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generallynerdy · 6 years ago

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Our Little Secret Part 13 (Merlin & Child!Reader, Mordred X Reader)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12

Summary: Mordred is dying. Unfortunately, the only person with the potential to save him is the one who hates him most; Merlin.

Key: (Y/N) - your name

Warnings: violence, death, injuries, blood, angst, totally unnecessary depressing shit, on that note there’s probably cursing

Word Count: 2,479

Note: owo angst also CLIFFHANGERS YEET (one more part + an epilogue if someone guesses the amount of title drops in this series (please guess right it’s a fluffy one i swear))

(Y/N) had heard the shink of the axe against his skin and turned, killing the Saxon with a stab to the stomach. It was then that she saw Mordred’s bright eyes, turning back to his own rather than the green they would be under Morgana’s spell, staring up at her with a sort of deadness.

“NO!”

With swift and shaking hands, justice was dealt to the two remaining Saxons. (Y/N) kicked one against a rock, which broke his skull open. The other was knocked unconscious by the hilt of her sword, falling to the ground with a clang.

The instant they were felled, the young woman dropped to the ground beside Mordred, lifting his limp form into her arms.

Nearby, Arthur had yet to move. He had been frozen in place at the young man’s sudden charge, then even during (Y/N)’s retaliation. He took a mere few steps forward, watching the two with grief in his eyes. He looked down at his sword, almost regretting even fighting Mordred. If only he had been watching (Y/N) more carefully. If only he had taken care of her.

A stampede of footsteps began and Arthur was ready to draw his sword until four knights of Camelot rounded the corner.

“My lord--” Leon began, before he noticed the sight.

Percival exhaled sharply. “Christ...Mordred.”

They all remained at a distance, gazing helplessly at the young pair. From where they stood, Mordred looked dead as it was. However, he had yet to go completely.

“Mordred,” (Y/N) whispered, shaking him a little. When he did not respond, she lifted her head and, glancing around frantically, screamed. “MERLIN!”

It was then that the boy spluttered, choking on his own blood. “(Y/N),” he croaked.

At his voice, she snapped her face downward, a slight gasp passing by her lips. “Mordred,” she said again, cradling his head and caressing the side of his face.

She suddenly snapped into action, doing her best to rip his shattered armour off him. She almost dropped his head as she did so, her frantic hands making her entire body shake and quiver.

“MERLIN!” Again, she screamed out, her voice cracking and her throat scratched with the effort. “MERLIN!”

Mordred coughed violently. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed, blood trailing down from his lip.

“Stop, don’t-- don’t be sorry. Don’t--” (Y/N) shook her head, ignoring the tears falling from her eyes.

The young woman reached around herself and grabbed the bottom of her cloak. Most knights removed it before a battle, seeing as it was a hazard, but she had tucked it into her armour instead.

It was her most precious possession: Lancelot’s cloak.

It had multiple patches and mended rips, some in places you think couldn’t possibly be damaged while in a fight or traipsing through the woods. One in particular was on the bottom right corner and the threads were beginning to pull loose. Here, (Y/N) decided to rip the edge of the cloak.

“(Y/N), no,” Mordred wheezed, grabbing her arm to stop her. “You’ll ruin it.”

She chuckled through tears. “It’s already red.” His eyes drooped slightly and she panicked. “Mordred, Modred, stay with me. Stay with me, please. MERLIN!”

“(Y/N), I l--” He started to say feebly. He rose a hand to the base of her head, blood wiping from his hands onto her neck, though she paid it no mind. “I love you.”

A wretched cry came from the girl, even though she had tried to hold it back.

All the knights heard the boy speak and could not hide their emotion. They were fond of him, after all, which made (Y/N)’s reaction all the more painful. Percival was the most obviously hurt of the group, choking back sobs. Gwaine was a close second, sniffing and wiping at his face. Elyan shook where he stood and Leon was frozen, unable to avert his gaze.

They felt like they had failed. They all felt like they failed Mordred and (Y/N).

Arthur, on the other hand, felt the worst. He struck his sword into the ground and took a cautious step forward. “(Y/N), maybe I could--”

He hadn’t made another move before the young woman’s head snapped up to look at him. Her eyes glowed an unnatural yellow and she flung out her hand threateningly.

“Don’t touch him!” She screamed, her voice distorted.

Her gaze was back on Mordred in an instant, but the knights were left silent.

“Was-- was that--?” Elyan whispered.

Arthur looked defeated, destroyed, betrayed. “Magic.”

“Oh, (Y/N),” Mordred muttered through a sob. “Why-- why would you do that? Why did you--?”

She shook her head. “I won’t let you die. I have to do something. There has to be something--”

From there, she tried every spell she knew as blood seeped from the long cut. Her spells lessened the bleeding and began to heal his skin somewhat, but it was an enormous gash and she feared it wasn’t enough. (Y/N) had almost given up when footsteps sounded and she looked up.

