger.

“I guess if we’re completely overlooking the fact that I’m the better shot, then sure,” Elena concedes. She walks over to grab the guns and once she has, she tosses one over to Nate. He catches it singlehandedly. “Let’s get your humiliation over with quickly.”

Nate gets up from his chair and vaults over the couch, proceeding to load ammo into his gun. “You’re going to live to choke on those words, you know,” he informs her.

Elena just rolls her eyes. “Three hits,” she says. “The first one to shoot the other three times wins, and doesn’t have to do paperwork.”

viii.

Nate gives her a head start, but when he goes to search for her, he finds her almost immediately in their shared bathroom. Using some impressive gymnastics, Elena rolls past him, but he’s hot on her trail as they take their shenanigans throughout the entire house. Eventually, Elena ends up behind the couch, her gun trained squarely on Nate, who’s standing behind the island counter, his gun aimed at her.

“Well!” Nate booms, a cocky grin stretched wide across his face. “Look what we have here! Ruggedly charming adventurer, Nathan Drake, appears to be up by two, while his lovely, but losing wife, Elena, is preparing to fill out paperwork for the rest of the week.”

Without another word, Elena fires a round at him. Nate ducks, but the shot goes wide. When he comes back up, the annoyingly smug grin on his face is enough to give Elena an idea.

“Any last words?” Nate prods, spinning the toy pistol around like he’s some kind of outlaw. He has the nerve to come out from behind the counter. “Besides groveling for mercy?”

It’s Elena’s turn to grin smugly, as she watches her husband still in his tracks, the expression on his face fearful for a split second. Only when she undoes the second button on her blouse does he say something.

“What are you doing?” he asks evenly.

She responds with a full on smile, undoing another button in the process. “Let’s just say that in a war of sticks and carrots, I’m going with the latter.”

Nate’s Adam’s apple bobs once, his growing discomfort obvious. Elena takes advantage of his frozen state to approach him. “Hey!” he blanches when she undoes another button. His mouth suddenly feels dry. “We never agreed to partial nudity!”

“We never not agreed to partial nudity,” Elena corrects him, undoing the final button. She’s close enough to him that she can touch him, which she does, placing a hand on his chest. His heart pounds erratically. “I’m just playing up my strengths,” she explains with a wink.

He punctuates rolling his eyes by grasping her wrist, but he can’t seem to bring himself to actually remove her hand. “Yeah, your strength of cheating, you mean” he admonishes half-heartedly, his voice faltering as his gaze inadvertently lowers.

Sighing dramatically, Elena pulls away, and slowly starts to button her blouse. “Well, alright. I guess I can do the paperwork this week since you won. It’s only fair.”

Ignoring his pride, Nate tugs Elena back toward him and hoists her up onto the counter. “You’ll be the death of me, you know that?” he admonishes before situating himself between her legs with his hands resting dangerously high up on her thighs.

“I’m just willing to sleep with the co-owner of D&F Fortunes if it means I get out of doing paperwork for the week,” Elena admits, her smile wide.

Nate breaks into a matching grin despite all the extra forms he’ll have to fill out. It’s hard for him to think of paperwork as a loss, though, when his wife is kissing him as thoroughly as she is, their toy pistols in the foreground, completely forgotten.

ix.

“Hey—whoa, sorry!…Nathan, have you always had that birthmark on your ass?”

“SAM!”

“Elena, good to see you again. Although, admittedly, last time it was with more clothing—”

“GET OUT!”

When the door slams in his face, Sam takes his pitiful dish of green bean casserole down to the kitchen. He finds Sully’s down there among various pies and side dishes, filling a tumbler with liquor he’d helped himself to from the cabinet in the dining room.

“Can you believe all that, Victor?”

At his questioning glance, Sam tells him about his run in with his brother and Elena.

Sully slams his glass down in disgust. “The hell? What, do they have a yearly standing appointment?”

And that’s the story of how Sam accidentally walks in on Nate and Elena in a physically compromising situation the day before Thanksgiving.

x.

“So in conclusion—” Sam begins, hands held behind his back as he rocks back and forth on his heels. He and Sully had just finished up a job and gotten back from Argentina last night, but his niece had been texting him back and forth about this presentation since before then. Sure, he was exhausted, but who was he to turn her down? Especially when her preparation work had been so impressive?

