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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 24: Helen Richardson

It’s been almost five hours that Helen has been making the rounds of this particular house. It’s a Grade II listed building, which means that on top of the usual bankers, executives, dentists, and barristers traipsing through, she has a few people she’s fairly certain can’t afford the building but who are clearly interested in what a historic home that can be lived in might look like, despite the fact that the interior has been redone several times. She’s a little more brusque with them than the others—nothing that can be complained about, of course, just on the off-chance they are actually able and, more importantly, willing to buy it, but there’s no point in wasting her time on someone she won’t earn a commission from.

She checks her list. She has one last viewing scheduled for the afternoon, and she frowns slightly at the entry. She’s not certain how to pronounce the last name, which instantly puts her on edge, and she’s a little bit annoyed that whoever put together her appointment schedule didn’t proofread it before they printed it.

It’s only when she answers the door that she realizes that her list is actually meant to say Dr. and Mr. Walter Koskiewicz.

“Ms. Richardson?” one of the two men says. His voice is far more polished and refined than she would have expected. He’s neatly dressed in a pearl-grey button-down, tailored black pants, and a discreet but expensive-looking watch. His bearing is assured and confident, and despite the warm smile on his face, he moves like a man accustomed to obedience, respect, and wielding a decent amount of power.

Still, Helen is hard-pressed to keep her distaste from showing. The man’s silver-streaked dark hair is longer than she thinks is decent for someone in a position of authority and worn in a style more appropriate to a twenty-something entrepreneur running an experimental tech start-up than the middle-aged academic he appears (she guesses the “doctor” title is more in the nature of a Ph.D. than a medical degree). He’s also covered in scars, round and slightly ridged, pale against his brown skin, and she can’t even begin to guess where they came from, but it’s probably not something she wants to even think about, let alone know about.

And then there’s his…husband?

They’re an odd-looking couple, to be sure. The second man is at least a head taller than the first and decidedly fatter—Helen thinks uncharitably of an illustration in the book of nursery rhymes she had as a child depicting Jack Spratt and his wife—with blue eyes and fair skin dusted with freckles. His hair is short and curly, a mix of caramel and white, which is the only clue that he’s probably around the same age as the other man. He doesn’t hold himself with the same assurance and authority; while he’s smiling as well, he actually seems more than a little nervous. He’s dressed just as neatly and professionally as the first man, but he’s clinging to the first man’s arm very tightly. She can’t tell if it’s out of nerves or possessiveness or what, and she almost wants to tell him that she’s not interested in his man.

Instead, she schools her expression as best as she can. “Yes, I’m Helen Richardson.” Normally she would ask if they are the last name on her list, but she doesn’t really want to try and pronounce it, so she simply waits.

“I’m Dr. Walter Koskiewicz,” the first man says smoothly, holding out his hand. It bears the same round scars as his face, with the addition of what looks like the remains of a severe burn on his hand, which makes Helen extremely reluctant to touch it. “This is my husband Kieran. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Charmed,” Helen says. She accepts his hand for a perfunctory shake and keeps her professional smile on her face despite the somewhat unpleasant feel of the thing. She ought to offer her hand to the other as well, but frankly she just wants to get this over. “Shall we begin the tour?”

“Of course.” Is it her imagination, or does Dr. Koskiewicz sound slightly disappointed?

Helen launches into the by-now familiar script as she begins showing the two men around the house. Dr. Koskiewicz makes several remarks that seem rather banal to her regarding the decor, and she finds herself wondering what his field is. She can’t place what Mr. Koskiewicz does for a living, either. She’d almost suspect he was simply arm candy if he was younger and fitter, but unless he’s let himself go to seed a great deal, there has to be a reason beyond that they married. And in her experience, most men whose trophy wives no longer meet a certain standard of attractiveness obtain divorces and trade in for a newer model. It may be different for gay men, though—how would she know? Of course, Dr. Koskiewicz isn’t exactly a beauty prize himself, and considering this house is on the lower end of the pricing spectrum for the sorts of places Helen usually shows, he likely isn’t as well-off as all that, comparatively. So it’s entirely possible he simply doesn’t want to rid himself of an old spouse until he’s lined up a new one.

It’s also possible that they’re actually in love, but Helen wouldn’t know about that either.

As they approach the kitchen, she begins mentally wagering with herself on whether or not they are actually interested in purchasing the house. Usually the kitchen is where the distinction comes in. It’s had all modern appliances and new counters and cabinets put in, so generally speaking, the people who are only there for curiosity’s sake start asking questions about when it was renovated and how permission was obtained and what it looked like before (Helen has no idea; the renovations were done some years ago, per the specs, and she wasn’t even working for Wolverton Kendrick then) and, often, rant about destroying the historical significance of the house, even though it’s only a Grade II. At least it enables her to weed them out as having an intent to buy before they see what’s been done to the upstairs. The serious buyers will peer in but not usually show much interest in it, considering most of them have someone to do the cooking for them, or else comment on the colors or the brand of the appliances.

She doesn’t tell the two men this, of course, only gives them the standard patter about the timing of the upgrades as she leads them in to show them the door to the back garden. Dr. Koskiewicz checks in the doorway and turns to his husband. “It’s a bit narrow. Do you want to go first?”

“You go ahead,” Mr. Koskiewicz says. It’s the first thing he’s said since he came into the house, and his voice definitely isn’t as polished as the doctor’s. Helen wonders if he’s an academic as well, just not as highly distinguished a one—a librarian, maybe? He also has a faint accent she can’t quite place. She can’t tell if they’re both foreign and Dr. Koskiewicz just had better teachers, or if, odd as it may seem, Dr. Koskiewicz chose to take his less-impressive husband’s surname rather than whatever name he had before. “Just warn me before you stop.”

“Of course.” Dr. Koskiewicz kisses him on the cheek, then moves forward to follow Helen.

She watches Mr. Koskiewicz for a moment, and then it hits her all of a sudden. He’s blind. She didn’t notice at first because of his glasses—clear glass, not sunglasses—and his eyes look, well, normal, not cloudy or scarred like she might have expected. The fact that he can pass himself off as a normal person bothers her, for some reason. However, the couple appears to be in the class of being able to afford the house, so she’s not going to risk saying something that might offend him, or his husband. She merely continues with her spiel.

“What are the schools like in the area?” Mr. Koskiewicz asks as they come back in from the back garden. The question makes Helen miss a step. The sorts of people who usually buy homes from Wolverton Kendrick normally have their children taught at home, and the older ones tend to get sent away to boarding school. It’s so unheard-of for her to get that question that she hasn’t even bothered to familiarize herself with the answer.

“How old are your children?” she asks, to buy herself a bit of time while she sneaks a quick glance at the folder. Surely there’s something in there about area schools. Surely.

“Oh, we don’t have any yet,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. “At the moment, it’s only the two of us and the cat. We’ve begun the application process to adopt, though, and we’re hoping to be matched soon. It’s why we’re looking at homes. Our current living situation is spacious enough, I suppose, but…not necessarily somewhere you’d want to raise a child. Or children, as the case may be. We’re hoping for more than one, at some point.”

“Well, then, you’ll have time to select the right schools.” Helen manages to find the data on local primary schools and reads off the statistics in her file. She tries to make it sound like she already knew the information, but the steady look Dr. Koskiewicz gives her makes her suspect he knows she was unprepared for it, which makes her tense and a little angry. It’s not her fault they chose to ask about something so unusual.

As they head up the stairs, she decides to fish about a bit for some information. The problem is that she still isn’t confident that she’ll pronounce their name properly, and the last thing she wants is to be condescended to. That’s the way with these academic types, she’s often found; they have a little bit of power and wield it like a weapon, especially over a woman or someone they perceive to be beneath them. So in order to get the information she wants, she’ll need to come at it sideways.

“Are you at Kings College?” she asks, casually, trying to sound as if she doesn’t care one way or another if he does.

“No, I work in Chelsea,” Dr. Koskiewicz replies. At first she thinks that’s all she’s going to get, but after a moment, he adds, “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Magnus Institute?”

Helen isn’t, not really, but she’ll chew off her own arm before she admits that. It never goes over well with clients when you profess ignorance of their profession; they always get offended if they think you should have heard of them, or at least what they do, and you haven’t. Besides, she doesn’t want to wind up in the middle of a history lesson on a non-profit or a think tank or whatever the Magnus Institute qualifies as. Best to hedge her bets. “Quite a prestigious institution,” she says in as neutral a voice as she can.

“You might say it’s outstanding in its field,” Mr. Koskiewicz says. His voice is almost as bland and neutral as Helen’s.

“It’s where we met,” Dr. Koskiewicz informs Helen. She glances over his shoulder to see him smile at Mr. Koskiewicz in a way that makes her stomach turn over. “I was hired as a researcher, he was in the library.”

Helen feels a slight stab of vindication—she was right about Mr. Koskiewicz—but it’s layered with a veneer of disgust about the whole situation. This isn’t the sort of neighborhood that would normally welcome people like them, she doesn’t think. Some of these high-end neighborhoods are getting a bit more diverse, but these two are a bit much all at once. She’ll admit that Mr. Koskiewicz seems normal enough, at least to all outward appearances, but he’s very clearly the less powerful of the two, and his blindness is definitely a point against him.

Upstairs in the home are four rooms designated as bedrooms, and used as such by the current owners, but which can also be studies or something similar if need be. She delivers the usual speech extolling the virtues of the rooms. Mr. Koskiewicz is listening rather intently, but to her surprise and slight annoyance, Dr. Koskiewicz seems distracted. He keeps examining every door intently, peering into the spaces in between, like he’s looking for evidence of woodworm or wants to see the details of the construction. There’s something a bit unsettling about it.

“Calm down, serce, you’re going to give me a headache,” Mr. Koskiewicz murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“I know, it’s—” Dr. Koskiewicz sighs and squeezes his husband’s hand before turning to Helen. “Ms. Richardson. Have you ever noticed…something unusual in this house? Or any house you were showing? Like…a door that shouldn’t be there?”

“I’m…sorry?” Helen says cautiously. She’s had some weird questions asked before. She’s been asked about whether or not a basement can be made watertight (not waterproof, the client had insisted, he wanted to fill the basement with water and have a subterranean swimming pool and wanted to know if it was possible). She’s been asked about a room’s suitability for rituals to the Old Gods and about whether it contained enough space for an exorcism. She’s been asked if homes are haunted, if any murders have taken place in them, and if they might have secret tunnels used by robbers or counterfeiters. But being asked if she’s ever seen a door that shouldn’t be there? That’s new.

“It’s not a trick question, Ms. Richardson. Have you ever encountered a door in a place you weren’t expecting—yellow, perhaps?”

Okay, this is definitely weird. And a yellow door? Why is he being so emphatic about it? Her smile is slipping. The worst of it is that Helen doesn’t know the right answer. The truth, of course, is that she has no idea what he’s talking about. Of course she hasn’t seen any appearing or disappearing doors. She deals firmly in reality. She’s never seen a ghost, never spotted a UFO, never met anyone possessed by a demon. She doesn’t believe in magic, or have much truck with religion—she goes to church services with her mother on Christmas and Easter, but that’s about it, and she’s not sure how much of it she actually buys into. Certainly she’s never seen a door that wasn’t exactly where the house plan said it should be.

But she’s also usually fairly good at judging why a client is asking about such things. Some of the people who ask about murders or hauntings are fearful. Others are hopeful. The answer is almost always actually no, especially if it’s about the supernatural, but when she senses a client who will pay extra to be haunted or to be able to claim a salacious history to their new home, she’ll make something up, then jot it down after the client leaves just in case someone else asks before the first client commits to the sale. Very, very occasionally, there is an actual alleged haunting attached to the house—and once she really did have a house on the market that may have been lived in by a serial killer during the height of his crimes—but she’s good at spinning the story properly whether it’s something the owners disclosed to her or she made it up on the spot. The trouble is that she doesn’t know if Dr. Koskiewicz wants this alleged door to be there or not.

After a heartbeat, she decides on honesty. Frankly, she doubts they’re actually going to buy the house, regardless of what she says. At least this way she doesn’t have to pretend to have seen an unexpected door, be asked to describe it, and get caught out in a lie. That won’t do much for her credibility, or her commissions. You never know what kind of influence people actually have and they might spread around that she can’t be trusted.

“I can’t say that I have, Dr…” She trails off as she realizes she still doesn’t know how to pronounce his name properly.

“Koskiewicz,” Mr. Koskiewicz supplies. He’s studying Helen intently, making her wonder if she was wrong about him being blind…but no, he’s just looking in her direction, but seeming to focus on a point slightly to the left of her. It’s actually more than a little creepy and she wishes he would stop. “That’s a good thing, Ms. Richardson. A very good thing.”

“Please, allow me to explain,” Dr. Koskiewicz says, sliding his arm around Mr. Koskiewicz’s waist. “We at the Magnus Institute study the paranormal and the supernatural. One of the phenomena I have been studying involves this…door that keeps turning up unexpectedly. You might say it’s a rather persistent haunting. And it’s dangerous. Very dangerous.”

“I see,” Helen says politely. She hopes he’s not about to lecture her. There is nothing she finds less enjoyable than an academic explaining his pet project or particular area of study to her. She would, in complete honesty, rather jam a sharp stick into her eardrums. And the paranormal? Definitely not an area she has any interest in. The historians she can just about tolerate, as she occasionally learns something worth sharing about a house she’s showing that can bump up the price if the right party hears it. But she really isn’t sure she can sell a haunted door as a feature. Unless this mysterious door comes with a ghost of some kind, but really, that seems a bit ludicrous. And there’s no guarantee it would be tied to any one particular house. There’s no resale value in it.

“But you haven’t seen anything like that,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. “You’re certain?”

“Very,” Helen says firmly. “I would remember.”

Dr. Koskiewicz studies her, then nods. “Good. Very good. I’d hate to raise a child in a house with that hanging about.” He laughs and adds, “I’m not altogether certain the Professor would be all that thrilled with it, either.”

Helen raises an eyebrow before she can catch herself. “Ah, if you have an adult housemate, this room right here also has an en-suite bathroom. Not as grand as the master suite, of course, but certainly private and well-appointed.”

“The Professor is our cat,” Mr. Koskiewicz says with a smile. “I doubt he needs a whole room to himself, but we do appreciate your point. Perhaps a room for an oldest child.”

“Perhaps,” Dr. Koskiewicz agrees, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards. “Someday.”

Unbelievably, there’s still a chance Helen can make this sale. She still isn’t sure she wants to, but there’s a chance. She slips back into the familiar patter, rattling off the specs and amenities of the house and neighborhood. Now that they’ve dealt with the ridiculous question about an unexpected yellow door, it’s a lot easier.

She winds down the spiel as they head down the steps. Dr. Koskiewicz asks several questions, more normal ones than asking about the supernatural or the paranormal, and from the sorts of things he asks, she thinks she gleans a bit more information about the pair of them. Certainly enough to tailor her closing speech properly, anyway. It’s something she prides herself on. She tends to get the bigger commissions from her employers because she can sell houses most people have given up on, at a higher price than the seller is asking, by targeting specific things about the potential buyers—either something they’ve shown interest in regarding the house, or something they’ve let slip about themselves that she can exploit. Admittedly, she’s prone to occasionally exaggerating a teeny bit, and sometimes downplaying things she can be sure won’t show up as a hit on a pre-sale inspection, but nobody’s ever come back to complain about it. As long as the company does well out of it, nobody really cares.

She delivers the closing remarks, highlighting those things she thinks they’ll be drawn to, and talks up the amenities. She decides not to mention her concerns about how well-received they would be in the neighborhood, since neither of them looks like they belong; if they buy the house and find out their neighbors are going to make their lives miserable, well, that’s not really on her, and maybe she’ll get the listing if they decide to resell. Not that she’s necessarily hoping for that, but hey, a commission is a commission.