Before her was an old man in red robes, using a staff to walk. (Y/N) recognised him in an instant.

“Please,” she begged with a raspy voice. “You have to save him.”

He looked down at her with doubt in his bright eyes, glancing between the two of them and the other knights, who all looked appalled. The sorcerer had a sinking feeling.

“He saved me!” (Y/N) sobbed. “He broke the spell and he saved me, Merlin, please!”

Merlin inhaled deeply and, after a moment of consideration, knelt beside the two. (Y/N) almost cried more in relief, but not all was well just yet.

He took one look at Mordred’s wound and grimaced.

“What?” (Y/N) asked frantically. “What is it?”

“None of the spells I know can heal a wound like this,” he muttered.

Her face fell. “No, no, you have to do something. There has to be something you can do, anything--”

“There’s one,” Merlin interrupted, “But I need a live volunteer.”

“I’ll do it.”

She was met with instant protests from a drowsy Mordred and a firm Merlin. “No, no, no,” Mordred slurred. “Please--”

“I won’t do that,” Merlin said. “I refuse.”

“But--” (Y/N) started to protest.

A minor groan from nearby interrupted their argument. Both Merlin and (Y/N) followed the source of it to the Saxon the latter had felled with the hilt of her sword.

Merlin looked back at her with a nod. “That’ll do.”

Within a moment, the Saxon was laid beside Mordred. Both sorcerer and apprentice placed their hands on Mordred’s wound and the Saxon’s side. Merlin went to give her instructions, but paused, looking behind her and meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“This would have a better chance of working if I wasn’t disguised,” Merlin whispered.

Before (Y/N) could speak, Mordred shook his head. “Don’t-- you can’t do this for me, Merlin.”

“I said your name,” (Y/N) muttered. “They’ll be suspicious. And they-- they know I can do magic. They’ll want to know who taught me. They’ll put two and two together.”

Merlin sighed and, taking out a small blue vial, nodded at her before glancing at Arthur. “Here goes nothing.”

He chugged it all in one go. Within minutes, he was the younger, good-looking version of himself. The knights whispered among themselves and one tried to get Arthur’s attention, but it could not be drawn from the sorcerer. If his face showed hurt at (Y/N)’s reveal, this one was devastated.

Merlin instructed (Y/N) to repeat after him and the area was bathed in light when they began to chant. The Saxon cried out in pain, but was drowned out by a distinctly magical ringing filling the air.

When the deed was done, the light died out and the Saxon was left limp on the ground. Mordred was passed out and (Y/N)’s heart sank at the sight.

“He’ll wake in a few hours,” Merlin reassured her.

She flung herself at him, wrapping him in a hug and sniffing into his shoulder. “Thank you. I-- about before--”

“Water under the bridge. We’ll talk about it later,” he whispered, hugging her tightly. When he let go, he looked toward Mordred. “We should get him to Gaius, just to be safe.”

(Y/N) nodded and they situated themselves, ready to attempt to pick him up. Between the two of them, the young woman was stronger than her companion, at least physically. They feared they couldn’t lift Mordred safely and comfortably. However, they didn’t have to fret for very long.

There were gentle thuds against the mud of Camlann and (Y/N) almost leapt to her feet, ready to fight off Saxons. Instead, Leon, with his red eyes and cheeks, knelt on the ground beside them.

No words were spoken at first, but he nodded at (Y/N), who looked upon him with such respect and relief that she looked like a child again.

The knight lifted Mordred from the ground. “Lead the way,” he said.

(Y/N) went to leave, but turned back to Merlin. She glanced between him and the other knights, not to mention Arthur, though she did not meet their gazes fully.

“I’ll be fine,” Merlin said, reading her mind.

For the first time in a long time, (Y/N) gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand hopefully. Then, she left with Leon and Mordred, leaving Merlin to finally share their little secret.

Arthur cleared his throat and turned to the three knights left behind. “Morgana must be found. I need you to--”

“Morgana’s dead,” Merlin said loudly. He was met with a doubtful look from Arthur and pointed down a path. “Down that way. I killed her myself. You can check, if you want.”

Arthur nodded to the three, two of whom left. Percival and Elyan dutifully took to the task, not able to look at Merlin as they passed. Gwaine was left staring at Merlin, which made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell if he was in awe or anger. Either way, he decided that he didn’t like it.

“Gwaine,” Arthur said firmly. The knight snapped out of his trance and frowned. “Go,” the king muttered.

With one last mournful glance, Gwaine followed Percival and Elyan.

Thus, the king and the servant were left alone.

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur could not bear to hear it. He turned away and followed after the others. For all that had happened that day, he could not bear to look at Merlin, his friend and servant.

The second his back was turned, Merlin grieved.

Back at camp, (Y/N) strode ahead of Leon and Mordred to get to Gaius. She wasn’t that far ahead, as she still wanted to keep an eye on them, but she was at least a yard in front of the two.