“What Sam’s trying to say,” Cassie interjects, looking over at her uncle for some guidance. He imperceptibly nods, and she finds the courage to press on, “is that a lemur would actually make a really great pet, given their herbivorous diets and our house’s close proximity to exotic flora, among other things.”

From her spot on the couch, Elena narrows her gaze, first at her brother-in-law, then at her daughter. It's hard to respond with much of anything when Cassie even included a visual aid in the form of a bar graph, which is propped up in front of the TV in the living room where they all are presently. Out of her line of sight, Nate gives two thumbs up, and Cassie uses all her self-control to stop herself from beaming proudly.

“Did your father put you up to this?” Elena finally asks, fixing her gaze at Cassie, then Sam. “Or your uncle?”

“Of course not,” Cassie blurts a little too quickly. Sensing her discomfort, Sam wraps an arm around her shoulders, squeezing.

“Look, Elena,” he says, giving her his most endearing smile. Nate clearly rolls his eyes in his periphery, but he still doesn’t have a pet lemur, does he? “I think if there’s one person who has really been advocating for this all along, it’s Victor.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Sully pops his head out from the freezer, ice cube trays in hand. He pops a couple into his tumbler on the counter, and puts the trays back where they belong. It’s not until he’s pouring liquor into the tumbler that he adds, “There’s a reason I have no horse in this race, and it’s because, I’m staying far the hell away from this. For what it’s worth though, Cassie, your mother is smart enough to see through your father’s harebrained schemes.”

Immediately, Sam deflates, and Elena turns on Nate, poking an accusatory finger into his chest. “You are the worst liar,” she accuses him at the same time Sam says to Sully, “Way to not get involved, Victor. Truly inspiring.”

Sully goes on about how Sam started all of this, but it’s Nate that addresses his wife’s accusation by saying, “I couldn’t stand by and let Cassie’s dream of having a pet lemur be broken.”

Elena doesn’t budge. “You mean your dream?”

“Technically,” he amends, lacing his hands behind his head, stretching his legs out on the ottoman in front of him, and grinning, “she’s our daughter, so really it’s our dream.”

She snorts. “You are impossible. And you,” she directs at Cassie, “despite your solid argument and blatant treachery, my answer still stands. No lemurs.”

Sam whistles, long and low. “Tough break, kid.”

Cassie crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. “Well, can we at least get some kind of pet?”

xi.

Later, when Elena finally relents and says—after speaking with Sully, who used to have one—they can get a dog, Cassie fist bumps her dad and her uncle, her smile threatening to split her face. She tells Sully they’re going to name it after him for his central involvement. He offers her a cigar to celebrate, which Nate promptly and emphatically puts a stop to.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him, and Nate asks Cassie how she knew she could get her mom on board with a pet.

“Well, Dad, you always say that the best way to run a con is to get the other person to believe it was their idea in the first place,” she admits.

Nate pulls her into a hug, practically beaming.

[consciousowl]

How to Develop Sustainable Happiness

Have you ever met someone who was smart, beautiful, rich…and happy? I’ll bet you have. I will also bet that you wish that they weren’t so happy. Why should some of us have everything? Life is so unfair! Of course, in your heart of hearts, you know that THE ONLY REASON they are happy is because they are smart, beautiful and rich. Or could it be that they take happiness seriously, and make it a priority?

What Is Sustainable Happiness?

In recent decades, a group of psychologists moved over from perpetually analyzing sick people to learning from healthy people. They moved from classic therapy to learning theory. With major advances in neuroscience and emerging computer technologies, such as A.I., we now have a much better handle on how to induce rapid change. This new discipline, positive psychology, laid the foundation for the practice of sustainable happiness. Dr. Aymee Coget of San Francisco is the leading spokesperson. Dr. Coget has pioneered a learning process of sustainable happiness which can work for anyone under any circumstances. She is totally committed to all of us being happy all the time.

Studies have shown that winning the Lottery, even with a $100 million stake, ensures happiness for only a finite amount of time, say six to eight months. Let’s say you simply bought a new, high-end Tesla. You might be happy for three to six weeks. If you bought a designer sweater, it might work for three to four days. A super-chocolate, crunchy ice cream cone might work for three to four hours.