“Contact me if you decide you want to buy,” she finally says, handing Dr. Koskiewicz her card. He studies it for a moment, then pulls out a leather wallet and tucks the card inside. “I understand you’ll need to think this over, but if you’re interested, you may want to hurry. There was a couple in this morning willing to put in an offer.”

It’s a lie, of course; these two are the most intent viewers she’s shown the house to yet, and nobody’s made an offer. The house also hasn’t been on the market very long. But she’s learned that dangling that bit of bait often gets people to put in a higher offer. The owners want two and a quarter million, but she wonders if she can get these two to go to two and a half or maybe even more. She might even be able to get them up to three, which of course means a bonus for her.

“I can assure you that you’ll be the first to know, once we’ve talked it over,” Dr. Koskiewicz says. He holds out his hand. “Thank you very much, Ms. Richardson.”

“Of course.” Helen gives him her most professional smile and accepts his hand, trying not to wince at the feel of the scar tissue against her palm. She means to give it another quick shake and move on, but he tightens his grip slightly, holding her still, and stares at her intensely. It’s extremely uncomfortable.

“Please be careful,” he says quietly. “And if you do run into…anything unusual…I urge you to come to the Institute. You’ve been so kind to us. It’s the least we can do.”

Helen has no idea what he means, or what she should be worried about. And she doesn’t feel like she’s been especially kind, unless the other real estate agents they’ve dealt with have been more openly hostile about their foreignness and their homosexuality and his scars and his husband’s disability. But she’s not stupid enough to say that out loud.

“I assure you,” she says, fighting to keep her smile in place. “If anything unusual happens, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you.” Dr. Koskiewicz releases her hand, but he keeps staring at her intently.

Mr. Koskiewicz holds out his hand uncertainly in her direction. “Thank you for being so helpful and direct. It’s refreshing to not feel…misled.”

Helen accepts his hand uncertainly, but honestly, after the doctor’s, it’s a relief—soft and fleshy to be sure, but he doesn’t grip overly hard, and it’s not as dry or, well, corrupted. Still, she’s a little unnerved by his statement, or more accurately by the way he says it, like it’s some sort of joke she doesn’t get. “Certainly. I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I wasn’t.” She takes a half-step back and manages another smile. “Have a nice evening.”

“You as well.” Dr. Koskiewicz takes Mr. Koskiewicz’ arm and leads him to the door.

Helen, as is her habit, walks them to the door and watches them head down the path. Then, unable to stand it, she quickly hurries after them and peeps through a gap in the privacy fence sheltering the front garden. She doesn’t know much about cars and isn’t sure what she’s expecting, but the battered, ancient Ford Escort isn’t it.

She stares, utterly gobsmacked, as Dr. Koskiewicz opens the door for Mr. Koskiewicz, then goes around to get in the driver’s seat. The engine coughs and chokes for a moment before it catches and the car pulls away. It somehow doesn’t fit with the image she cultivated of the two of them. Either they have less money than she thought, or they have as much money as they do because they don’t spend a lot of money on new vehicles.

Either way, she thinks, glancing at her watch, her appointments are over for the day. She’s free until eight o’clock tomorrow morning and can go get something to eat, and she decides then and there that she is going to have a martini. Maybe two.

She rather thinks she’s earned them. Even if she doesn’t make a commission off of this one.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #homophobia cw #racism cw #xenophobia cw #ableism cw #classism cw #general bigotry cw #(all more implied than anything but still)#I'm sorry but I've never thought OG Helen was all that nice

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surveys-at-your-service · 4 years ago

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Survey #328

okay i’m going the fuck to bed now. @_@

Have you ever worn fake eyelashes? No; the only time I ever will will possibly be my wedding, if even then. Could you possibly write a successful novel? I think I'm capable, but I don't believe it will happen. Who’s the last person you video-chatted with? My therapy group via Zoom. Do ski lifts make you nervous or do you like them? Never been in one, but they seem cool. Have you ever had dandruff? I have dandruff AND a dry scalp. Nice combo. Do you think sleeve tattoos look trashy? Please explain to me how ANY tattoo inherently equates to being "trashy." I actually love sleeve tats. Have you ever gone through a phase of crushing on EVERYONE? No. I experienced a few crushes my freshman year of high school, but they weren't just anybody. If you had to get a portrait tattoo, who would it be of? I may or may not get a tattoo of Darkiplier doing his i c o n i c debut smile somewhere, but idk. I already have one tattoo related to Mark and would kill for another with his handwriting, so having three would be a bit... wild, haha. Do you have any stickers on any of your electronic devices? No. Do you like the smell of men’s colognes better than woman’s perfumes? Usually. Can you remember what you last clapped for? Yes; everyone in group clapped for one of the women taking a big step against her agoraphobia. Is your hair damaged? No, it's actually super healthy. Are you in charge of cleaning anything in your household? The litterbox and my room in general. Ever carved/written anything on a park bench? No. Most interesting place you’ve ever visited? Chicago was a big shock to me. I am FAR from used to cities that incredible and stocked. Do you keep your eyebrows more thick or thin? I don't groom them, so they're on the thicker end. Do you always wear a bra? Not at home and if there's no company. Do your shoulder blades protrude? No. Have you ever won on one of those grabber machine things? Yeah, a few times. Are you gonna French kiss your hubby at your wedding? Who says I'm marrying a man? But whatever, no. Keep that behind closed doors. How many bananas have you ever eaten in a row? No more than two. I usually don't even have two. Have you ever had sex outside? No. Have you ever been outside naked? No. Have you ever been in a shrubbery maze? No. You ever like someone who liked you back, but didn’t want a relationship?: That's pretty much where I'm at now. Have you ever fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same? No. Are you financially stable? No. Mom can barely afford rent right now; I had to pay it last month with gifted money. Are you emotionally stable? hunny Do you think kids these days are growing up too quickly? I kinda think so, yeah. It's funny how different kids are now compared to when I was whatever age they are. I try to be open-minded about it, though; times change, and I don't expect my generation to be the only "right" way to have grown up. I just think kids are chasing the power of "maturity" with much more vigor. Are you a rebel? Not really. Do you like when people use proper grammar on the Internet? Yeah. I like conversing with people who type just how they talk, like me. Have you ever driven or been a passenger on a motorcycle? Neither. I don't want to ride one. Do you use standard time, or 24 hour time? Standard time. Do you enjoy NASCAR? "HE'S MAKIN ANOTHER LEFT TURRRRRRN!" Lol no, I really don't. Who is the most fascinating person you’ve met? Probably Sara, honestly. What amazing adventures have you been on? What's this "adventure" you speak of? What would you do if had enough money to not need a job? Lots of traveling with my camera, still selling art anyway. What TV series do you keep coming back to and re-watching? None. What would your perfect vacation look like? Y'know, one of those glass dome ceiling cabin... things in the mountains with Sara would be so, SO cool. So much nature for us to explore. What are some obscure things that you are or were really into? Most of my interests honestly, haha. The strangest is probably "vulture culture," in which the remains (typically the bones) of a naturally deceased wild animal are basically recycled for some sort of artistic purpose. You could consider my roadkill photography an example. What are some things everyone should try at least once? I dunno, man. Depends on what you're into. What would your perfect morning be like? Cuddles with an s/o watching some funny videos or something like that to get in some morning laughter. What are you always game for? Video games, haha. What do you do to unwind? Watch YouTube. What’s your favorite piece of furniture you’ve ever owned? I don't have a fave. What would be the best city to live in? I don't want to live in a city. What would you like to know more about, but haven’t had the time to look into it? Time isn't an issue; I just haven't. There's lots of stuff. I'm a very curious person. How have you changed from when you were in high school? I'm less depressed, but more confused, scared, and much less motivated. Imagine a chicken wandering around with its head chopped off. Where is the most fun place around where you live? Nothing, really... Where would your friends or family be most surprised to find you? Like, a strip club or something. What’s expensive but totally worth it? This depends on what's important to you. For me, a quality DSLR camera. When do you feel most out of place? Whenever I'm some place fancy. What’s the most recent thing you’ve done for the first time? No idea. What small seemingly insignificant decision had a massive impact on your life? Accepting Jason's friend request on Facebook because I thought it was a different Jason I actually knew. What did you do last summer? Nothing, just stayed indoors trying not to melt into a sizzling puddle. What are you most grateful for? My mom. What’s the most essential part of a friendship? Trust, maybe. When was the last time you walked for more than an hour? Many, many years ago when I used to walk outside for hours with my iPod. All modesty aside, what are you better at than 90% of people? It doesn’t have to be useful or serious, it can be something ridiculous. 90% is a lot, man. Maybe bonding with animals? What’s the strangest phone conversation you’ve ever had? I don’t know. What do you like but are kind of embarrassed to admit? If I'm embarrassed by it, I have no interest in sharing it. What skill or ability have you always wanted to learn? Even just a smidge of social skills. What’s the best meal you’ve ever had? Probably the spicy shrimp fritas at Olive Garden. I adore those sooooooooo so much. Where was your favorite place to go when you were a kid? The zoo. We didn't go often at all, but I would frequently nag Mom about going. What’s something that most people haven’t done, but you have? Fed a freshly severed rat to a vulture. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I wanna go back to that bird rescue... What says the most about a person? How they treat others. What machine or appliance in your house aggravates you the most? The dryer. It can take a few rounds to fully dry something. What places have you visited that exceeded your expectations? Chicago, that I actually remember. Disney World probably did, but I was just a little kid and only have faint memories of the trip. What’s the worst advice someone has given you? I don't know. Besides your home and your work, where do you spend most of your time? People leave their houses? What are your top 3 favorite things to talk about? Mark, meerkats, and video games. When you were a kid, what seemed like the best thing about being a grown up? No one could tell me no for "stupid" reasons. What’s the strangest way you’ve become friends with someone? Strange way? I haven't got a clue. What’s your favorite band NAME (not necessarily your favorite band)? Maybe Cradle of Filth. Badass metal name. There are a lot of good ones, though. What’s your favorite thing to do outdoors? Take pictures of flowers or animals. How often do you dance? Silly/ironic dancing counts. Essentially never. Who besides your parents taught you the most about life? Jason, I guess. What’s been the most significant plot twist in your own life? The breakup that I thought was physically impossible, entirely unfathomable. Where did you take family vacations to when you were younger? We didn't really go on vacations. If you could instantly receive a Ph.D. in any discipline including all the knowledge and experience that goes along with it, what would your Ph.D. be in? Biology. What are the top three social situations you try to avoid most? Anywhere where I have to speak publicly; parties/get-togethers involving people I don't know; anywhere that is extremely crowded. Just social situations in general, really... What friendship you’ve had has impacted you the most? My friendship with Sara. What’s something you’re interested in that most people wouldn’t expect? Uhhh I don't know, really. What’s the hardest you’ve worked for something? My recovery from the breakup. What took you way too long to figure out? The only person who had any right to control my happiness and will to live was myself. What nicknames have you had throughout your life? If you include online ones as well, there's Britt, Britt-Britt, Twinkie, Bee, Flower, Ruby, Mozart2, Ozz(y), Alessa, and uhhh... I wanna say that's it? What do you do differently than most people? I deconstruct my breakfast biscuits to eat one part at a time... haha. Where’s the last place you’d ever go? Prison. What fact floored you when you heard it? That my dad did some hard drugs before us kids were born. I was entirely speechless. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? Yeah, it doesn't bother me. Have you ever spent more than two weeks in a wheelchair? No. Does weed smell good? Or no? Ugh, no. It smells awful. Do you blow dry your hair or do you let it air out? Air dry. Do you catch lizards? No; I don't like the idea of catching wild animals just to pick up and check out. That poor critter is terrified. I'd rather just take pictures of it and let it go about its day. Would you rather get a big tattoo or small tattoo? I want my next tattoo to be a big'n. How many pills do you take every morning? I absolutely do not want to count. A whole lot. What was the last parade you went to? /shrug What theme would you choose for a baby’s nursery? If I was hypothetically having kids, let's see. A son, absolutely dinosaurs. A daughter, maybe meadowy with baby animals. My baby blanket was full of baby animals, so it'd be kinda cute, that connection. What color would you paint a baby girl’s nursery? Not because of gender norms, but by personal choice, pastel pink. Does your first crush know that he/she was your first crush? No. What is the last thing you missed out on that you wanted to go to? Hm. Who do you wish were your best friend? I am perfectly happy with who already is my best friend. Who do you wish you could go on another date with? She knows. Who was the last friend of yours to have a baby, and what’s the baby’s name? I'm not sure, but my high school friend Megan is due to have her daughter Persephone soon! She won the naming game. Like damn, how badass would it feel for your name to be Persephone. Do you have a favorite M&M? Just the classic ones. Is it easy to make you cry? OHHHHH YES IT IS. Have you ever snuck out? Nah. Who was the last person to comment you? On Facebook? My friend Lyndsey commented on a photo I shared. What song reminds you of being in middle school? "All Signs Point to Lauderdale" by A Day To Remember is the anthem for going through puberty in school and trying to figure yourself out. What was the first thing you learned how to cook? Scrambled eggs. What’s something really basic that you’re terrible at? Cooking. Are you pale or tan? I'm very pale. When’s the last time you were kissed? On the lips, like two or so years ago. Do you like the movie Grease? Never seen it, actually. What’s your favorite Jim Carrey movie? The Mask, probably. What was the last baby animal you saw in the wild? I think a fawn. Have you been binge-watching any shows lately? If so, what? No. What’s the best physical feeling in the entire universe? I meeeaaan... Do you have bad anxiety? If so, do you take any kind of medication for it? Yes and yes. If you could, would you work from home? Do you think that would make you more or less productive? Well, it's complicated. I don't, but I also want to be a freelance photographer, so I kinda would. I like the idea of having an office in my house purely for productive activities to prevent becoming lazy because I'd be at home. Would you ever be an organ donor? I am one.

#survey #surveys #questions

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theoriginalladya · 4 years ago

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6, 15, 24 for Caleb?

from this list

thank you so much for asking!!! These are really great questions for Caleb that I haven’t put much consideration into before today!

6. What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate?

Oh, a very good question! Let’s see. Caleb attended St. Senan’s in Shannon, Ireland where Athair was teaching. It was obvious from the beginning that he had better be a well behaved student, which was easy enough for him. He did get into the occasional fight with a classmate, but nothing out of the ordinary for a child growing up. Most of the time he enjoyed school, although he was more withdrawn than the other kids. Not an introvert, necessarily, but with no knowledge of his past before the age of 6, it made it a challenge to fit in at times.

Caleb made it through school as well as he could (which basically means, I haven’t thought about this before and need to sort it out! lol). I would say he at least got through enough to meet high school/secondary equivalency test standards once he hit the Alliance. But by the time he was fourteen, he started working his way into the Reds. He kept going with school as well as he could (and Athair kept on him about it, too).

Caleb enjoyed most of his classes. Math was okay, occasionally challenging but that said, he liked the challenge. Sciences were interesting - knowing biology, of course, helped if anyone in the Reds got injured. By far his favorites were any classes where he got to read the Irish authors. Joyce, Yeats, Beckett ... you name it, he read it. Fiction and poetry. After the war, back at the orchard, he has a bookshelf that contains nothing but classics by Irish authors, most of them early editions obtained for him (whether requested or not) by Kasumi.

**side note: when he and Ashley meet, it doesn’t take long before he realizes her knowledge of poetry, though farther ranging than his own, is as in depth as his and they end up having several occasions of sitting around in the mess, drinking coffee or tea while debating the merits of different poets and their works.

I can’t think of any subject that he ‘hated,’ to be honest. At least, not at the moment.

15. Are they good at cooking? Do they enjoy it? What do others think of their cooking?

So, Caleb was adopted by Ned and Nan when he was six. Ned ran a pub called Old Neddy’s, and Nan helped out in the kitchens by cooking for the patrons. Over the years, Caleb started to help out. Nan taught him many of the Irish recipes he eventually ends up making for Kaidan. Caleb enjoys cooking, finds it relaxing and as much an adventure as going out on a mission (and potentially as dangerous, depending on ingredients, utensils and whether or not a sushi place is involved! ;) ). He’s also delighted when he discovers Kaidan cooks and subtly keeps an eye on what he’s doing in the kitchen for future reference. Post war, he’s at home with Tadhg and Niamh and therefore ends up doing most of the cooking, except when Kaidan is home (he’s off doing Spectre-y things for several years post war but comes home often). As far as Caleb knows, Kaidan has never made a complaint about his cooking, and the kids grow like weeds and will eat just about anything put in front of them without complaint.