The young woman was terrified of conversation with Leon. He would no doubt question her about her magic and that was something she wasn’t ready to talk about, not without Merlin there to help her.

Inside the medic’s tent, (Y/N) found Gaius running around, frantically doing all he could for wounded soldiers.

“Gaius!” She called, getting his attention.

He turned and heaved a sigh of relief. She rushed into his arms and was embraced in a tight hug, which occurred just as Leon entered with Mordred. The old man pet her hair and whispered words of gratefulness at her sudden appearance.

“I thought you’d died,” he sighed as he pulled back, holding her head in his hands.

She shook her head, a small smile painting her face. “No, I’m okay.” She glanced toward Leon, who was putting Mordred on an empty cot.

“What happened?” Gaius asked. “Is he--?”

“He’s alright. He broke free of the spell and saved me,” (Y/N) said softly. “Merlin and I were able to heal him, but…”

He nodded instantly. “Better check just to be sure.” He then noticed Leon’s glances in their direction. “You-- you healed him, you said?”

“They know, Gaius,” she whispered. “About Merlin and I. They’ll probably hate me now.”

“I see,” he muttered before patting her cheek fondly. “You’ll be fine, both of you, no matter what happens. I’ll go check on Mordred, you get some rest.”

(Y/N) nodded absentmindedly as he left, though she had no intention of following his orders. She was far too stressed to do as he asked. She didn’t want to abandon Merlin, either, should the others want him to explain himself.

Just as she was considering what they would want to know, someone called her name.

“(Y/N)! Thank God!” A voice exclaimed.

Guinevere appeared, racing to the young woman’s side and pulling her into her arms. (Y/N) froze at the contact. For a second, she hugged the woman back, relief filling her heart, before she was struck with regret. Gwen did not know her secret. The (Y/N) she was hugging was not a sorceress. The (Y/N) she thought she was hugging wasn’t the real (Y/N).

“I thought we’d lost you,” Gwen sighed, taking the girl’s head in her hands, much like Gaius had. She noticed her forlorn expression and instinctively frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I--” (Y/N) put her hands on Gwen’s, which rested on her neck.

Arthur appeared at the tent entrance just prior to this very moment, having witnessed Guinevere’s affection for a mere second before he saw the doubt in (Y/N)’s eyes. He didn’t make a noise, but (Y/N) noticed he was there. She looked over to him, then back to Guinevere.

The young knight pulled Gwen’s hands from her face and bowed her head slightly. “My lady.”

Gwen was about to ask after her, but she strode toward the very entrance Arthur stood. She nodded at him, prepared to walk by him in complete silence. He was about to let her do so, but was surprised when she stopped right beside him on her way out.

“Arthur--” she began to say.

What words could she say that would fix this? Would the truth help him to understand or would it only hurt him more? Would she apologise for who she was, what she chose to do? Should she say what felt right to her or right to him? Furthermore, would either help?

Glancing out of the tent, she saw Merlin, stopped in his tracks. He watched her with curious eyes, wondering what she would do. He did not shake or nod his head, nor did he give any other hint as to what she should do. It was her decision what to say, not his. After all, it was her little secret, too.

(Y/N) swallowed, paused, and exited the tent without another word.

Merlin Tags: @pearlll09

Part 14/Finale

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romvnova · 6 years ago

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Becoming The Raptor Wrangler: Chapter One

Warning: There may be potential triggers littered throughout this chapter. Please read this at your own discretion. Keep in mind, in my headcanon Owen suffers heavily from PTSD and anxiety and it’ll be a key focus of his character for me until he finds a way to cope with it (apropos to “his girls” { aka. the raptor squad } Blue, Charlie, Delta and Echo).

There’s an unrelenting pounding of someone’s fist on the metal of his Airstream’s door. Owen, who was in an uneasy sleep — it’s always uneasy — sets up with a rough gasp, his heart pounding loudly in his ears as the blood rushes from his head.

“Alright. ALRIGHT!” He snarls as he throws his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, planting his hand to the wall for a second before he pushes off of it and goes to the door, unlocking it and pushing it open. The knocking, blissfully, ceases but there’s a fire in his father’s eyes as Owen opens the door and steps aside as Logan Grady invites himself in that makes Owen immediately regret opening the door.

“Come in.” Owen invites as his father turns sharply on his heel and turns to face Owen who lets out a breath and closes the door. His father’s gaze burns through him and Owen can’t help but feel that it was intimidating enough to cause the devil himself to think twice.

“Owen, this has to stop.” His father’s arm shoots out to stop him as Owen makes to brush past him, reaching for the small, orange prescription bottles laying on the RV’s counter.

“What the hell?” Owen demands gruffly, growing more grumpy by the moment as his mood swings. He needs the anti-depressants and anxiety medication to function something close to a normal human being and his father knows it. It isn’t a magical cure all — the flashbacks and the anxiety attacks still happen — but it helps.

“I can’t sit by and just watch this any longer.”