Choose Sustainable Happiness

Sustainable happiness begins with the realization that this is a fundamental life skill that is everyone’s birthright. Even the Declaration of Independence justified the American Revolution as a means for each individual to pursue their own happiness. It entails a learning process that shows you how to be happy in any situation, much like the Buddha taught his disciples to disengage from all their attachments. While sustainable happiness is generated from within, it is also behavioral in nature. You can do something every day to make yourself happy. It can take three to six months; however, even the clinically depressed can break the self-destructive pattern. This is all the more significant, since 48 million Americans are diagnosed with depression and teenage suicide is at an all-time high. When you make inner happiness a priority, you lay the foundation for being far more effective, whatever your role. You live in the present moment, accept whatever happens and smile at the future. Your commitment to your inner growth, and your ability to make a contribution is unshakeable.

Model Truly Happy People

Genuine happiness is contagious. People catch it from one another. It is possible to identify truly happy people, and model them. You can read about Sir Richard Branson and see his videos on YouTube. It becomes clear that Sir Richard’s own fulfillment is more important to him than his billions. You get the sneaky suspicion that his very billions came directly out of his commitment to be truly happy. I met Dr. Coget recently in San Francisco for lunch, not seeking treatment. We talked about a variety of things. She asked me a few process questions, and we parted. For the rest of the day, and the next several days, I felt high… for no reason! I found myself laughing with my colleagues, who usually don’t laugh all that much. I have had the privilege of working with my partner in this web magazine for a number of years. She is almost always cheerful, even when distressful things come up in her life. She almost never loses her cool. I feel instantly happy when I see her or hear her voice. Years ago, I made her a high priority in my life. It was well worth the commitment.

Practice Sustainable Happiness

Sustainable happiness is never a one-time event. It is only achieved when you fully realize that you are responsible for your own happiness and negative emotions need not run you. It is something you do every day. It can start with a simple, complete smile reaching up to your twinkling eyes. It can move to laughing at yourself in the mirror. It can even go to jumping up and down shouting, “I’m so happy! I’m so happy! I’m so happy!”

While this may seem undignified and just plain silly, over time it works. To borrow from Tony Robbins’ discipline, NLP, you are creating new associations in your brain. Over time, this becomes the new norm, and you begin to do this spontaneously. All professional actors and sales people know how this works. Until the lines are your own, they will never work. Practice them enough, and they become your own. You begin to seek out happy people, and learn from them. You begin to share your happiness with others, which is the whole point. You learn to see the best in everyone and welcome difficult people as a challenge to practice your skills. This doesn’t mean you manipulate them. You just learn to love them as they are through attention, appreciation and affection. Imagine how much better the world might be if President Trump woke up every morning to people like this!

Bring the Internal and External Together

Sustainable happiness starts by going within and recalling all the things you have to be thankful for. It might take the form of a diary, or it might even be a silent meditation. Along with it, you remember happy moments in your life, today, yesterday, even years ago. As you become genuinely grateful, the space around you changes. Miracles appear. Positive psychology enables you to combine powerful inner processes with effective behavioral techniques. You begin to habituate yourself to see the world in a whole new light. The world is not really “out there.” It is your own personal world, every bit as much as your body. It may not at all seem that way. However, if you are willing to make the leap, you will be delightfully surprised. As you become happier inside, you will become a little more attractive outside. Beauty in men and women goes beyond their skin to the energy that animates them.

The beauty of Marilyn Monroe is classic. In one short video, you could see Marilyn give a couple hundred different expressions. A stunning spirit leapt out of her that made her a superstar, that made her seem like the most beautiful woman who ever lived.

Snap Back into Sustainable Happiness

If you are human, you can bank on being distracted, upset and occasionally meeting with catastrophe. We all seem tested by our guardian angel and seek a state of grace to simply get through it all. This will happen almost predictably, seemingly throwing out every effort to sustain happiness. However, as you realize sustainable happiness, you will find that you are able to snap back quickly into your home state of inner fulfillment. You realize part of the fun in life is its perpetual surprises. No surprises. No life. You will learn how to grab pleasure in every possible moment. One of the founders of positive psychology started out in a Nazi concentration camp. He had the extraordinary gumption to write out, “Today I will be happy!” Not only did he survive the death camp, but he went on to be a powerful inspiration to millions.

Join the Sustainable Happiness Movement

Dr. Aymee Coget invites you to stand up for happiness and join her in the movement. Find other people committed to happiness and support their efforts. You can find out more about her programs on her website. Happiness can go viral if enough people commit their lives to it. Already, sustainable happiness is shaping into a global movement. What better foundation can you have to make a difference on our fragile planet than your own happiness, and your ability to spread that happiness to everyone you touch!

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