24. What is their sleeping pattern like? Do they snore? What do they like to sleep on? A soft or hard mattress?

Oh man. During his Alliance years, his motto is “Sleep wherever, whenever you can get it because you never know when you’ll get another chance.” That said, he’s pretty good at being able to settle down and get some sleep ... unless he’s thinking too hard about something. If he snores, Kaidan’s kind enough not to have said anything about it, and he’s never had anyone in the barracks yell at him about it, either.

Caleb can sleep just about anywhere, much of this comes from his years in the Reds. In a bed or a chair, against a wall, hiding out in a ditch, in a tree, etc. You get the idea. It was a necessity then, but taught him adaptability which comes in handy over the years. His absolute PREFERENCE is a nice bed (hard or soft doesn’t matter) so long as Kaidan is with him. Pillows are great, but Kaidan’s better. :D

#OC Question meme #ladya's OCs #Caleb Shepard #mShenko #Earthborn Shepard #OTP Brothers in Arms #thanks so much for asking!!!#shadoedseptmbr

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marnivanross · 5 years ago

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★ have you seen [ MARNI VANROSS ] since the storm? some say they look like [ zoey deutch ] but they’re [ 21 ] & go by [ THE SKEPTIC ]. [ she’s ] lived in halloway for [ 12 years ] & they are originally from [ LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA]. before the town vanished they were studying [ astronomy ] and lived at [ UNI BLVD ]. most people knew the [ CISFEMALE ] as [ + INTELLIGENT ] but i’ve heard they can also be [ - COLD ]. for some reason, they feel [ uneasy ] about the town’s disappearance. ( pepper, twenty three, s he/her, est )

ABOUT THE MUN. what is that? that freaky thing? yes, that’s right, it’s a naked mole rat.

hello all, my name is pepper and what you’re about to see is about to be peak mediocrity. i am usually pretty decent at intros but i really have spent most of today watching love island, and i just spent the past two hours watching pilot pete make horrible decisions, so my brain is officially mush. that said i am going to do my best to make this coherent. to start, a bit about me, i am a taurus. i like trash tv. i’m really craving chicken fingers. i have never met a plate of nachos i didn’t like, and if i could be anything other than a human person i’d be a cloud i think. alright onto the good stuff.

BIO. *has my feelings surgically removed*

first of all here is her pinterest board (keep in mind marni was kind of the skully inspired muse in a scooby doo rp so that’s why stuff looks a bit spooky)

marni was brought into the world into a weird situation by anyone’s standards, but especially by hers. to start, both her parents were hippies. yes, weed smoking, chakra cleansing, organic grown kale that they got from the farmer’s market where the only store clerk walked around with her tits proudly out, hippies. but they weren’t just any hippies, they were rich hippies. and that somehow made it worse.

clint ‘storm’ vanross and clementine vanross were the proud owners and entrepreneurs of a whole food organic grocery store (think whole foods or trader joe’s), and clemetine later went on to ride the success of their company to create her own website and brand (think goop basically. yes, marni’s mother has sold a candle that smells like her vagina, and yes marni is deeply ashamed of it). both businesses were wildly successful, and so clem and storm quickly went from living and travelling the world in their van to having about six mansions across the world. marni came into their life as their first child around the time they bought mansion two. she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but that spoon’s handle was made of moon quartz and the silver was organically sourced.

from there on out marni was raised in a weird way. you’d think because hippies were all about free love, that marni would be raised with an abundance of it but that wasn’t exactly the case. her parents were all about giving marni her aunotomy fairly early in life, which sounds good, but really means that marni was simply treated as an adult from the moment she could walk by herself. and she was the adult really. after all, marni was the one who had to convince her parents to enroll her in school (they were determined to let the world be her teacher, and marni simply wasn’t having any of it), the one who had to fix her own meals when all that was left in their fridge was raw tofu, the one who had to clean up her mother’s vomit whenever she went a bit to hard on the moonshine. yes, marni had parents, but she also had forty-something year old children in boho chic attire.

and marni’s parents never understood it. after all, with the way they were they could never understand how their genetics combined to make such a serious girl. one who would look at the moon and not just admire it, but ask how it stayed up there in the first place. how far away was it? how could she get there? and when told to simply enjoy and love it for what it was, would instead march herself to the library and find out the answers herself. marni’s parents and her truly never saw eye to eye, and at a certain point marni stopped trying to. she wasn’t expecting her parents to follow suit, but follow suit they did. marni’s parents gave up on trying to understand her her around the time she was nine. that’s when she moved to halloway, or rather, that’s when they moved her to halloway.

they said it was because of business. the fact was, marni’s parents had been marching her around the world, from state to state and country to country whenver they wanted to start up a new store or run down a new story. yes, sometimes they would leave her (alone, in an empty house, with only the occasional eccentric ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle’ to come by and make sure marni wasn’t dead) for a while for short business trips (the longest being about two weeks) but they always came back eventually. but this was different. her parents set her up in halloway with a nanny named paola, and then they left for the foreseeable future. her mother, to go down to africa to chase a story. her father, to go down to europe and expand the business. they both promised to be back within a month, and they were. but then they left again. and again. and again.

but it was fine. marni and paola got along great. she learned very quickly how to forge her parents signature on school forms. she didn’t need them. she didn’t miss them. but she did desperately want them to want her, and it took marni a long time to realize they just didn’t.

marni was the new girl for a while. she struggled a bit to make friends as the little girl who got more excited by science experiments than barbies. the one who was always the first to raise her hand in class, and the one with the famous parents. most of the kids didn’t know who the vanross’ were but the parents did. and having the occassion adult come up to marni and tell her how they just loved her mother’s zuchini bread recipe, or the all organic popcorn they sold at her father’s store was just... weird. and other kids found it weird too. marni struggled for a while, and was picked on quite a lot but what was she to do other than accept it? all that marni had in her arsenal were facts and scathing words, and mean kids didn’t usually tend to let those stop them.

eventually marni grew up. she went to high school. skipped prom. remained fairly anonymous other than becoming president of the chemistry club, valedictorian and being known as the girl known for making friends with her teachers. she got accepted to harvard and yale for university, but not knowing if it was because of her own accomplishments (which were countless) or because of her parents, she refused them both and decided to stay in halloway. to go to university here. to try and make her own way.

honestly in university marni’s life was similarly uneventful because for the most part she was the quiet type that went to class, went home, and back. she didn’t cause any stir unless you could hear the occasional scathing comment murmured under her breath, or you were a neighbour who marni was screaming at to keep it down. she didn’t even attend a single party unless coerced. she was nobody, and honestly that was how marni liked it. she had never been one for the spotlight. she genuinely preferred to be more behind the scenes, unless there was a need to rise to the occasion.

and then all of this happened y’all. it really went to shit huh. marni is terrified honestly and she just wants to know what’s going on. a lot of people who barely know who she is have probably seen her speaking up and asking questions and getting almost frenzied in her attempt to find the truth because the mystery of all this is driving her insane. no she doesn’t miss her parents particularly, but she does miss what the world used to be and she wants to go back to that, desperately, but she also really just wants to know. like if marni understood what was happening here or even just played a part in future generations understanding, and she was literally still never able to get back... honestly she could still die pretty happy i’m ngl.

PERSONALITY. *eyes snap open at 3:52am* nobody likes me

blunt. painfully painfully blunt, god. if marni thinks you’re an idiot she will tell you to your face, she really does not care and that absolutely will get her into trouble one day

painfully curious! wants to know what’s happening with this whole situation, god desperately wants to know the truth and mechanics behind it.

cold honestly?? like marni doesn’t know how to comfort people really, she was never really taught how. she isn’t very compassionate, she’s genuinely more on the logical side. will give you the most rational answer even if it does sound kinda of cruel

the voice of reason! the person in your friend group who is the designated driver. also the person in your friend group who would say ‘i told you so’

an overachiever. lives for academic acknowledgement, like those little gold stars on your papers in elementary school are what kept marni going man. huge ass nerd. huge ass bookwarm.

super stubborn. refuses to even entertain the idea of anything magical happening here, and is honestly kind of judgmental of people who think that way because of her parents like marni has very little respect for any hippies i’m not gonna lie

skeptical as hell but we been knew

a know it all! think she’s right about everything !! she usually is but still !!

does not know what to do with emotion. has had a couple, and does not recommend it. would rather die than admit to a feeling.

trust issues galore! does not trust literally anyone ever. if marni trusts you than you’re truly special

HEADCANNONS. it takes me 3-7 business days to process my feelings

has never learnt to ride a bike cause her parents never taught her rip

loves the smell of books

laughs at horror movies generally. the kind of person who is really hard to scare.

was raised a vegan but loves eating meat. stress eats meat when she’s truly like anxious, and so is really bummed about the dwindling meat supply for more reasons than one.

needs coffee to survive, so the rationing has got her going a bit crazy even though she knows it’s necessary.

has never really gotten truly drunk.

keeps a detailed journal about all of her thoughts about all of this and takes meticulous notes.

is left handed.

can shoot a gun and does have one on her person pretty much at all times. i headcannon that her nanny paola taught her to shoot, and marni isn’t strong at all but she’s a pretty good shot. it’s the only way she has to defend herself honestly.

is redheaded/strawberry blonde zoey and redheaded/strawberry blonde zoey ONLY

bi as hell!

WANTED CONNECTIONS. baby’s first words are ‘i’m not here to make friends’

i really am too lazy to make a whole ass sexy list rn and i apologize sjsdjjdf but !!! best friends, friends, confidantes, someone who used to drag her to parties, someone who used to pick on her, someone who used to defend her, flings, exes (marni is a horrible gf and she probably DIPPED the moment she started to feel something so give it to me folks), crushes she used to have in high school or middle school or elementary school, people who had crushes on her in high school or middle school or elementary school, current crushes on either end, enemy (just someone she butts heads with man!), old academic rivals, partner in crime in trying to figure this shit out, someone who hates her man, sibling like relationship, a girl squad, someone who tries to get her to loosen up, someone who is really chill and okay with the current situation who marni just wants to strangle with her bare hands!!! and anything else your heart desires okay, thank you for listening to me ramble ilu already.

#hallowayintro #this is a new blog so i already know this won't show up in the tag but still #m.v. | intro.

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incogniiita · 4 years ago

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{ ✴ } ︎—— THE SOIL IS RICH AND DARK WITHIN HIS PALM. there’s an eerie peace within the moonlit silence of the night. quiet enough for victor to hear the silent whispers that he wished he could drown into nothing. they are guides to him, but also a constant mockery of his regrets. weary eyes trace the fading stone carvings upon the crumbling headstone. the fact it had stayed around this long was surprising to him. no new body arose to claim this grave. and for that, a part of him was grateful for it. calloused fingertips move across the cool grey stone. worn over the centuries of erosion and weather. the headstone was hidden away versus the rest in the graveyard. high towering brush and shrubs keeping it safe and secluded. victor took his time removing dead branches and weeds that the cold winds of autumn have brushed upon it. lush green grows around the grave, but nothing dares to touch where the body is buried. a sign of respect and care. something that wasn’t visible within him in day to day life. that was something he reserved for her. and only her.

even if it had been almost three hundred years ago, the memory stays fresh and wounded in his mind. he had lived only a hundred years before that time ---- marking him in present day as almost half a millennium old. just beginning his training within magic and necromancy. life had been lonely once his mentor had passed on, giving all skill and knowledge he had to victor to continue on within his studies. magic and necromancy had already given him a longer life and vision of youth. but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. traveling as a stowaway, wanting to see the world and break from the confines of europe, that was how he had met karinne. she was sweet, kind hearted, and warm. a french aristocrat who wanted to become an author even if the only thing expected of her was to marry well. victor wasn’t necessarily poor from the contracts and jobs he took, but he wasn’t of nobility either. a grey patch that was difficult to place in society’s standards. he had respect as a necromancer and magician though. he kept people safe and disposed of threats when needed or hired to do so. both himself and karinne grew close, their bond to one another strong but shy. even after a few years, they had yet to utter i love you to one another. barely holding hands, fleeting kisses exchanged upon their knuckles with rose tinted cheeks. her smile filled his heart with an immense feeling of belonging. they knew what their hearts felt, but they did not speak it. and that regret will forever cling to him. one night, in the dead of winter, his mentor’s mistakes came back to haunt him. mistakes that victor was unaware of. mistakes he wish he knew about sooner. a corrupt sorcerer sought revenge, but since victor’s mentor was no more, he decided victor was the closest closure he would receive in the end. the sorcerer had snuck his way into the house, confronting victor first by the warming furnace. karinne being tucked away upstairs. she had been visiting victor and had fallen asleep as victor continued to study downstairs. victor attempted negotiation, offering money, valuables, even old tomes that once belonged to his mentor. but the sorcerer was only interested in taking his life. before the magic-user could make a move, karinne had snuck downstairs, hitting the intruder from behind with a cast iron. creating the perfect opportunity for a counter attack by victor, stunning the enemy. instructing karinne to run, victor ushered her outside. suddenly, the secluded home victor had chosen outside of town didn’t feel like a good idea anymore. the flickering orange-yellow lights was barely visible through the falling snow. it was then a singing, burning, pain raked down victor’s back. a horrid scream of pain ripping across his throat. the corrupted sorcerer, with dark magic encasing his hands, marked victor across his spine. the magic burning through the soft linen of his shirt, creating permanent black hand marks that shreds downwards upon his skin. karinne, stumbling through the thick sheeted snow pauses in her escape, looking to see victor collapsing to the ground in agony. swirls of smoke floating into the air with the scent of burnt cloth and skin. victor can still hear the call of her voice calling out his name in panic. mind fuzzy and shaken from the shock of magic, he attempts to crawl towards her. but is grabbed by his attacker. i’ve thought of something more suitable than your life, the man states in his ear, i’ll take hers instead ... and you will suffer as i wish your mentor had. and like a flash of lightning before victor could shout even a warning, karinne was struck down. her body falling easily within the snow below as the sorcerer seemed to disappear without a trace. victor’s ears rung with deafening silence. the cold winter winds was all he felt against him now. that cold forever following him in years to come. with aching bones, victor moves through the snow to her. he hadn’t noticed the tremor within his hands until he reached for karinne, holding her close to him. it was as if she was in a quiet slumber. frozen tears begin to cling to his cheeks as he sobbed in grief. a visceral shout of rage and agony moving through the mountains. an echo of loss spanning across the woods. he hadn’t told her. after all those years and he was too cowardice to admit three simple words to her. months before, he had bought a ring. keeping it hidden within his bedside table. waiting and anticipating for the right moment to ask her hand. he had been too late. too late because he hesitated in the end. that was when the shift began. the moment he decided to move down a darker path. one that he hadn’t dreamed of taking in the entirety of his career as a necromancer. he wanted to barter with death. to change what had been done. to tell her that he loved her. he worked through ancient tomes, ones that his mentor had warned him about using. ones that taught necromancers how to raise the dead. which meant he had to barter with death. the summoning was a tolling experience. only souls of the dead can speak with the reaper himself. and so, for five minutes, victor had died upon markings of chalk. knowing if his plea would fail, it would result in a permanent death. a high risk that many within the magical community never dared to take. victor met face to face with death themselves. bargaining to bring karinne back, offering anything in return to mend his broken heart. death, feeling pitiful that day, spoke calmly: i will grant you the gift of reviving the dead ... but in return, you shall face everlasting consequences for your decision if you choose to accept it. not caring about the fine lines of the contract, victor hastily accepted the terms. and with a harsh gasp of breath, he was reborn. after karinne’s funeral, he awaited until nightfall. until the moon was high in the sky above the graveyard. placing his hands upon the ground where her body lay, old latin begins to fall from his lips. shadows calling to him like a beacon. little did he know that those shadows of death would stay within him. thus began the whisper of voices. his eyes filled with black, turning into ebony orbs as he called upon his newfound gift granted to him by death themselves. the ground beneath him began to rumble. like a hum of electricity racing through the dark soil below. a pale hand then erupted from the ground below. karinne now struggling to climb out her shallow dug grave. with a breath of relief, victor rushes to her aid. both embraced tightly within their arms. ‘i love you’ he desperately whispers to her over and over into the crook of her shoulder. his heart weeping in happiness that his love had returned. she was weak, but gently she laughed. repeating his words with a faint dazed smile. the two returned to the home in the mountains. the first few days being absolute bliss. victor finally giving her the ring he had held onto months before her death. unofficially marrying. it was untimely bliss ... that is, until karinne began showing strange symptoms. throughout moments in the day, there would be times where her expression would turn blank, staring into space. becoming unresponsive. repeating daily tasks. muttering inaudible sentences and words. her skin beginning to mold as her eyes began turning milky white. victor, horrified, he was at a loss of what to do. was this one of the consequences death spoke of ? trying to bring some sense back to karinne on one of the worser days, she suddenly lashed out and attacked him. shrieking about how he put her within this torment. how she wanted to return to a peaceful slumber. victor attempted to plead at her to stop, but her violent outburst worsened. out of panic, his hands fly to the frame of her face, eyes returning to black orbs through tears. her restless life slowly draining from her body. he could feel her life fade through his fingertips.