“Watch what?” Owen snaps. He’s taller than his father and his father wasn’t truly the road-block that he thought he was. If Owen really wanted to …he could get past him. But Owen didn’t really want to. There was too much of a risk that he’d seriously hurt his dad in the process and despite his raising annoyance he didn’t want to hurt his old man.

“Watch you waste away in this trailer. Look Owen, it’s been six months since you …retired from the SEALS and in that time you’ve done nothing to help yourself. You just keep taking the medication they prescribe for you. You haven’t put much, if any effort, towards finding a new purpose. You need somethin’, boy. Somethin’ other than these damn medicines and this trailer. You need to find your path. You’ve lost your way.” Owen’s lips mash into a hard, terse line and he rolls his eyes, shifting his position so he leans his hips against the counter.

His father wasn’t wrong.

Still, that goddamn Grady stubbornness rises like a white hot heat in Owen as he feels the urge to defend himself.

“Nobody’s hiring vets, Dad. I’m a liability to them. If I have a PTSD episode while at work …that’s on them. They can’t take that risk.” Owen’s tone is colorfully snide to accent the sharp air quotes he did. He’d only heard that line over a thousand times.

Can you get through a day without the jackhammer triggering a flashback?

No.

Sorry son, I just…I can’t take that risk.

Yeah, I’d gladly hire you as security. Your martial arts repertoire is impressive, man…but there’s a lot of flashing lights and heavy bass. I see that you suffer from PTSD. Can you confidently tell me that it won’t trigger an episode?

Not as confidently as you’d like me to.

I’m real sorry, man. I can’t take the risk. Better luck next time.

Owen understands …to some degree. He gets it but he can only take being kicked to the curb like a prized fighting dog that’s lost it’s value for so long before it takes it’s toll on him. He’s struggling …and it’s only because of sheer stubbornness that he hasn’t taken to alcohol as a suppressant.

“I mean, honestly, Pops. What skills do I have to offer the world? It’s not like there’s exactly a high demand for a black-ops trained killer. And, ok, I could make a few bucks training animals …but people’re too afraid that I’ll train their animals to be weapons.”

Owen watches his father contemplate his words and a long silence stretches between them followed closely by a rise and fall of Logan Grady’s shoulders.

“Listen, Owen. I need an extra pair of hands at the Ranch. I can’t haul an axe like I used to and Rick brought me a particularly rebellious stallion that needs a good trainer. I’ll pay you the same wage I pay everyone else —”

“Pops …,” Owen shakes his head in refusal. “I’m not —”

“Now, don’t argue with me boy …”

“— I’m not takin’ your money.” Owen insists firmly with a bit more passive aggression than he meant to. Realizing he’s stepped boot to boot with his father, staring down at him in the same manner he’d stared down at the men in his platoon when they’d disobeyed him Owen swallows thickly and reels back, reigning himself in. “I’ll work on the Ranch,” Owen agrees, hand gripping the the wood top of the dinette’s bench. He tries to make it look casual but his grip is hard and he feels the wood slowly giving way beneath his fingers that have gone numb from the death grip he exerts. “but I won’t accept your money.”

“Molly Warbeck keeps asking if you’ll be coming back to church anytime soon.”

Molly Warbeck was Owen’s ex from high school. One of those down-home, homegrown, found on good ground girls. Owen joined the Navy the summer of his Junior year in school and their relationship ended a few days after their senior graduation. Owen broke it off with her because it hadn’t seemed fair to him for her to keep holding onto him when he had ambitions to join the SEALS. Holding onto a man who’d became a ghost, never knowing when and where he was going or if he’d make it back.

People in your life were messy.

And now …well, now, the Owen he’d been in high school didn’t exist anymore and it wasn’t fair to either of them to try to ‘pick up where they’d left off’. Maybe for her it was easy, maybe she hadn’t changed at all …but Owen couldn’t be that kid anymore.

“It doesn’t seem right to go to Church when I don’t believe in God.” Owen squints out the window, arms crossed over his chest. He approaches the subject gruffly and close-minded. His decision’s been made on both fronts: God and Molly Warbeck. Surprisingly, his father doesn’t push, for all of Logan Grady’s faults, he tries not to push religion on Owen, and tries to respect his point of view. Molly’s a bit of a different story but Owen’s well adapted to holding his ground.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was gettin’ at…” Logan scratches as his salt and pepper beard.

“— I know what you were getting at.” Owen interrupts, brushing past his father. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed and clean up and I’ll hitch a ride with you up to the ranch.” Logan grunts and heads towards the door, pushing it open and pushing it closed behind him. Owen’s fingers reach for the prescription bottle but he stops just short of tugging it into his grasp.

The anti-depressants and anxiety medications make Owen’s life more tolerable …and he doesn’t remember the last time he tried to make it through a day without them. The goal’d always been to wean himself off of them once he found solid ground beneath his feet again.

Why not start today?