cradling her lifeless body again for a second time, he realizes this ‘gift’ is a two way road. he can give but also take away life. silently, tears of grief roll down his cheeks. losing karinne for a second time. having to take her life by his hands. now his hands were the only ones to blame. now you understand, a voice echoes to him, the consequences that you will have to burden for the rest of your life ... use it wisely, my hand of death. he reburies her at the graveyard and later leaves the town. becoming a traveling drifter. never truly staying in one spot. taking contracts and hiring jobs. a natural title surfacing around his reputation across the supernatural community: the hand of death. a fitting title. but a title he does not care for. and thus, he finds himself in front of her grave hundreds of years later. he hadn’t visited this town in a long while. he actively avoided it when he could. but this time, work lead him here. letting the familiar dark rich soil fall between his fingers. a soft sigh is exhaled, standing slowly from where he knelt in front of the grave. with one last touch upon the grave stone, he quietly utters: i loved you, before moving onwards past the burial site. placing a toothpick between his grinding teeth. jaw tensed and sharp. with each step he takes across the lush green dewy grass, it silently withers under his boots.

#|| headcanons. victor #|| writings. the words of the ancients #tw : death #tw : death mention #( HOOOOOO BOY #SO THIS GOT LONGER THAN EXPECTED BUT ...... I GUESS VICTOR HAS HIS PROPER BACKSTORY NOW #BIG O U C H THAT HURT A LOT ASBHKDJNFLASDF #now y'all now why victor is just so cold and distant my lord )#( i also have to write a headcanon post about his powers IMMEDIATELY )#( i also really need to make new icons for him bc these are just CRUSTY )

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may064 · 5 years ago

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I'm in class 12th and I'm an average student. My aim is to get into MIT. I'm often told by people that I won't get in. How do I prepare for MIT?

Chris Lee, SB Aeronautics and Astronautics, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (1997) The other side of the good answer that Samartha gave is that many people liken going to MIT as "drinking from a firehose." I had a full ride from two reasonably good schools near where I grew up (University of British Columbia and Simon Fraser University in Vancouver and Burnaby, British Columbia, Canada). I declined both to go to MIT. One of draws for me was that whatever was taught in a year at UBC and SFU in calculus, sciences (chemistry, biology, physics), engineering was taught in one semester. For most "average" people, they're not going to be able to keep up. MIT is a large ocean of people who were big fish in a small pond. Something like 40%+ every year graduated valedictorian (top of their class) and 90% of the incoming freshmen in 2015 ("Class of 2019") were in the top 5% of their class. Across even elite schools like TJ or Stuy. For the Class of 2019, mean SAT scores were 762 math, 710 verbal and 711 Writing. Many classes at MIT graded on a curve. The harder majors have "weeding classes" and were C-centered and C-pass. Like Aero/Astro had Unified Engineering which was C-centered and C-pass (which means about a third of people who initially signed up would get a D or F and have to repeat). There are some classes where the mathematical ability of those there is so good that to not have like 95% of people get an A grade, they have to give "all or nothing" (not partial credit) points for each question, like 3.091, and still the vast majority get A's. I came out of high school with straight A's, 4.0 GPA for junior and senior year of high school. Some of my marks were well... from the highest achieving school in my school district, I scored 99% Calculus (mostly differentiation, a little integration), 98% Mathematics, 97% Physics, 95% Chemistry and so on. I won the top marks in math and sciences (2nd in biology, 4th in English, top in French, 3rd in German, etc.) I was the mathematics champion for my school in both eleventh and twelfth grade and competed for the CMO and USAMO (although I didn't win). I captained the school's physics Olympiad team sponsored by UBC (and we won based on points). But coming to MIT, I felt dumb compared to many people. My math ability was ... okay to slightly behind par. I didn't place out of 18.01 (single variable calculus). It took me two tries to place out of 8.01 (Physics I: Classical mechanics) and I probably shot myself in the foot when I took 8.02 (Physics II: Electromagnetism) first semester. There were Russians who came to the school and placed out of 4-5 math classes. I met so many smart people; one of my best friends won the Illinois state math competition his junior year in high school (his partner, a senior, had to bail out to interview at Stanford). I knew a guy (still a good friend) who my other friends nicknamed "smartest man from Nigeria" (his name is Tolulope Okusanya) and he was the only person in history to complete all Nigerian high school examinations with an A1 (like an A/A+ grade) for every subject. You're competing with the likes of these people for good grades. If one takes any particular subject -- one is always going to find more than a few people who are smarter, better, quicker learners, etc. I thought I was good at math and physics (look at my track record -- high 90% in high school, top marks for these) and at MIT, I finally met people who were significantly better. In fact, 8.03 (Waves, Vibrations, Oscillations) was my last physics class as I realized I really wasn't that good. (Of course I did bomb a test badly when I forgot my single-page crib sheet at my dorm room.) Pretty much you do have to demonstrate during high school that you are exceptionally good at math and at least one science. Like at least 1.5-2 standard deviations off the mean. For the other sciences, you have to show at least competence and/or aptitude. While there's probably an image that MIT students are just science nerds, MIT requires that every undergrad has to take a Humanities concentration if your major was science/engineering. So you have to demonstrate that you can handle other academics/other classes. You have to demonstrate a curiosity to learn, some drive beyond just getting good grades -- whether this is extracurriculars or citizenship or volunteering or doing science projects or whatever. Sometimes it's called "finishing ability" -- you need it to be successful at MIT. You need the ability to finish term papers, weekly problem sets -- the ability to push through the pain and the challenges and the hard work -- the determination to "do whatever or learn whatever, even if it kills you" (but it won't). I'm trying to paint a picture. If someone is average in high school, they're not going to have a good time. That person is going to go down crashing and burning at MIT. MIT is not going to allow that scenario from playing out.

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rookisaknight · 6 years ago

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MBTI and the Seeds

Religious bullshit, meet personality bullshit. I took to 16personalities for a direction on this and was actually pretty convinced by the majority of the results (which is whack because 16personalities almost always gets at least one letter off), but I have an unfathomably large amount of information about this test stored in my grey matter so I’ll be hopping off a bit to fill in my own blanks. Also notable is the severe trauma each of the Seeds have been through

This is going under a cut because it's a long post and honestly might be more worthwhile as a reference for myself and how I write the Seeds, but I can’t be the only personality nerd in this fanbase.

Jacob Seed: ISTJ. The Logistician

I wasn’t sold on this one initially given that Jacob seems far more comfortable with out of control situations than most Js generally are, but I find the overall profile fits him better than ISTP. My explanation is that his time in the juvie, the military, and the foster system has forced a maturation of this particular function due to constantly feeling out of control, which makes him more open to adaptation than he would have been otherwise.

Strengths:

Honest and Direct: Notably Jacob is arguably the least manipulative Seed. He “tricks” you in a sense with the conditioning but that is more a strategic concealment than any deception. Unlike the other three, Jacob does not pretend that his actions come from any sense of love or divine calling. He is always straightforward with the deputy, even if that doesn’t restrain his cruelty.

Strong-willed and Dutiful: Basically see all of the Book of Joseph, as well as his “you think I care if I die” comments. I lump very responsible under this.

Calm and Practical: I don’t think I have to explain this part. Jacob never reacts from an explicitly emotional place. The “did you think you were free” is the closest to losing his temper I think we see from him. He has expectations, and failure to meet them will be punished. He doesn’t see a need to get emotional about it, preferring to detach himself

Create and Enforce Order: Well, culling the herd is an unconventional tactic, but...

Weaknesses:

Stubborn: As Joseph said, Jacob has been getting into it since he was a kid. Even with the brother, he’s willing to die for, he explicitly argues with him. And even in the face of his own death, he refuses to rescind his own philosophy, or even demonstrate any regret for the path he’s chosen.

Insensitive and Judgemental: Jacob’s a shithead no I will not elaborate

Always By the Book: an illegal paramilitary cult, yes, but one that holds to Jacob’s exacting standards.

Often Unreasonably Blames Themselves: Loath as I am to woobify Jacob at all, there’s a pathos to him. As Joseph says, he thinks of himself as a “weapon without a purpose. A soldier without a legacy”. As a child, he protected his siblings and as an adult, he views himself as little more than a meatshield. There’s a sense that he objectifies himself, reduces himself down to simply the function of violence and protection, and those high standards mean that he views death as simply another failure.

can bastard be a personality type

Joseph Seed: ISFP- The Observer

The test originally gave me INFP, but I find that unconvincing for two reasons. One, INFP’s are predominantly defined by an open-minded approach to life and to ideas, which doesn’t fit well with a guy so convinced he got religion right that he was willing to kidnap and murder people. Two, while Joseph is definitely contemplative and deals with the symbolic, his “visions” are not flights of fancy but are in some sense practical. He doesn’t really appear to engage in thought experiments, merely interpret sensory (or in this case extrasensory) information that he is presented with.

Strengths:

Charming: The man runs a successful church for a reason, and it can’t just be good cheekbones and dogwhistling

Sensitive to Others: Joseph has a keen insight into other people’s emotional state, which is what makes him so effective at manipulating them. He tends to meet people where they’re at with a certain deftness that would be impressive if he didn’t use it the way he did

Passionate: about the LORD. No, but I’ll give this to the man, he’s certainly got a vision, and sticks to it with intensity.

Curious: I think anyone working in the business of people has to have an inherently curious mind, and while Joseph may believe he has all the answers, his fascination with the Deputy to me indicates that he has an inherent draw to things that disrupt his world. I also think about how he would get in trouble as a child for seeking out forbidden material, such as Spiderman comics. those Satanic webs...

Weaknesses:

Fiercely Independent: He’s developed a supportive community now but Joseph has always marched to the beat of his own awful, awful drum, which has gotten him kicked out of at least one job and lost him at least one set of foster parents. He doesn’t seem to need people as much as he acquires them

Unpredictable: Sometimes with blood, sometimes with forgiveness, it's hard to say how Joseph will respond to disruption on any given day. Where the spirit leads, I suppose.

Easily Stressed: This one I’ll actually argue that his turbulent history and the demands of his job have at least taught him to cover this up, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t cracks in the armor. “yOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!!!!!”

Overly Competitive: He’s a sore loser with a tendency to punish people for failing him (see: Faith and the statue)

Fluctuating Self-Esteem: He’s dealing with a joint worldview where he is at once God’s chosen and a “no one from nowhere with nothing”. How much of that is genuine we may never know, but I don’t think the fluctuation is outside the realm of possibility

John Seed: ESFJ-The Consul

I was a little on the fence about N vs S but ultimately found that John’s a bit more concrete than conceptual.

Strengths:

Strong Practical Skills: I mean, the man orchestrated a hostile takeover of an entire county, he knows how to get things done when he wants

Strong Sense of Duty, Very Loyal: This part is likely underdeveloped given how tempestuous forming relationships was for most of his life, but given how bound he feels to Joseph its clearly in him.

Good at Connecting With Others: He’s a shitstain, but according to Joseph he had business connections everywhere and was basically a walking secret storage bin. John can probably be very charming if you don’t know how he spends his weekends in the bunker.

Sensitive and Warm: again, underdeveloped given his background, but there’s clearly a lot of emotions broiling just below the surface given how volatile he can be and how easily Joseph can access them. Joseph also describes him as a very sensitive kid, for what that’s worth

Weaknesses

Worried About Their Social Status: The boy is a climber

Inflexible: He holds pretty firmly to his headcanons on Hope County (for fuck’s sake John Nick’s sin isn’t Greed, its Sloth) and has a very definite view on how things should be. Not to mention he seems very particular, just based on the state of his home and his clothes. He has rituals and habits, and will not deviate.

Vulnerable to Criticism: If you say anything about his future receding hairline he will cry. He just will. Not to mention I’m citing that look he gives you when you’re apparently costing him paradise by not converting

Often Too Needy: He will either get attention or he will die trying.

Too Selfless: Honestly, selfless isn’t the right word here, but I’ll copy the way 16 personalities describes it because I think it fits really well for John. “ Consuls sometimes try to establish their value with doting attention, something that can quickly overwhelm those who don’t need it, making it ultimately unwelcome. Furthermore, Consuls often neglect their own needs in the process.” John is a deeply selfish person but he does act like someone who tries to get affection by giving everything of himself, often to the point that he makes the other person uncomfortable.

I literally love this dramatic edit it's so good

Faith Seed/Rachel Jessop: ENFP-The Campaigner

I have nothing to add, it just fits. At the most, I think Faith is a little more pragmatic than she lets on (given that whole “if violence is the only language you choose to speak”) but to me, that can easily be an extension of the ENFP’s ability to connect emotionally. It means they know how to cut people off

Strength

Curious: I mean you don’t end up in a cult willingly without a little curiosity. Faith also seems mildly intrigued by the Deputy’s resistance, and while this eventually culminates in frustration with our intractability, I believe there’s a genuine investment in the journey to conversion

Observant: Faith is cued into her public perception, both from the resistance and the cult, and consciously constructs it. She also shares Joseph’s ability to tune into emotions and exploit them.

Energetic and Enthusiastic: How much of her ray of sunshine persona is constructed for the benefit of converting people will probably never be answered, but I don’t believe it can be constructed whole cloth. I think Rachel always was a person with a lot of heart and enthusiasm for her passions, even if it's not as constant as Faith Seed wants you to believe

Excellent Communicators: There’s a reason she’s regarded as the Siren. She can talk people into things even they don’t want to do. Certainly left me shook

Know How To Relax: *insert weed joke here*

Very Popular and Friendly: Again, her Siren persona may not be 100% genuine, but you can’t fake that level of charisma

Weaknesses:

Poor Practical Skills: Listen, Rachel is smart as hell (definitely smart enough to develop a drug and orchestrate mass production thereof), but her planning skills? Not great. Up until Burke gets taken out of the Bliss her plan seemed to be “talk with the Deputy over and over until they change their mind”. She kicks it up a notch after she finally gets annoyed with us but it seems a bit more “making it up as she goes”, and she falls back on strategies that have worked for her before but aren’t really effective for the Deputy. In fairness, I don’t think any of the Seeds are strong in the planning department

Overthink Things, Get Stressed Easily: Unlike with John and Jacob, Faith doesn’t really let us in to see her darker side. She prefers to speak of her flaws in the past tense. Yet clearly anxiety has been an issue in her life, given how deeply her isolation sat with her and her sense of worthlessness. Using drugs as an escape from stress also makes sense for her character, at least from my perspective

Highly Emotional: Faith communicates in emotional terms, manipulates people through emotions, and unlike someone like Jacob Faith loses her temper. She shouts at us, demonstrates her frustration very openly, even screams at us that we couldn’t possibly understand her.

Independent to a Fault: Her personal history gives her some interesting codependent issues with Joseph but based on what we hear of her from Tracey Rachel resented anyone trying to control her, even if they had her best interests at heart, and was perfectly willing to burn bridges over people questioning her choices.

If people are interested I can develop these out more. I may eventually do these for the police force members too but frankly, we’re given less to deal with for them, in particular with Joey and Staci, so who knows.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #joseph seed #jacob seed #john seed #faith seed #rachel jessop #mbti #headcanons

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razmahdaz-art · 6 years ago

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Thunder Rolls Over The Rockys Chapter 1

Hanzo Shimada’s family was relentless and merciless. Raising him from birth to be nothing but a cold blooded business man with a way of weeding out the weak that didn’t fit his family’s standards. But what truly forced Hanzo’s hand was when his father passed and the council of elders demanded that he eradicate his own brother. He’d finally had enough and the pair ran, going in separate directions. And Hanzo’s direction lead him to the most desolate place where the clan would never look, Midwestern America to a town called Gibralter, Montana. He doesn’t expect much at first, but with a more than welcoming community and bright eyed, wide smiled Cowboy may make this more enjoyable than he once determined.

Words: 3,084

The night was quiet. A rare quiet that settled in all the right ways, the feeling that as if the Earth itself was asleep. The night air whispering to the trees through every breath of wind that rolled through a forgotten canyon that stretched till the visable horizon. The road that rested high up on one edge was ragged and rarely traversed, the asphalt losing all paint while plants sprouted through the cracks on the borders where a year of man-made work meets mother nature’s centuries of carving. Pine trees both stood tall and fallen, bushes grew in wild patches, and rocks lay resting and marked by moss and scratch marks made from fauna that passed through time to time. The sky was decorated with stars that glistened like crystals, the milky way visible clearly against the soot black sky. No clouds dared to obscure the view, all being swept away from the expanse to make room for the piece of art millennia in the making.

It was such an odd sight, Hanzo mused. Growing up in the nest of bright city lights where every star was muffled by the gleaming blaze of artificial light, that seeing even one constellation was to be considered lucky. But looking up from where he stood, pulled over on the side of a high roadway, leaned up against a Jeep that had seen far better days, just done relieving himself after hours of travel with only occasional breaks, Hanzo has a moment to muse the idea of that he may enjoy living out in here.

Driving through the golden California and Nevada deserts, the rich and untouched forests of Idaho, the foreign wildlife he got the pleasure of glimpsing while traversing Yellowstone National Park, all of it mixed into a picture that he had long misinterpreted for years. He was always taught that the Midwest of America was a festering mess of “Hicks” and nothing but either flat plains or forests holding dangerous animals and people. He was pleasantly surprised to see it was more than just that. Even if he held quite a few hints of doubt, in this moment he felt a small tinge of optimism start to expose itself for this new venture.

He took one last deep inhale of the fresh air, savoring it as if it is the last breathe he might take before he wondered back around to the drivers side of the filthy dark blue Jeep and reclaiming his seat behind a well familiarized drivers wheel. The small clock on the radio displayed 10:48 pm as a song that had been long paused scrolled across the bottom of the screen. He pulled his seat belt over his torso and then pulled back onto the abandoned road to make the last miles of his journey. The trees blurred into a smear of green as he drove through the vast canyon. His headlights illuminated the long path in front of him, his window down to keep the cool air ventilating through the cabin, and tired eyes all work to help him find his way to his new home.

The digital clock read 1:32 am in obnoxiously green letters as Hanzo pulled his car into the long, non existent muddied driveway that branched from a secluded dirt road. As the vehicle shuts down and the lights dim, Hanzo overlooks the small wooden cottage that almost blends into the foliage around it, vines of Ivy grafting up the left side of the building that held a brick chimney. He yawned as he grabbed the duffel bag that sat in the front seat next to him for the entire length of his journey, deciding to get the remainder of his things tomorrow afternoon when he wakes up. His feet carried his numb body and sore back to the porch while his hand rummaged through his parsel for the house keys that accompanied the bungalow. The wooden steps creaked under his weight as he reached the leaf and pine needle covered porch and he unlocked the front door to finally see the inside of his new living space.

It held only the bare essentials, but it was still somewhat cared for. A plain, black sofa with a few matching chairs seated around a dust covered mahogany coffee table and all sat in front of a long neglected fireplace with a mantle that only held one small potted succulent. A large bay window was just off to the left, the same wall as the door, and curtains drawn over them that fail to block out the moonlight that shone in. A kitchen towards the back that held only the essentials with nothing more than a fridge, sink and gas oven where a small island acted as the barrier to a dining table that only held two chairs.

Hanzo closed the door behind him as he headed through the living area, dropping his bag on the couch as he marched by. He trudged up the short staircase and into a large open room that held a queen sized bed whose frame was made of logs, two wooden nightstands, and a small dresser that sat at the foot of the bed. Hanzo didn’t have to direct his body to do what it did next. He rapidly kicked off his shoes and jeans, before pulling back the surprisingly comfy bed sheets and his body exhaustively crashing into the mattress, his hands barely managing to drag the blankets over him before he passed out, sleep engrossing him for the first time in his new environment.

The night passed by and faded to day, and as quickly sleep grips Hanzo, he’s pulled back into consciousness seemingly just as quick.

He groaned as he’s jostled awake, daylight streaming in through the one large window that was framed by half drawn, cyan curtains. But the sun wasn’t the only thing that awoke him. The faint sound of knocking on the door downstairs had somehow penetrated Hanzo’s deep slumber. It was occasional and without much rhythm, but still an obnoxious constant. He sat up in the bed, his back stiff and tense from the constant driving, cracking when he twists his torso to help relieve the aches in his bones. His hands messed with the tangled mass of black hair that needed to be washed into a tight but ragged bun as he slowly crept towards the window to catch a glimpse of any life.

Sure enough, there was a small white truck parked outside along his Jeep, but it’s owner couldn’t be seen from this angle. He attempted to wipe the last remnants of exhaustion from his face as he threw on the pants he had worn last night so that he was decent when he finally met this mysterious welcoming party. His feet almost stumbled down the stairs as he came to finally answer the door.

Facing him was a blonde haired woman who wore comfy looking outside wear, a maroon V-neck, open collar shirt and a pair of shorts, her hand hovering in the air as if she was about to knock once more. For a moment she looks surprised, caught off guard assuming that she wouldn’t get an answer. She gives Hanzo one quick glance before offering a sweet smile to the new comer.

“Good Afternoon!” she greeted in a chipper tone. Hanzo was caught off guard for a moment by his own sleeping in. He’d never once in his life slept past nine am.

“Sorry for disturbing you, truly. I just saw you come in last night and i had to see who bought this old cottage,” She said in a thick Swiss accent, her hand running over the wood frame of the door. “My name is Angela Ziegler, I run the clinic in town. It’s always a pleasure to see a new face in town,” she greeted, her other hand extending to shake the muscular man in front of her.

“Shimada, Hanzo. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ms. Ziegler,” Hanzo replied as he shook the other’s hand out of courtesy. Her grip is like a bear trap, strong and surprisingly so. He hadn’t expected it from a woman with such a small frame. She almost sneered at him, but a smile still adorned her lips.

“Now, Mr. Shimada, I did not go to six years of Med school to simply be a ‘Miss’,” She said with a small chortle. “I’ll let it slide this once, but I hope to be called Doctor in the future, alright?” Hanzo smiles a small bit before nodding and retracting his hand that now made its home in his jean pocket. “Of course, Doctor Ziegler. It won’t happen again,” he apologizes.

The Doctor looked over the expanse of the house, taking a few steps back on the porch to view it all, Hanzo even stepping out to see if she had found something he hadn’t. She looked over the cottage with a gentle fondness, as if happy that it was being inhabited now.

“You better thank Satya for getting this house ready for you, i haven’t seen her work that hard since the new residential street went up in town,” she said, her hands on her hips. Hanzo had remembered that the house was going to be cleaned up for his arrival, after all, this residence hadn’t been lived in since the early part of the decade. Ms. Vaswani was the one that had sent him the keys in the first place. And beside the lack of decorations and the use of minimal furniture, Hanzo can’t deny that it was all neat and comfy in it’s own way. He made a mental note to send a thank you note or walk in to personally thank her when he was settled.

Hanzo’s shoulders sank for a moment at the thought of unpacking even the few things he had brought with him. He looked back at the Jeep that held his belongings, and almost shuddered at having to drag all his belongings inside and sorting through them seemed somehow worse. Angela’s gaze joined Hanzo’s, examining the Jeep and knowing exactly what he was dreading. Her hand’s clapped together to knock them both out the shared gaze, before she started to make her way off the porch.

“Well, Mr. Shimada, as much as i’d love to stay and help, I should really get back to my clinic. Have to be there in case someone gets mauled by a bear or something,” she chuckled out in a charming excuse to get herself out of helping him unpack. Hanzo rolled his eyes at her jokes as she made her way back to her truck. Her hand already pulling the door open and her foot lifting her on the step. But over the hood she could peer a hint of red just past the tree line that connected to the dirt road, and the sound of a roaring engine echoed through the small patch of forest.

Hanzo had to take a few more steps off his porch, but never stepping onto the jagged ground without shoes, cautious to not get anything caught in the joints in his prosthetic. He stands on the balls of his feet to try and catch a glimpse of this mysterious vehicle that carried with it a monstrous roar. Angela’s hand waved at something that was just out of his site, and almost in an instant, a red blur flashed just past his driveway. His eyes were too slow to comprehend any detail about what had just passed them, but the noise didn’t dissipate. In fact, it seemed to be coming back, and from the way Angela’s head turned to see where it went as well as her hand still waving, it was all evident that he may get a chance to fully see what had just flashed by.

The roaring finally revealed itself, belonging to a bright cardinal red motorcycle that gleamed in the bright afternoon sun. It had a logo that had been jaded by time painted in white on the side of the tank, but from where he stood, Hanzo couldn’t make out exactly what it said. But the bike wasn’t alone. Atop it was a tall, built man with dark skin and an obnoxiously red serepe around his shoulders. As the bike shut down he swung his leg over the bike so that he may stand at full stature. This man was full cowboy, chaps, jeans, boots with a dusty hat placed atop his head with brunette, neck length hair that was wind swept and tangled with a wild beard to miss.

“Jesse, you aren't supposed to make U-turns on these roads,” Angela scolds while hopping off the step of her truck. She walks over to him with her hands on her hips, but gets repaid with a warm chuckle.

“Couldn't help myself, Doc. I just had to see who bought this little ol’ cabin,” this curious visitor said with a voice laced with the most stereotypical country drawl that Hanzo had ever heard.

Angela’s hand motioned towards the porch where Hanzo was standing, and Jesse’s gaze met his in an instant. Even from yards away, he could see that the cowboys eyes were a dark, charmingly warm brown that seemed to introduce Jesse for him. The spurs on the heels of his boots jingled as he waltz forwards to formally meet Hanzo face to face.

“Jesse McCree, nice to meet ya,” He said with an extended steel hand. Hanzo responded by shaking it in a firm grip similar to Angela’s before him.

“Hanzo Shimada. A pleasure,” the stoic man greeted. His eyes shifted to the bike once more, just for a glimpse before they joined back with Jesse’s. “I hope you are courteous when you go about riding that,” He says in a deadpan tone. As rude as it may have come off, the taller man’s smile turned to a smirk.

“No need to worry, I only ride it when I want to piss people off,” he retorted, his metallic forearm tipping the brim of his hat up just a tad. Hanzo’s arms crossed and his weight shifted to one leg, making his shorter than he already was, a small shit eating grin on his face. Jesse let out a low chuckle that came from deep in his chest before looking back at the bike.

“Don’t fret, I only ride during the day, if that’s what you’re worried about,” He answered sincerely. “Won’t ever have to worry about me wakin’ you up from your beauty sleep,” he teased with a small chuckle.

The small doctor stepped in for a moment, her hands on her hips, and giving a reassuring smile to Hanzo.

“Mr. Shimada, I can guarantee if you need anything, Jesse is always happy to help,” she said in an almost suggestive tone. Hanzo knew what she was doing, hoping to force McCree to help unpack as she make her escape. Jesse side eyed her with one of his bushy eyebrows raised before peeking into the barren house through the door that was left open behind Hanzo. Angela nudged McCree’s arm with her own before speaking once more. “I’m sure he’d be glad to help you settle in, if you need it,” she coyly said as she took slow steps back.

They watched her as she made a poor attempt of being subtle before Hanzo finally asked formally. “Jesse, would you mind helping me unpack?” Jesse took off his hat and bowed in an exaggerated fashion just for Angela to see.

“Hanzo, it would be my unforced and own willed pleasure,” He answered a tone of regality and boisterousness. The pair shared a laugh as Angela quickly returned to her truck and fly the coop before she was put to work. Jesse stood straight and placed his hat back over the mess of hair on his head and looked back at Hanzo. “Love Angela, great gal. But good lord does she hate heavy lifting,” Jesse gossips a bit with his thumbs looping in the belt loops of his pants.

Hanzo rushes in for a few short moments to grab his shoes before he joins the cowboy again, who’s serepe was folded over the leather seat of the motorcycle so that he may work without having to fiddle with it. Hanzo opens the door to the back seat so that they may get to removing the surprising amount of parcels and boxes that had made the trek with Hanzo all the way here. Jesse stacked some boxes high and began to carry them towards the abode while Hanzo carried a few bags. It took multiple trips before everything was placed in or near the living room ready to be reopened and assorted.

“Thank you, Jesse,” Hanzo said appreciatively. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and fixed his hair from where it had fallen out of its tight ponytail. Jesse rested his hands on his hips as he overlooked their work. “You’re welcome, it’s what a neighbors for,” he reassured.

Hanzo turned his head back to look at the cowboy. “Neighbor?” he inquired.

“Well, sorta. Live quite a few miles down but yeah, neighbor,” McCree replied, his hand gesturing back towards the road and back from once he came almost an hour before. “I own the small ranch at the end of the road. You ever wanna come up, you’re more than welcome,” Jesse invited.

“I may once I’m comfortable,” Hanzo says, dreading the second half of this process. He lets a small groan of disdain leave his lips as he turns to Jesse to thank him one more time. Jesse tips his hat in a polite manner. “Godspeed, Hanzo Shimada. Godspeed,” he says as McCree finally takes his leave. Hanzo replaces his position in the door frame and waves the other off, the engine erupting to life once more and then following the dirt trail that he intended to travel earlier.

Hanzo closes the door once he could no longer see his neighbor or his incredibly loud coloured bike. His eyes dragged over the work that awaited him and he felt his muscles physically tense. He kicked off his shoes once more, walking towards a small room besides the staircase while taking off his shirt and pants.

Before he started, he desperately needed to do one thing he hadn’t done for far too many days.

Shower.

#mchanzo #mchanzo fanfiction #overwatch #jesse mccree #hanzo shimada #angela ziegler #my writing #slow burn #au #aka #an excuse to write about mccree and his motercycle

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iluvtv · 6 years ago

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“I Sleep in a Bed but I’m Homeless” and other contradictions in terms

Last month Donald Glover curated a media moment. He hosted Saturday Night Live while his alter ego Childish Gambino simultaneously appeared as the musical guest. All the while (to much social media fanfare) he dropped a music video chock full of divisive commentary on racism in America. In my opinion this wonderfully creative and crucial social commentary rattled the masses far more than I think they should have. I'm startled by the possibility that one could "be here now” and still be surprised that This is America.

Point being though, that during a spring weekend’s naughtiest hours in 2018 Glover did what he did best — worked. And in doing so his art (as it is wont to do) challenged us. In just a little over and hour this legendary genius gave us everything he has to offer. He made us laugh, taught us something and kept up his now signature cocky air. Reaffirming that while he will provide his brilliance for us to share and learn from it is not exactly for us.