Currently, the ground felt pretty damn solid …but that was a rocky slope. He’d just started up the mountain that seems so damn and impossibly high. One step at a time.

He retracts his hand and goes into the ‘bedroom’ to change into jeans and an old flannel shirt and contemplates shaving off his beard that he’d let grow. He runs his hands over it for a moment, considering his options before he remembers that his father’s outside waiting for him. He exits the RV and hops up into the bed of his father’s rumbling, old Chevy truck, rapping his knuckles against the roof of the cab, snickering at his father when Logan pokes his head out of the window he cranked down.

“Get in the cab of the truck, boy. Like a normal person.”

“Nah, I’m good.” He laughs as his father’s head disappears into the cab and he puts the truck in drive and they rumble down the rough path to the ranch. It was reminiscent of Owen’s time as a kid. He’d always preferred to ride in the bed of the truck as opposed to being wedged in the cab between his parents, or having to share that tiny middle seat with his younger brother ( which couldn’t have been even remotely safe now that he thinks about it ). Besides that, it feels claustrophobic to him.

He ducks and sinks down into the bed to avoid being beheaded by low hanging branches, and props one knee up, resting his hand on his knee, back pressed against the back of the cab as he watches his RV at the very back of their land disappear into the thick trees, his Triumph the last thing he sees glinting in the early morning sun.

The window at the back of the cab unlatches and his dad slides it open. He’s got the news playing on the radio and Owen swallows the lump that forms in his throat as the woman radio personality talks about an armed robbery, a workplace shooting and a kidnapping. The last was the story of how a young girl was raped by her step-dad repeatedly and Owen’s stomach roils with nausea and for a moment his muscles tense as he prepares to hoist himself over the side of the truck to throw up.

“Turn it off.” Owen rasps into the window. “For the love of fuck…turn it off.” He doesn’t want to hear the shit the world’d turned into. This wasn’t what he’d fought for. This wasn’t the America he’d sacrificed damn near everything for.

A few seconds past.

“Are you alright, Owen?” The truck lurches and Owen grabs the side of the truck bed and empties his mostly empty stomach over it.

“Fine.” Owen gasps as he finishes, scrunching up his face at the sour taste that lingers in his mouth. “There’s a reason I don’t own a TV.” He tells his father gruffly.

There’s a long pause and Owen wipes the light sheen of sweat off of his forehead with the grease stained cloth tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. The cool fall air feels good against his heated skin. The news only pisses him off, makes him sick. Makes him feel like everything he and every other service member did was for nothing.

He thought he’d been some damn unsung hero. He thought he’d known who the enemies of mankind were …but the truth was that they lingered everywhere. Monsters hiding in human skin everywhere.

He thought about joining the local police or state trooper force. It seemed like a natural transition: uphold the law, protect the innocent. It’d been his plan, originally. His therapist recommended against it claiming it to be ‘least suitable career choice for him due to his emotional issues from his tours of deployment’.

Emotional issues. That was a nice way of putting it. Candy coated, legal jargon bullshit.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“You woke me up.” Owen replied, fidgeting with a loose string on his jeans as he props his knee back up. He doesn’t say it accusatory. Just tiredly. His father makes a small rumble of disapproval.

“I’ll make you some breakfast. A man needs to eat.”

They drive for a few more minutes, a silence settling between them only for Owen to let out a grunt and grab onto the side of the bed to keep himself from slamming back into the back of the cab as his father slams on the breaks. The tires squeal in protest and the truck engine rumbles it’s own displeasure.

“What the hell?” Owen asks, pushing himself to his feet in the bed to loom over the roof of the cab. Three black cars are parked along the lane. A man looking out of place in jeans and a casual shirt stands leaning against the Mercedes and two men in black uniform flank him, their hands resting on their sidearms. Hardly inconspicuous.

“I thought I told ya to get off my land.” Owen’s father yells as he goes to get out of the truck.

“Stay in the truck, Dad.” Owen warns his father as he hops over the side of the bed, moving around the truck to meet the man who moves forward. Owen watches his lackeys as they mirror his movements.

“Lieutenant Commander Grady.” The man holds a meaty hand out for Owen to shake but Owen doesn’t reciprocate.

“Former Lieutenant Commander.” Owen corrects gruffly. “I’m retired, in case you haven’t heard.”

“Dogs of war like us never retire, Lieutenant Commander.” The man replies with a quirk of his lips into a smile. Owen doesn’t trust him. “I’m Vic Hoskins. Head of Security at InGen on Isla Nublar.”

“I know who you are.” Owen replies curtly.

“You’re a hard man to get ahold of, Mr. Grady.” Vic Hoskins seems adamant on dancing around what Owen really wants to know. Owen recognizes the power-play happening. Hoskins wants to be in control of their conversation and that annoys Owen greatly.

“It’s intentional.” He didn’t want the government or military sniffing him out, he didn’t want to join any support groups. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Want to tell me why you’re harassin’ my Old Man, Mr. Hoskins?” Owen demands in lieu of asking.