In an incredible New Yorker interview by the fabulous Tad Friend earlier this year Glover explains; “If ‘Atlanta’ was made just for black people, it would be a very different show. But I can’t even begin to tell you how, because blackness is always seen through a lens of whiteness—the lens of what white people can profit from at that moment. That hasn’t changed through slavery and Jim Crow and civil-rights marches and housing laws and ‘We’ll shoot you.’ Whiteness is equally liquid, but you get to decide your narrative.” For the moment, he suggested, white America likes seeing itself through a black lens. “Right now, black is up, and so white America is looking to us to know what’s funny.”

But before we go that deep, early in that SNL episode there was his monologue. Through this caricature of himself Glover pokes fun at the man he presents in this interview. By claiming there is "nothing he can't do" while failing at everything, subsequently puking into a clarinet and repeatedly bringing up his rejection from SNL many careers ago, he delivers audiences a humbler version of himself. This is notable because even if the farce is egotistical what he's actually playing is failure. Was this by a cast writer's design to mock his arrogance or did he write every word himself?

Neither would surprise me. After greedily consuming Atlanta’s first season (Hulu why must you wait so long to give me new FX seasons?) and then studying the media image Glover presents I see he is his own anomaly.

Confident, worried, scared, brave, untouchable and sensitive. Through his thoughtful creativity he has (for the most part) been given permission to be whomever he wants.

We all will agreeably, eagerly (and even gluttonously) accept all of it.

He didn’t always believe this would be possible. When he first pitched Atlanta he was certain this wouldn’t be the case at all but FX surprised him. In the New Yorker interview the producers explain:

“The parts that you’re worried we’re going to think are too weird—lean into those.”

From its onset I suppose Atlanta can be read as sad. A sort of devastating drama on race and poverty and violence. And while this is clearly a trap story there is an almost inexplicable, deep seeded sense of satire that feels both simultaneously impossible to pinpoint or ignore.

In imagery and experiences (which more often than not trend more towards metaphors than reality) Atlanta challenges me. I just can’t get enough but I also can't help but feel like most of the time I don't totally get it. And this is just the tip of the iceberg in the long series of anomalies which like Glover himself comprise Atlanta. At the end of the day am I just too white, slightly too old (and more to the point un -hip) or was this confusion just the purpose?

FX Chief John Landgraf explains to the New Yorker, “Donald and his collaborators are making an existential comedy about the African-American experience, and they are not translating it for white audiences.”

There is a consistent underlying dichotomy in all of Atlanta's odd stories and part of it I suppose is an assumed understanding between the white coastal viewer and Glover that we are only partially in on the joke.

Presenting this dichotomy, Atlanta begins introducing Earn (Glover) and Van’s (Zazzie Beetz) relationship which while terribly charming is equal parts fleeting. Seconds into a relaxed and loving scenes their relationship just as quickly turns contentious.

We watch this pattern repeat again and again.

The pilot episode continues in this vein introducing relationship dynamics before revealing a storyline or history.

We meet Earn’s fed up parents. Friendly enough but annoyed that their adult son is always asking for money, oh and also that he doesn't flush.

Earn: "That wasn't me."

Mom: "That was you. I checked. You better start eating some real food and not all these candies and cookies..."

We are introduced to my favorite character, Darius (Lakeith Stanfield) wearing only an apron while baking cookies. He also has guns and a butcher knife.

We witness the first of many racial power dynamics as Earn takes his cousin Alfred’s (Brian Tyree Henry) tape to a white DJ “buddy”, hoping if he can get Al’s alter ego Paperboi radio time he'll be able to convince his cousin to give him work representing Paperboi. It is here we see some dumb white kid front as though he is "hard" using language he would never use in front of any black man he found intimidating. Because Earn is not intimidating. In the face of this obnoxious DJ Earn is unassuming, friendly and essentially desperate all the while ignoring the terrible behavior of a stereotypical white millennial’s crude attempt to impress his "nigga" while completely refusing to throw Earn a bone by spinning Paperboi's first single. It is noteworthy throughout this season just how child like un-intimidting the character Glover has created for himself is.

Later when Earn manipulates things in his own favor he asks an older black janitor if this rude white DJ has ever said "nigga" in front of him.

The janitor is stunned by the very thought!

But this is who Earn is. Friend describes it as such: “Atlanta” broke rules that most viewers hadn’t quite realized were rules. In comedies, jokes are underlined by closeups, but Atlanta’s camera stayed aloof, serving not as an exclamation point but as a neutral bystander. The characters didn’t have histrionic reactions to the problem of the week; they just gave up a little more. Earn was an antihero, as is now customary, but, unlike Don Draper or Walter White or Olivia Pope, he wasn’t an expert in anything. He wasn’t a great manager or a great part-time boyfriend or, for that matter, a particularly promising human being. Curiously boyish in shorts and a backpack, he wasn’t even active, the minimal standard for television characters. He didn’t seem to do or want anything. He just watched and flinched and got yelled at to grow up.”

The episode ends with the show's first of many very obvious forays into existential surrealism. The way Atlanta plays with fantasy is very fresh and new and brave and often completely impossible to fully comprehend forcing me to wonder why I only took a handful of philosophy courses in college?

But aren’t those courses just an antidote of the privileged white youth’s confusion?

That and marijuaina.

Again, Friend addresses this discussing Glover's complete willingness to fail where other black television revolutionaries are wary.

“This sensibility is singular yet recognizable. Just as John Cheever’s epiphanies and apologias were stamped by drink and Paul Bowles’s hallucinatory quietude by hashish, so “Atlanta” ’s vibe is molded by weed. There’s a goofiness to the action, a dreamy awareness that reality is untrustworthy right now, but hold up, try this edible. Recognizing that quality, Lakeith Stanfield told me, “I decided to play Darius as a high version of myself. And now he’s become all the fantastical elements of Atlanta condensed into one person—this gateway to Freakville.”

Half way through the pilot we find Earn on a bus with his sleeping daughter opening up to a well dressed black man in a suit about feeling like a loser. "Am I just there to make things easier for winners?” he asks.

The man sits listening patiently on this bus seat, all the while making a Nutella sandwich. "Just a symptom of the way things are," he explains to Earn "actual victor belongs to those who simply do not seek failure."

He forces a bite of his chocolate bus sandwich on Earn and then just as quickly disappears, only the tub of Nutella remains.

And abruptly the episode closes where it began, realizing the reason why the first scene was so confusing is only because it was actually the end. None of these characters were lying or being intentionally evasive, rather the drama which opened Atlanta had not yet ensued. And while it is still rather unclear, on some level even the whitest and most sheltered kids (those who can comfortably say the N word around very specific audiences) understand this rhetoric just enough and those who grew up in the trap world of Atlanta could probably write their philosophy dissertations on the scene.

As an audience we continue to ride out their drama into episode two. Conveniently, the coinciding moments of Alfred's arrest and his radio debut have vaulted him to instant fame all while housed in the relatively newsless space of jail.

When Darius comes to bail him out even the cops ask if they can pose for selfies with Paperboi. A beautiful moment of social commentary on race, class and most importantly fame.

Meanwhile, not-famous and mostly useless Earn stays stuck in jail which lends itself to one of the saddest satirical series of scenes I have ever seen. Think Orange Is The New Black but really, really funny or maybe really, really miserable and also just so exactly where any of us (even the more privileged white girls) might end up for a few hours after a really, really bad night.

Fortunately I never have but I will take Atlanta at it's (sur)real(ist) word.

When Earn is told by the guard he cannot sleep he is baffled.

“Everyone sleeps."

To which he is told, "If you wanted to sleep you should have thought about that before you came to jail."

This dysfunction is further magnified by the token insane guy who apparently gets locked up on a near weekly basis. While his absolutely pathological behavior at first prompts laughs from the rest of the men waiting in lock-down they also all just sit there and quietly watch as the guards kick his ass and drag him off to solitary.

To the repeat offenders this is normal behavior.

Earn, like myself seems less comfortable with this violence.

Meanwhile, Alfred due to newfound Paperboi fame is suffering his own violent satire.

On a walk through his projects he sees a kid with a toy gun shooting at his friends. They are playing a game of pretend in which the male child is Paperboi.

Alferd observes this. The kid, through clear admiration of his alter ego pretends to shoot down his little girlfriend. She feigns death just as the children's mother comes out to yell at the children, asserting to these small black bodies that they should "just say no to guns"

Overwhelmed, and clearly experiencing a myriad of emotions from the last 24 hours Al approaches the family and argues to the children that "shooting people ain't cool." At first the mother is stand-offish and annoyed at his presence but once he admits he is the very same rapper whom they are make-believing about the mood shifts. Instantaneous hilarity ensues as she is suddenly very interested in this infamous man. Momma comes on hard posing Al with the family for photographs. She is genuine comic relief "now one with my head on yo chest," she says as she snuggles in. And even Al who was out for a walk to escape the fresh madness his single has suddenly created seems calmed -- his comfort level with being viewed as violent has shifted now that it is getting him some pussy.

Likewise, the mother is now completely comfortable with the children playing “guns”, clearly sending the message that fame and more specifically hip-hop fame excuses violence.

This hypocrisy so clearly mirrors that of the prison guards from earlier and sadly represents America’s reality. If everyone from the single Mothers in the ghetto to the police are down with rappers using guns it must be OK, right? And folks were even remotely shocked by Gambino’s music video which debuted nearly two years later?!

The episode closes when Van finally bails Earn out of jail. It is unsurprising really that it is left on the woman to pull through and protect the men. I find that this aspect of American reality is more often acknowledged in African American and other ethnic popular culture than in white. This is too bad really, as it is a remarkable reality which women are tremendously under-appreciated for. I too have bailed a boyfriend out of jail. I watched him walk out of the police station arms in the air, proud of his day. He also never came with me to Salinas to collect the title of my car which I lost to the county in the bail process (its a complicated when you are only 21 and haven't owned anything or held a job for longer than 2 years).

Appropriately, the credits run to Bill Withers' "Grandma's Hands," subtly noting the importance of the matriarch through a beautiful song. This also solidifies Atlanta's role as one of the best television soundtracks I (the generally music ignoramous) have ever bothered to notice.

As the audience grows more comfortable with the odd (yet perfect) stylings of Atlanta we venture into episode three armed and ready to address poverty as it pertains to immaturity. In real life Donald Glover and I are the same age but somehow he plays Earn much younger. Pop Culture Happy Hour Pod Cast discussed this episode at length, pointing out that the pathetic date Earn organizes to impress Van is actually just a very young man's attempt at romance. They argue that this scene would likely play out quite differently for the couple ten years later. Then again, Glover himself might come back at this this theory; pointing out the story he is trying to represent here is "the trap" and the assumption that the only thing which keeps Earn so completely suffocated by an up-selling, self-serving waiter is time is just a white, educated NPR audience being only marginally clear on the concept. I can see both sides to this particular coin while (as a white, educated NPR listener) also continuing to ascertain that Earn's overall behavior reminds me more of my 20 year old sister’s than my clique of 30-somethings (whom I consider millennials only due to some made-up falsehood of a technicality -- we are very clearly The Oregon Trail Generation).

Anyhow, this frozen-in-time youthfulness (as a means to escape poverty while actually perpetuating it) is already well established in our protagonist and immediately reinforced as the episode itself opens with him ordering a kid's meal at a fast food joint. No dice:

“I Didn’t get title of daytime manager by passing out discounts," the proud black girl behind the counter explains.

He begs for a water cup instead and settles on stealing diet coke from the fountain -- eyeing the hispanic janitor with a daring glance. He walks away in his short shorts in the rain and backpack, emphasizing either his pathetic-ness-- or just child-ness.

And as I so often did 14 years ago in the middle of the day he heads to Alfred's where they smoke blunts and play video games.

OK I didn’t play video games but my productivity level was essentially on par.

And somehow while reliving our own boring youths through this mundane existence of an ordinary day audiences are still terribly entertained.

Darius, our scene stealing, wonderful guru of a roommate irons in his bathrobe, pulling a gun out of a cereal box. "Just so you guy's know there's probably a bullet in here somewhere, “ he warns.

A drug selling story arc evolves between Alfred and Darius which in a more mature moment Earn is wary of due in large part to his cousin’s new-found notoriety (but how else are they supposed to make money?) however, because I am a white girl and the drug story in this episode just gets so fucking dark and also I can only bombard you with so much information I will instead focus in on the terrible date which Earn attempts in hopes to assuage Van's whining about his irresponsible behavior.

No dice

She's wary from the get. Even tries to refuse his invite at first but he begs:

“Can I at least buy you dinner and watch from the other side of the room? I can even get one of those corny ass dudes you like to eat it with you.”

He continues, mocking the guys she likes by mimicking her (always a good strategy when you’re trying to prove you are the preferred choice): “‘I love your energy. Your dreads are in a bun’ “

The two accuse each other of being their own worst black stereotypes.

“I’m in a bed but I’m technically homeless and love it,” she mocks back.

They giggle. Something about their terribly unromantic connection is just so terribly romantic. Or maybe I just really, really like when guys make fun of me?

There's a brief scene involving the gun between Darius and Alfred where Darius solidifies himself as my favorite character, absolutely proving unequivocally that the most simple men are also the wisest. He explains to Alfred that his “assumed perversion of the word daddy stems from his own fear of mortality.” sheer and idiotic genius. An utterly true and hilarious savant.

Meanwhile, the date Earn has finagled is not going according to plan. WIth only $63 in his bank account and promises of a decent happy-hour dashed he is just in a hipster restaurant in a bad neighborhood, springing for a valet, with a date who is luxuriously lapping us each and every ploy from their server to raise their check.

When Earn, trying to lower their overall bill in spite of Van's pricey picks asks for a "Miller High Life in a can," the waitress responds,"ooo we've got a hipster!"

Yes, us educated, white NPR listeners sure as fuck did try to appropriate poverty through the hipster movement, didn’t we?

You can get a $17 trotter hot dog at the bar around the way from my house.

Likewise, Darius and Alfred's drug deal has also gone all wrong. They have been led to the middle of nowhere only to find a gang of black men with chains, drinking Hennessy and hanging out in front of a luxury camper van chilling around a campfire. Here the woods are a stark juxtaposition from their familiar life in the projects and yet the forrest is surprisingly more menacing. Nothing safe about unfamiliarity -- particularly when guns are in the mix. However, even with a tied up guy crying in the corner there is this unshakable element of satire, ever present yet so difficult to explain or maybe even understand. An impending doom of hilarity is the omnipresent mark of all Atlanta scenes.

But just as the episode grows darker and all of our protagonists’ immaturity increasingly complicates their situations the resourcefulness these young men have learned growing up without means also manages to save them.

At the end of the day nobody wins -- and the best laugh is when the homeless guy working as the restaurant’s (off market) valet runs into the fancy restaurant to warn a random white man in an expensive suit that his car is being towed prompting the two polar-opposite gentlemen to race outside in excited collusion. This sudden impromptu camaraderie is just a downright hilarious aside.

But in a true test to it’s sitcom roots, Atlanta holds to the rule that come episode four nothing much is really permissible to change so in spite of tremendous havoc nobody really loses. At the end of the day Earn solves the problem of the expensive date by reporting his debit card stolen and Darius and Alfred don't die.

Maybe even the homeless valet got a tip.

In both a sitcom’s writers room and in the trap, everybody's just trying to survive.

The following episode The Streisand Effect continues this exploration of survival. We peer through the lens into fame and notoriety wondering if success built through any means necessary, driven by the sheer desire to survive can ever really be deemed ethical.

Oddly, the querry reminds me of one tackled by a completely socially unconscious show — the Friend’s episode where Phoebe and Joey argue the existence of truly selfless good deeds in The one where Phoebe hates PBS.