“I’m sure you’re familiar with Jurassic World?” Hoskins inquires with a grin that would put a cat to shame. Except he thinks Owen’s his canary. Big mistake, but for the moment allowing Hoskins to think he’s in charge here works to Owen’s advantage and thus he allows it.

“It’s hard not to be. Advertisements everywhere you look.” Owen doesn’t agree with it. With the de-extinction of the dinosaurs, with exploiting them for money and entertainment. It rubbed him the wrong way on multiple levels …but he knows he has no room to talk. Hadn’t he done the same thing with his animals during his time with the SEALS? Train them to be weapons of war? He’d exploited them for the military, and they’d been used and disposed of in lieu of soldier’s lives.

And it haunted Owen every day of his life.

“You ever been?”

“Nah. Zoos aren’t my thing.” Owen replies cracking a lopsided grin that hides knives beneath it. It’s all a complex mess of feelings for him. He understands with the ‘saving endangered animals from extinction’ prospect of it …but then again wasn’t that what animal sanctuaries were for?

“I have to be honest, Mr. Grady …I’m looking for someone of your particular skill set to join InGen’s team.”

“And what skill set would that be?”

“We’re working on a new project called IBRIS. We’d like for you to research the cognitive abilities and behavior of the Raptors. See if they can bond with the humans, if they can be trained to follow commands. Your file appeared on my desk with a high and shining recommendation.”

The ‘no’ lingers on the very tip of Owen’s tongue. He’s not going to train war machines. Instead of ‘no’, he laughs. He laughs because it sounds so ridiculous. A dinosaur trainer? Training dinosaurs wasn’t like training dogs and horses.

“You want me to train velociraptors?” Owen asks, just to be sure he’s heard Hoskins correctly.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, soldier. It’s a serious offer. It’s a good offer. Misrani is willing to triple your wage you made before you retired.”

Holy shit.

“Full employee benefits. Retirement plans. Everything top of the line. Right at your fingertips.”

It sounds grand but Owen’s not out for money. He gets a nice fat pension from the military as it is. He chooses to live in the old Airstream on his family’s land. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable and he’s never been a man of pomp.

There’s a big question of morality in play. As Owen stares Hoskins down, the other man does the same to him. He doesn’t want to train the velociraptors for monetization and exploitation. Besides that, unleashing velociraptors on a battlefield? Sounds like a massacre waiting to happen. Could he let that happen? Owen gets the feeling that this Project IBRIS was going to happen with or without him spearheading it. If he didn’t accept the job then someone who had no moral compass would come in, in his place. At least if he accepts Owen has a chance to ensure that he’s a valuable piece on the chess board. He can ensure that InGen couldn’t dispose of him when he got in their way because he would get in their way. There was no way that he was going to let them unleash raptors in active war zones. For the sake of both the people and the animals themselves.

“I need some time to think about it.” Owen finally responds. He already knows his answer but he wants InGen to sweat it out for a bit. They want him bad, he can tell by the twitch in Vic Hoskins eye as Owen intentionally displays deliberation.

“You have twenty four hours. There’s a jet waiting at the local airport. It departs at seven hundred hours tomorrow morning. Your name’s on the manifest.” Hoskins tells him before turning sharply on his heel and walking back to the car, his lackeys following after a few prolonged seconds as Owen plants his hands on his hips.

InGen wants him bad enough to assume that he’ll say ‘yes’.

“What’d they want?” Owen looks over his shoulder as the rumbling engine of his father’s truck draws closer, the crunch of gravel under tire slowing as his father pulls the truck to a stop beside Owen.

“To offer me a job.” Owen replies, going around the front of the truck and hopping in the passenger side of the cab.

#becoming the raptor wrangler #owen grady #vic hoskins #jurassic world #jw #logan grady

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moczothe1st · 6 years ago

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Let’s Play Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War, Part 8: The Great Agustrian Depression Epidemic

Part 7

Against my better judgement, welcome back to Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War. Last time, Agustria just… just kicked me in the teeth over and over and over. I swear to Loptyr I remember being better at this game.

Well. Let’s see how I do this week. Maybe I just had bad luck. Repeatedly.

Honoring his promise to Eldigan, Sigurd allows Chagall his freedom and does not interfere.

(Neither his first mistake nor his last!)

Sigurd adopts Agusty as his headquarters, and while his troops there recuperate, he persists in negotiating Agustria’s return to governance by its own king. Despite his determination to restore Chagall’s rule

(Which I cannot stress enough, is a terrible idea.)

his orders from Belhalla never change: remain in Agusty and govern its citizens. Scarcely six months have passed, and yet Grannvale’s ruling administrators have already grown arrogant and taken to abusing their power over Agustria for their own gain.

(Well, considering what their lords were like, this should honestly be pretty familiar to the Agustrians. So that’s nice.)

Day by day, the Agustrian people grow ever wearier of Grannvale’s actions. Before long, as he feared, Sigurd finds himself yet again caught in a new conflict. Reports abound of Chagall raising his army anew at Madino Castle, vying to reclaim his lost capital from Sigurd.

to sweep in and profit from the land’s chaos. Belhalla’s orders demand that Sigurd must maintain control of Agusty above all else. Sigurd’s heart lies heavy in the face of the impending crisis.

Southwest of Madino, Eldigan’s forces hold the defenses of Fort SIlvail. The looming battle for Agustria… a trial between friendship and loyalty. Before Sigurd looms a final battle in Agustria’s north… a showdown fated to shape the course of Jugdral’s history.

Chagall, Unaware the chapter opening narration told us he was coming: This is our final chance to return Agusty to our control. Just look at them… lingering in my kingdom, oh-so-carefree. I grow weary of them. They will pay dearly for this! Jacoban! Where’s that lousy sellsword gotten to this time?

Jacoban: Yeah, I know. Might be a boring job, but you’re payin’ awfully well for it. Let’s see ‘em learn to fear my Bolt Sword.

Chagall: That’s what I like to hear. Don’t fail me. Now, Eldigan’s still at Silvail, is he? Hm… how will he take this? I wonder…

Eldigan: Gah… I couldn’t possibly fight Sigurd. What in the world can I do now…

(Prior events suggest what you do will be ‘whatever would be most stupid’.)

Large Haired Pirate: This is our chance, I reckon, with nuthin’ stopping us from fleecing the villages. Both them armies will be at each other’s throats, so there’ll be nobody interested in gettin’ between us an’ the villages.

Captain Jill Sparrow: Shut it, Duvall! I won’t allow any petty thefts under my watch. I refuse to let us sink so low. Don’t forget, we’re heroic thieves. That’s what the name of Orgahil now means to the world!

Generic Idiot: That wench struts aroun’ like the boss, but she ain’t really the ol’ capn’s sprog.

(…………… Sprog?)

Definitely Going to Die: The cap’n just found her lost when she was a tiny thing, an’ raised her as ‘is own. She still took over when ‘e died, but little she knows she ain’t really his brat. She ain’t the real boss, so there’s nuffin’ t’worry bout.

(Oh, you have no idea.)

Doomed and With Bad Hair: Now, let’s go ‘elp ourselves to treasure!

(“And Chagall has been so reasonable up until now!”)

Sigurd: Where in the blazes is Eldigan…

Oifey: That isn’t all, sire. It appears that pirates from Orgahil are attacking amidst the confusion.

Sigurd: Is that so… I suppose we’ve no choice, then. Ready everyone for battle.

Sigurd: Seliph is but a newborn, and he needs you.

(Yes, they had a baby in the last six months. Yes, that means Deirdre was three months pregnant during the last chapter. Yes, nobody mentioned that. Moving on!)

Deirdre, Mother of All Demons: Yes, dear…

Sigurd: You needn’t look so anxious, Deirdre. I’ll be back before long, I promise. Shanan, I’ve a favor to ask of you. Would you look after Deirdre and Seliph, please?

Sigurd: At the very least, Deirdre, he ought to keep you in good cheer.

(“His parents and grandfather were slaughtered in a senseless border war, which always turns kids into a barrel of laughs.”)

Sigurd: Don’t worry about a thing, Deirdre. I’ll be back for you. I promise.

Deirdre-of-the-End: Milord…

So there’s our setup. We’re surrounded by Agustria’s army that they probably should have used last week, and Deirdre and Sigurd have a child. Also, Shanan is still hanging around! Raise your hand if you forgot about him.

*raises hand*

By now, you know the drill. First, the store; it is now fully stocked with bitchin’ silver weapons! I don’t buy a lot yet, for reasons, but I do pick up a Silver Sword for Holyn. Squeeee! SQUEEEEEE! I also have Deirdre sell her Silence staff and give it to Aideen, who shall now be Deirdre 2, and her Magic Ring goes to Azel who will be Deirdre 3.

…

I’m told that Azel has protested this announcement, so I think we’ll just stick to their real names.

And now, the Arena:

Sigurd: Seven wins, gained two levels: +2 HP, +1 Strength, +2 Luck, +2 Defense.

Quan: Six wins, Gained two levels: +2HP, +1 Strength. +1 Magic, +1 Defense

Ethlyn: Five wins, gained one level: +1 HP. Why.

Arden: Four wins, gained one level: +1 HP, +1 Defense

Noish: Dead to me. He knows what he did.

Alec: Three wins, Gained one level, +1 HP, +1 Luck.