The Streisand Effect centers a similar debate through a racially ambiguous asshole internet "celebrity" (aka troll) who causes an all out twitter feud (which Alfred brings to real life). Meanwhile an interesting story line between Darius and Earn play out as the two explore what one’s existence means when you are truly just surviving pay check to pay check.

There are other episodes I love more and will focus more energy into analyzing but here are a few of the very best, most stand-out lines:

Old bartender: "Guy was Smoking a swisher with no weed. He gave me the creeps."

Darius: "Chinese people short because of Genghis Kahn, look it up!" Earn: "In what? The racism book?"

The aforementioned troll (Zan) to Alfred (who is accusing his internet game of being pretty fucked up): "All a gang, we all just hustling"

Alfred: "I have to rap, I'm making the most of a bad situation." Zan: "You’re exploiting your situation. All of us are exploiting to make money"(hilarious scene ensues with Zan filming a paid child to spout filthy rhymes and deliver pizzas).

And if you are interested, this moment is discussed in greater depth on Fresh Air where, Brian Tyree Henry explains what this trap means to him.

We close with Earn teaching Darius that poor people don't have time for investments they need to eat today. This is a poignant moment where their friendship is solidified, poverty is explored and human nature vs. exploitation is left undecided.

Personally, I tend to agree with both Alfred and Zan’s views of exploitation though admittedly Alfred’s actions are certainly carried with far more integrity.

If you are particularly dense but have made it all the way to episode five, Nobody Beats the Biebs, you will no longer be able to ignore the absurdist tactics this show is employing to fuck with our perceptions of race, appropriation, stereotypes and popular music culture.

The episode takes place mainly within a high school gym at a celebrity basketball fundraiser for Atlanta’s Youth. Paperboi has been invited to participate in the charity game and Earn of course attends as “representation”. Noticing a gorgeous successful news anchor there to cover the event, Alfred ditches Earn and sets off to pursue a date (or at the very least an on-air interview). She immediately staves off both advances, letting him know that she knows him as “the guy who shot someone.” He insists that isn't really who he is and invites her to get to know the real him, "I'll let you interview me someplace real fly like Bennihana," he offers to which she retorts that she and her fan base aren't into the “gangster thing”, and blows him off fairly easily as the commotion of "Justin Bieber's" arrival has distracted the masses.

At first I assumed that Justin Bieber was one of the white guys in this entourage but as a feud ensues between Alfred and JB you realize that in the fantastical world Glover has created Bieber is in fact just black. Or at least appears that way to us. After watching the whole episode I can't definitively pinpoint why Glover created this racial fluidity. Was it a point about racial appropriation, common perceptions and stereotypes? Or was he just trying to fuck with his audiences? I can only assume that most of Glover’s surrealist style is designed to achieve all of the above (and more). Anyway, this Bieber who may be just as black in appearance as Paperboi, is definitely not just one in the same. Other than his outward appearance the Bieber Fever is the same douchey, successful, unapologetic and handsome man I assume him to be in real life (admittedly I know zero about Justin). In Glover’s world though he can pee on the floor in front of everyone and the general opinion of him is not even slightly affected. He is the Golden Boy pervious to social optics and to him (much like to the pretty newsgirl) Paperboi is "a nigga who blew other niggas brains out…” although he adds the operative “cool!" to the end of this statement. As the episode develops Alfred's hatred towards this pop sensation grows and they wage war on the court. Afterward Bieber offers a press conference full of "sincere" apologies for the fight. All really just a marketing ploy for his new song called "Justice," (a title with more irony than I care to unpack here).

Meanwhile, Earn and Darius are also confronted by stereotypes and racial profiling.

Earn encounters a successful music agent who mistakes him for a different black man whom she believes destroyed her career. In an attempt to seek revenge on this man she at first is very kind. She invites Earn into an elite circle of producers it is all very posh and excellent for networking and Earn laps it up, happy to play along with her confusion as long as this woman’s racism serves his needs. The rewards are seemingly high enough that Earn can turn a blind eye, joining a very specific brand of self loathing by embracing the fact that he is participating in one of the most frustrating and oldest stereotypes out there: "all you people look the same.” It isn't until she accuses him of undercutting her and pledges to ruin him that he tells her he is not in fact Alonzo to which she retorts. "I'm going to make sure you die homeless." He certainly seems to be on this path.

Darius' day is equally bizarre and yet also totally conceivable. His storyline is so unique I can't help but marvel over where the inspiration came from. It seems safe to assume it must be rooted in someone’s real life experience. Perhaps a news story that was mostly overlooked? I digress, he paints a dog (which it seems worth noting that in addition to being quite the homemaker Darius is a talented artist and his room is full of these supplies). Darius rolls up his painting and goes to the shooting range where he uses his art for target practice. Harmless enough, right? Not quite, a collective panic ensues. A white man calls Darius “psycho for shooting a dog” and tells him he has to leave, to which Darius explains that “a human target is just as specific as shooting a dog.” Which just seems pretty accurate to me. A Mexican guy joins in the bickering, he points out to the white guy that he shoots at Mexican targets. Stating more truth spurs further anger and an uprising is vowed. Darius tries to explain that dogs in his ‘hood are “fucked up (not cuddly pets)” but the range’s manager interrupts the men’s arguing with a shot gun,

“I told you rules before you got here ain’t gunna let you start no shit” he leads out a very patient Darius.

This scene is so fucked up. Its rhetoric on arbitrary rules and categories is so important while remaining on brand with the show’s satirical edge. It magnifies the fact that the laws of a black man with a gun are so, so different than that of a white man with a gun takes a very different and slightly less sinister spin on the all too familiar police shooting unarmed black men storyline. We also get a close look at how Darius is observed and judged. A recurring theme of Atlanta is the simultaneous invisibility and hyper-visibility of the impoverished and minorities.

The episode ends with Black Bieber's aforementioned ”sincere" apology, explaining he's been trying to be too cool lately which has lead to hanging with the wrong crowd. He offers his new-found commitment to christ and uses autotune to premier his new song, Justice. In the back of the crowd, frustrated and over it Alfred returns to his day’s start and gives picking up the anchor another go. She returns with the lesson we’ve witnessed all of our protagonists scrambling to learn for the past 30 minutes” “let me give you some advice, play your part. People don’t want Justin to be asshole they want you to be asshole. You’re the rapper. That’s your job”

So, in sum this episode features….

Black man kicked out of shooting range

Black man mistaken for other black man

Black rapper unable to escape media’s perceptions of murderer in spite of being recognized as an “Atlanta Celebrity”.

All the while a rich white musician is able to chameleon himself into an infallible black superstar for a bit of extra street cred.

There is a lot to dissect here, but I’ll let an ethnic studies course can take it from here...

Episode 6, aptly titled Value is the first one to really feature Van's story and give women a voice. I was immediately interested to see if a woman took the reigns in the writer's room on this one because even the tone is so different.It didn’t take much digging to find this from Joshua Alston over at the A.V. Club.

“Glover started off strong before a single frame was shot by bringing in staff writer Stefani Robinson to assist on the script, the first to give a writing credit to someone whose last name isn’t Glover. It seems like a little thing, but it makes such a huge difference to know that someone with insights about how black women communicate contributed to an episode that mostly consists of black women communicating and miscommunicating.”

It feels easy to proclaim that the tone employed in Value lacks the humorist sensibilities applied to other episodes but I have to wonder if that’s an oversimplification. Perhaps I just found Van's story so horribly relatable (she seems to have the same dumb (re:bad) luck as myself and the series of unfortunate events which befall her here may just feel less satirical when you’ve felt the hardships yourself? Maybe a black man from the trap in Atlanta wouldn't find other episodes this season as funny as I did? Maybe I'm being sensitive? (Though that doesn't really sound like me to be honest). Or, maybe while very, very good this episode just wasn't meant to punch the gut in the same manner a jokey man-centric 30 minutes does. Maybe Glover isn’t ready to tackle female satire. I'm not sure and it seems like all these assumptions could get me in trouble so in the interest of not putting my foot in my mouth (or pulling a Van) I’ll move on....

This episode centers around the drama which ensues when Van's old friend comes into town. Actually, in this case (as is often true with childhood girlfriends) frenemy is a better term. This gal-pal plays companion to NBA players which subsequently allows her to lead a very posh lifestyle. She is baffled by Van's far more humble life and makes her judgements very clear by stating straight off the bat the following three rather insensitive points:

“Sometimes I wish I had a kid and then I'm like ew, no." (preach sista!)

“Back in the day you would have made fun of yourself for still fucking with Earn.”

and

“Black women have to be valuable. NBA players fuck with me because I provide a service. I am worth it. I am cultured, intelligent...."

the implications here are thick and seem to cut very deep.

Anyway, as a passive aggressive fight inevitably ensues Van's girl does eventually bribe her back into frenemy territory, insisting they make up over a joint. They hotbox the bitch’s fancy-ass car and at first seem to be reliving the good old days but as is apt to happen when you hang out with narcissists (particularly in our social media obsessed times) eventually Van finds herself being forced into snapping pic after pic of her social-climbing friend who is dead set on getting that absolute perfect insta-shot. I have zero patience for this behavior. Actually, every girl who has ever made the mistake of forcing me into this game has quickly fallen out of my good graces.

Ultimately, the mess that ensues for Van because she casually decided to hit a joint a few times with her disaster of an old friend is totally comparable to multiple series of my own disasters. Fortunately for both myself and Van (we’re similarly industrious and independent young women) we do manage to pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and move on. But, for a minute suspend your disbelief that I too could create this sort of disaster and let's discuss Van's mess:

She awakens the next morning to a cell phone reminder that today is “drug test day.” This of course prompts an insane rampage as she attempts to figure out where to get “clean urine.” When both Old Friend and Alfred fail her she realizes she has a whole garbage pail full of her baby's diapers. A true renaissance woman Van creates a complicated process to extract the pee and tapes a condom full of her daughter's urine to her own thigh. In a flowy dress she heads off to school (making it clear for the first time that she is an educator of some sort).

The storyline then takes a quick veer from the very normal baby-pee-condom situation prompted by a basketball “prostitute” to a fellow teacher who approaches Van. This woman is beyond frustrated with one of her student’s. A brief aside ensues regarding a black child who has come to school in white face to fuck with his teacher (who is so mad she begs Van to help her deal with him so she "doesn't get arrested for beating his ass,”). It is a sharp return to the previous episode’s discussion of cultural appropriation, reminding viewers how inescapable race wars are for Glover.

Van declines to help her friend, she is on a mission after all. But of course, things don’t quite go as planned. A bit of physical comic relief ensues when she can't untie the condom of pee. She tries to rip things apart with her teeth which of course results in pee spraying everywhere (except of course in the cup for urine sample).

Desperate Van just admits to the principal that she smoked weed.

This is definitely something I would do.

When you’re honest no-one can fault you, right?!

Wrong.

Dissapointed, the principal explains that the county can’t afford quarterly drug tests anyway so after the initial one required for hire the samples aren’t actually sent anywhere.

Of course.

She levels with Van, “everyone smokes weed. The system isn’t made for these kids to succeed and you gotta shake it off somehow. I get it. But unfortunately you’ve admitted your drug use to a government employee and now I have to fire you. To cover my own ass as well as the schools’”

She gives Van a hug and one weeks notice.

Defeated Van, an inexperienced druggie tries to get more weed from Alfred who tells her she's “sloppy as fuck.” Which after the day she has had is just truth.

The episode closes with the same kid still in white face smirking now in Van’s class.

Again, somehow the female battle of race and class explored in this episode feels more sad to me than the male saga we’ve seen play out thus far

The closing shot of the sinister child in white face and my own history is undoubtedly playing into my interpretation. I will admit here that I have two equally stupid stories of being fired for absolutely absurd things that make zero sense. Once for rolling a blunt by request for my boss. A swisher of marijuiana which I didn't smoke and only procured because he asked. Another time a 28 year old woman claimed I was sexually harassing her. In neither case was I truly guilty and yet somehow believed that an overcompensated apology could fix things with the higher-ups. At the end of the day though everyone is just interested in covering their own asses. Again, this probably could be presented far more satirically and at times I am able to give these stories a bitingly funny spin — but not with the regularity one might assume.I suppose what I’m getting at is I know what it's like to essentially be so inexperienced with getting in trouble that you can't tell when to just shut your goddamn mouth. I also think that this assumed guilt is such a female burden. It is a subsequent and frequently overlooked side effect of the ancient historical annals of sexism. Perhaps if we can learn anything from “mansplaining” it is to always just take the position that everyone else just doesn’t get it. But then also just keep our mouths shut.

Episode 7, B.A.N has got to be the most hilarious, perfect, wonderful episode of Glover's premier season (and pretty much of all television of all time). I feel fairly confident saying its everyone's favorite. B.A.N which stands for Black American Network is (simply put) a fictional television episode called Montague; a black spin on a Donahue-esque late night “news” show featuring Alfred as one of it’s guests. The "fake news" premise on this show delves into the complexities of identity in our touchy PC culture and is in its own right more than enough to ensure side gripping hilarity. However, it is the commercials interspersed throughout this episode that really cinch the deal.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The subject of the Montague episode, “how accepted sexuality is affecting black American Youth and Culture” features a panel made up exclusively of Paperboi and the head of “Trans Issues.” Ummmm..... really? I’m already laughing

Alfred is being called out by Montague and asked to explain a comment he made on twitter, quoted by our host as such: “y’all N words said I was weird for not wanting to F word Kaitlyn Jenner."

He is asked if this makes him transphobic? Alfred is complacent, admitting that while he gets what they're saying she (Jenner) just isn't "important to me".

The white trans expert explains Paperboi is coming from a culture of exclusion and power; the black community has issues with power and masculinity more than transphobia. She calls him out on the layer of fluidity in his raps to which he uses the same line he used in response to the challenges posed earlier by the racially ambiguous internet celebrity, Van: "I'm just trying to get paid." The ultimate premise of this show is, after all, escaping the trap life.

Cut to commercial break.

And here is the gold:

Commercial 1: Black guy in a bodega being up-charged for a can of Arizona Iced Tea. The tagline: Arizona: price is on the can.

Commercial 2: A masquerade party filled with fancy black people drinking Mickey's forty ounce bottles out of champagne flutes. Tagline? Mickey’s: You're drinking it wrong.

Yes! This appeals to all my senses. I remember when I was 19 and 40 ounces, Conan O’brien, Swisher Sweets, 7-11 sandwiches and a bit of homework were evening staples.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming:

A Montague correspondent is reporting on scene regarding a “trans-racial” black teenager (I kid you not) who self-identifies as, yes, a 35 year old white man. Ummm..... I hope you’re laughing now too.

As a black teenage boy he had always wondered why he wasn't getting the respect he deserved, "then it hit me,” he tells the reporter, “I'm 35 and I'm white."

Obviously.

We cut to scenes of our trans-racial teenage adult pretending the projects are the suburbs of Colorado.

He explains his Mom just doesn't get it. Cut to her explaining, "I'd love to wake up and say I'm Rhianna but I 'aint"

Which as a white woman I’m going on brand with the appropriation I mentioned earlier and I just have to say: “preach sista!” If I get to come back as anyone in my next life I sure as fuck hope its Rhianna. Sometimes I ask myself what would Rhi Rhi do? and then I remember to just do me.

But I digress, our teen’s response to his mother’s dismissal is to explain that they don't "realize race is just a made up thing" and he doesn't believe in labels. Unwilling to accept this “reality” he is presently working on getting (yes) racial transition surgery while also stopping trying to convince others he's not "us". Ummm....

Rather than argue he tries to show his community he is not one of them by doing incredibly stand-up white male things like turning black guys into the cops.

This episode came out years before the recent onslaught of social media documenting black people having cops called on them for doing very questionable things like sleeping in their own dorms but I still challenge you not to be laughing hysterically by this point.

As great as this storyline is though, who can complain when it's time to return to commercials?

First up a commercial break for Swisher Sweets (looks like I too was a trans-racial teenager). In the commercial all the actors are emptying the guts of their swishers to enjoy in between filming sets. Duh.

Quickly though, I want to admit that I am not doing this insanely perfect 30 minutes of remarkability justice —please watch! In the meantime though I return to Montague’s panel….

Paperboi admits to the audience he is afraid of being persecuted by the audience and does not feel comfortable speaking his mind. Our female white expert accuses him of being unable to have intelligent dialogue without spewing profanity (proving his point, of course). Montague continues by asking Al if he hates trans people because of his lack of a father.

If your head is spinning and you’re feeling ready to throw down you aren’t alone but Alfred handles the insanity with unbelievable levels of eloquence. He explains, ”It is hard for me to care about this because no one cares about me as a black man. Kaitlyn Jenner is just doing what white men have done since the dawn of time which is whatever the hell they want. Why should I care?"

He goes on to question where the tolerance is for him?

And yes, this is the crux of it.

It is far easier to speak out against intolerance when you are privileged.

The white expert agrees with his point but as is talk show nature Montague keeps egging for the drama.

All getting a little too real? No worries, we have a commercial to lighten the emotions.

Or is it just more sad truth?

First up we have a commercial reminiscent of the 1-800-psychic infomercials of my youth. A perfect example of selling an ideal to the impoverished rather than a reality, and media assumingThe poor are an easy target as they are so desperate for a solution out of poverty they can easily be taken advantage of. Sadly, gullible.

Or maybe it is me that’s sad and I just don't believe in magic-- perhaps my cynicism is the problem?

A man (I believe the same guy from the bus in episode one) is offering us “the answers we deserve.” He goes on to talk about chakras and crystals and the power to make his customers rich.

"Call now and you get a free juice and Nutella sandwich" he proclaims.

And now I'm even more in love with this episode.

Cut to a Dodge Charger commercial concerning divorce settlements which is too complex to describe but also totally accurate and finally the episode’s piece de resistance -- a fully animated Coco Cruncherz commercial with a “black Trix bunny" being beaten up by a cop because he is trying to steal the kid's sugary morning treat (which is of course just for kids). As the kids plead with the cop to stop he argues that age old tag line Coco Cruncherz is for kids -- harking again back to my youth and Saturday morning cartoon days when the innocent commercials with a rabbit stealing breakfast was not nearly as menacing (or realistic).

And just like that with a seemingly sweet cartoon we have jumped the line from dangerously sinister satire to downright sadness. Nobody wants to see a cartoon cop beat the shit out of a black cartoon bunny especially in front of a bunch of cartoon kids.

And yet its still so funny and important.

Close commercials and we circle back to our black teen dressed like a white man. Alfred can't stop laughing at him "You look like Fellon Degeneres!"

But don’t feel sorry for this misunderstood teen to soon. When the trans expert welcomes him, the kid uses his new platform to spew his own stereotypes, explaining that marriage is meant for a man and woman and men can't turn into women. So while he believes in racial fluidity he is totally close-minded to gender fluidity.

Obviously.

This episode and how it speaks to acceptance of other cultures is fantastic but the commercials and the garbage peddled to lower classes and minorities specifically is crucial. If I was an American Studies High School teacher I think I could develop an entire semester’s worth of curriculum on these 20 minutes.

Episode eight, The Club features our motley crew at a club and clearly miserable about it. As a woman whose personal anthem is George Thorogood and the Destroyers I Drink Alone I couldn't possibly find this more relatable. The only reason why Alfred, Earn and Darius are even at the club in the first place is because Paperboi is being paid for the appearance.

Since I’ve already managed to drone on for close to 10,000 words and supplied an overwhelming amount of both series and personal anecdotes, for this episode briefing I’ll do my best to just take a moment or two for a quick review of a few standout moments and trust that you, dear reader, now have obtained a certain level of Sylvie’s Mind Mastery to elaborate on the now all too predictable consensus: this episode is just as fabulously funny, sad, complicated and littered with omnipresent issues of social status as the next.

And now in side-splitting surrealist summation:

Earn on the dance floor with subtitles for his thoughts: "somebody smells like Wendy's Double Stack.

Darius showing the crew instagrams of a famous guy in the ‘hood who has a very fancy invisible car. Noteworthy: I thought Darius was just gullible at first but I clearly underestimated Glover’s dedication to metaphor. If you’re still confused by media’s dark comedy, magical realism, social commentaries on race (a new and now thanks in large part to Glover a very dominant genre) don't worry so am I.

Earn gets drunk enough to feel powerful and demand the money owed from the owner for Alfred's appearance and subsequently vomits all over him (sounds about right).

Darius has trouble getting through security after he steps out momentarily to blaze. Rather than put up too much of a fight he goes home to eat cereal and play video games (I'm pretty sure we will get married in season 3).

Alfred and Earn go to beat up the club owner for trying to rip them off (by now vomit free). After the boys finally obtain what they are rightfully owed they leave the club, at last drunk enough to be in a decent mood. While laughing and talking about getting food they are startled by gun fire. People start to run but most of the crowd is maimed anyway as a man seated seemingly on nothing floats by (in an invisible car, clearly) and mows down the crowd.

This is so complex -- Donald Glover has completely lost me and yet I am obsessively curious. What does this mean? What does it say about our culture? Did he just think it was funny? Does the invisibility represent the utter bullshit of an expensive car? It must somehow tie back to status and violence but what is he saying exactly? I’m wary to even venture a guess.

Either way, The boys escape to Waffle House for a post mortem with Darius. The men are still drunk and laughing, moods still surprisingly upbeat though if you know anything about Southern Culture the very fact that this restaurant is still serving speaks volumes of the gravity (or lack thereof) of the violent incident. Things shift toward somber though as the local news streams through in the back ground. A story reporting the incident clearly lays suspected blame on Paperboi.

"Fuck the club," says Alfred.

Indeed.

Last year Juneteenth was finally brought into the average modern white person's rhetoric through a "holiday special" for the masses from the very funny (and carefully cultivated to expand mainstream America's mind) Blackish.

Atlanta's take on the holiday is of course slightly more subversive. Certainly due to its non-network and later time slot it is more carefree and able to cater less to the masses. Nonetheless, I am certain that Atlanta’s episode managed to bring a bit of awareness even if the show -- unlike Blackish -- made zero attempts to educate the ignorant on what Juneteenth is exactly. It doesn’t matter though, because well... Wikipedia... Glover is smart to assume that his audience is woke enough to use their pricey smartphones to look up whatever they don't already know. Maybe I should learn to employ a similar tactic.

Anyway, on Juneteenth Earn leisurely wakes and bakes in some random girls' bed. When his alarm goes off he is rushed into reality, panics and dashes out. Cut to him and Van in the car where she is very unimpressed that he is stoned which plays out in a passive aggressive fight over the automatic windows in her car. Although we don't know where they are going or why, it is made quite clear that this is an important outing for Van, and that Earn is complicity playing along basically because they have a child together.

They arrive at a fancy house, with a fancy valet and a fancy black woman named Monique answers the door. "happy Juneteenth," she proclaims and then proceeds to humble brag her home "we have so many bathrooms!”

Her white husband Craig makes a grand entrance also proclaiming "happy freedom day."

This is already a very strange party.

Earn retreats for drinks which he orders from a very condescending bartender in an African print bow tie.

"Emancipation Eggnog?" asks Earn "It's June!"

To which the Bartender replies "nigga do I have to explain alliteration to you?!"

Earn takes his beverage and wanders through the looming home finding the white husband, Craig’s office does nothing to alleviate the strangeness. The room is full of black art which Craig painted based on one of his favorite Malcolm X quotes. He explains to Earn that black musical artists are a product for white American consumption and appropriation. He pours them some Hennessy and is baffled that Earn hasn't been to Africa and also does not know where exactly he is from.

Just a side note all this has inspired my own bit of spinoff commercial satire: We all know by now that gene testing companies can provide a great deal of knowledge for White Europeans but usually lack the same insight into an African person’s roots and thusly all their televised advertising features a white person drinking whiskey in the Irish pub of their forefathers or celebrating an ancestors Viking victory. I think it’s high time someone (Preferably Glover and not me because I’m clearly far busier) wrote a commercial with a black person talking about the slave ship he learned his great great grandmother was shackle on etc etc.

Anyhow, Craig employs a specific style of appropriation (seemingly bred from his own white insecurity and guilt rather than ignorance or hate) to black shame the unassuming young man he has invited to drink in his home.

Earn retreats, whispering to Van that the party feels "very eyes wide shut." (Which I myself hadn't yet noticed but once brought to the periphery realize could not be more accurate). Frustrated that Earn hasn't embraced her thing she asks him to “just once pretend that they aren't who they are so he doesn't blow this opportunity” for her.

He responds by bringing on what I’d like to classify as his very best "douche" (I know , I know, this is not the PC term) in order to impress the "very cultural" uptight, wealthy black people this party is full of.

Van seems to be binge drinking which, as is apt to happen eventually leads to a retreat for a bit of an overwhelmed bathroom cry.

Afterward she winds up outside with Monique who finally starts to reveal actual elements of her own humanity. "You don't think I know how crazy my husband is? Treating black people like a hobby?" And there it is — the thing I have been grappling with as I’ve attempted to blog this season of Atlanta over the course of a three-plus month period. At the end of the day it is safe to assume that the best I can really do is just repeat their story and really I have no shot at successful analyzation. Craig’s overwhelming analyzation is enough.

Van asks Monique if she wishes she had someone to confide in to which Monique responds with this equally telling quote. "It is redundant to be both black and sorry in the world."

With nowhere else to go they return to the party to find Craig performing a poetry slam on Jim Crow in front of his black guests’ and this is when shit hits the fan....

The party’s crew of valets find Earn and attempt to give him their sister's underwear to pass on to Paperboi (I can't even begin to understand why a brother would agree to this for his sister and I refuse to believe my ignorance is cultural). The gesture may be gross but it is relevant to this story's evolution because they have outed Earn as Paperboi’s “manager.” Monique's husband increases the awkwardness by bringing up the shooting. Oddly if memory serves this is the first time since episode two that the series opening incident has been directly referenced. Or maybe it isn't weird at all, maybe the whole point of this surreal show is nothing can be taken seriously enough to carry over to the next episode. Isn’t that the rule of thumb for sitcoms anyhow? Needless to say for the time being the fact that Earn is somebody and not the nobody Monique had assumed seems to make her quite uncomfortable to which Earn responds with spite. Fed up by a full day of clear hypocrisy he proclaims the very real observation that “this is all wack, its not real life and they are all dumb.”

Van rather emotionless attempts to drag her partner away, making it clear she knew this all along.

“Stop stunning on me about culture,” Earn shouts. “I’m not going to go back to Africa to discover my roots cuz I’m fucking broke. Stop being so black-able!”

We cut to Earn driving home. He promises Van (with eyes closed next to him) to call Monique in the morning to apologize.

Van opens her eyes demands he pull over and when he does she climbs on top of her man and starts banging him right there in the drivers' seat. In spite of it all they are young, have a baby and I think most importantly she is more attracted to his authenticity than the party's grandeur and faux behavior. The screen zooms out on the lovers in the middle of nowhere with the haunting lyrics of Chain Gang from Sam Cook and nothing seems so well earned and genuine than the freedom these two young black humans have to express their complicated love outdoors in Atlanta in June. Or maybe I'm just being romantic. So far as I know no one is actually allowed to have sex in their cars outside of their own garage.

The season finale like many episodes starts with Earn waking up in someone else’s home. While this is a recurring start I somehow missed the trend until now. Perhaps that is attributable to the fact that our finale stresses the relevance of Earn’s homelessness. In this scene he is uncomfortably situated in a bean bag chair and being chastised for fucking up whomever's house he has crashed at.

“Where's my jacket?" Earn manages to ask a few times but the homeowner is too distracted with the destruction Earn has caused. So Earn leaves and calls Alfred who also has no idea where the jacket is. This is clearly a bummer for Earn but great news on my end. The missing clothing means we have some 20 odd minutes ahead to enjoy Earn retracing the steps of a wasted night. This is a plot premise I have adored ever since Ashton Kutcher spoke to my very sensible 17-year-old- stoner- humor in Dude Where's My Car. I haven't watched the film in years and I know it gets a bad rap but I'd be hard pressed to believe that it doesn't stand the test of time. Since this is Atlanta though the surrealism is even more omnipresent than similar story arcs.

As Earn travels through his home-town (True to its name Atlanta has remained one of the most crucial characters throughout the season) he notices that everyone is dressed as cows. He asks a stranger why the costumes "Free chicken sandwich day nigga,” he’s told

Duh.

So Earn gets his sandwich and in true Dude form heads to the strip club to see if his jacket might be there. Maybe Glover was also a fan of this fine film— we are the same age after all.

A wonderfully awkward and funny scene ensues where Earn tries to describe one stripper who might have his jacket to another stripper.

Largely unsuccessful (how does one describe one generic stripper to another?) the girl is more preoccupied anyhow, her focus being on getting herself cast in a Paperboi video.

Defeated, he defers to last night’s snapchat stories to recall where he went next. Had this technology existed 15 years ago maybe the Dudes also could have found their cars in 27 minutes.

Frustrated by his snaps, Earn instead goes to chastise Alfred for his inappropriate "stories" but Al explains social media is important work. "Rappers make money on appearances" to which Earn reaffirms it is a bad idea.

Darius chimes in "That's black people's number one problem, they don't know how to have fun."

"I don't think that's our number one problem," Earn says to which I laugh out loud.

And then I laugh again just reading my notes on this episode. And then again during editing. I am proud of Earn for this comment. For the most part he tends to be slower than his buddies when it comes to off the cuff quips.

In a stalemate, Earn defers to ridesharing apps. And even though I'm pretty sure Uber does not actually work this way Alfred is able to call last night's car to try to locate Earn's jacket. Yes, this affirms it, late 90's technology or the lack there of is the only thing that made Dude realistic (to which of course I understand it still wasn't at all but... y'know....).

Alfred agrees to pay the 50 dollars the Uber driver demands for the chore but is annoyed that he is back to bailing out his cousin. They sit in the car stoned and discuss Jamaican food in a relatable way that will make any stoner smile.

Then something big finally happens for Alfred. Something that could carry over to season 2 or slide into another dream like fantasy never to be mentioned again (both viable options given the strikingly realistic and terribly fantastical world Atlanta has created). Earn gets a call from a famous rapper, Senator K, requesting Paperboi open for his upcoming tour

But before they can get too excited Alfred says "something here is off" and tries to bail. Just then an undercover van pulls the group over.

The group of black men are then patted down for seemingly no reason and asked if they are tring to purchase illegal things from the driver.

Just a jacket they claim.

A small chase scene ensues and the Uber driver is shot down.

And now there is a dead man wearing Earn's jacket.

Earn looks devastated he tells the cops he left something “in there. Can they check the pockets?”

No dice.

So Alfred tries to cheer him up, gives him a roll of cash -- his 5% on the tour deal, affirms that Earn finally “did good.”

But Earn just awkwardly walks away, defaulting to his defeated little kid look in his short shorts and his backpack. He Stops briefly to dump a rock out of his shoe and then goes to Van's and cooks a family dinner. It is a brief sweet moment, interrupted by a friend stopping by to drop off Earn's key. "I've been looking for this all day." he tells him. The proverbial “car” has been retrieved.

Finally at ease Earn and Van retreat to the couch where he gives her the roll of cash. He really does want to support her. There is another sweet moment as the two lie on the couch laughing at how bad of a drug dealer he would be and she asks him to stay but again like a kid he and his back pack leave.

There is something sweet and promising here. A rarity in this funny but often self-defeating show.

Rather than use his friends and family Earn steps out— finally on his own for the night.

He goes to a storage unit and opens it with the key he spent the day looking for. We finally see that Earn is not entirely without a home. This lonely unit with a couch is what he has and clearly why he is consistently waking in other people's spaces. He takes off his shoe, and we realize he wasn't dumping a rock at all but using his sneaker as a bank. No matter, weather shaking out a pebble or stocking cash taking his shoe off in the street earlier must have been Earn’s first sense of relief this season.

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