Finn: Six wins, gained two levels: +1 HP, +1 Skill, +1 Strength, +1 Speed, +1 Luck

Lex: Gained two levels: +2 HP, +1 Skill, +1 Strength, +1 Luck, +1 Defense

Azel: Six wins, Gained two levels: +1 HP, +2 Speed, +1 Magic, +1 Resistance

Midir: Six wins, gained two levels: +2 HP, +1 Speed, +1 Defense, +1 Resistance

Holyn: Seven wins, gained two levels: +3 HP, +2 Skill, +1 Speed, +1 Luck, +2 Defense

Ayra: Seven wins, gained three levels: +2 HP, +2 Skill, +1 Speed, +1 Strength, +2 Magic, +1 Luck

Jamke: Seven wins, Gained four levels: +3 HP, +1 Skill, +2 Speed, +1 Luck

Dew: Three wins, gained two levels: +1 HP, +1 Skill, +2 Strength, +1 Resistance

Lewyn: Seven wins, Gained three levels: +3 HP, +1 Skill, +3 Speed, +2 Magic

Lachesis: Five wins, Gained two levels: +2 Strength, +1 Speed, +2 Defense

Beowulf: Five wins, Gained one level: +1 HP, +1 Strength

Erin: Four wins, Gained one level: +1 HP, +1 Skill. That perfect performance didn’t last long, huh.

Well, that was a mixed goddamn bag. Still, more of them succeeded than failed and that’s what really matters. Poor Quan wasn’t able to finish for the first time; the last rank is a Great Knight with a brave axe, and his weapon triangle disadvantage was just too much to overcome. Azel will be finishing up before the end of the chapter; he literally just needs to dodge once to win the final round, and the only reason he can’t do it now is bad RNG.

So here’s our map. Three castles, total; Silvail to the west, Madino to the north, and Orgahil to the far north, but at the moment only Madino is available. The red x’s mark the location of enemy squads; as Oifey said, we start the map off surrounded. Further, there are Orgahil pirates all over the map moving in on the various villages. We’ll need to split up if we want to reach them all in time. But first…

Lex: Sheesh! Courteous as ever, aren’t you?

Ayra: Look, get to your point, whatever it may be. I’ve better things to do than waste time on you.

Lex: Hold on, I’ve got a little gift here. I thought of you the moment I saw it.

Ayra: You can foist it on some other woman. I’ve no use for such trinkets.

Lex: Heh… not even something like this?

Ayra: Oh? … Wait! That’s-

Lex: Ah, good! You’re well acquainted with the famous Brave Sword, then.

Ayra: I never thought I’d see a real one! Never have I seen a blade so beautiful…

Lex: Glad you like it! It’s yours. I guess I’ll see you around, Ayra.

Ayra: Er, Lex! Wait a moment…

*Lex leaves*

Ayra: … Oh…

Remember, kids. Don’t be rude, because sometimes a person you thought was a loser will give you a free weapon.

… Wait.

Anyway, that conversation only happens if Ayra is not in a romance with anyone as of Chapter 3, so remember to keep her far away from dudes. She can also have the same conversation with Holyn instead of Lex, but I’d prefer she marry Lex or Jamke, so I went with him instead.

And yes, she can use Astra with the Brave Sword, and yes it does hit ten times. Hehehehehehehhe…

Now, splitting up. To the west, I send Quan, Ethlyn, Lachesis, and Beowulf. To the north, the biggest squad: Sigurd (needed to take the castle), Lewyn, Dew, Erin, Holyn, Arden, Aideen, and Azel. To the east, Ayra, Jamke, Finn, Alec, and Midir. This group will spilt up again after dealing with the eastern front; the cavalry units will head west to prepare for the inevitable attack on Silvail, and the infantry will go north. Lex, who definitely doesn’t need any more experience, will be guarding the castle. Sylvia will be mostly sitting this map out, because I don’t want her to accidentally marry someone. She’s tricky.

The first few turns are just spent moving, because this map is huge and empty. Only Midir meets an enemy, this javelin dude who inexplicably rushed out ahead.

He is taught not to talk to strangers. The rest of the eastern front begins to split already; Alex and Midir running up toward a village that a pirate has already reached, the rest getting ready to wreck shop on some fools.

… Like 90% success?

Anyway, by this point, the northern and western fronts have also made some friends. Everyone, be friends!

It’s so nice to be friendly. Meanwhile, on the enemy phase, the loss of their capital fills the Agustrian Army with intense depression, and they begin a series of elaborate ritual suicides.

Yes, that is seriously like five enemy units in a row choosing to go after the only enemy nearby who could not merely hit them back but handily win such an encounter. I… I don’t even know. I really don’t. It’s so brutal that when my turn comes back around, I’m really down to just mopping up.

Or, you know, what would be mopping up if Dew had any killing power at all. At least Aideen puts her new long-range healing staff to good use.

That’s the stuff. And on the western front, we’re in a similar position, so I have Quan clean up the only surviving threat after the others did their stuff.

Not so much fun when the Horseslayer’s in my hands, huh jackass? Beowulf Beowfulfs his last surviving minion, and the ladies do some healing. To end my turn, I rush Finn, Midir, and Alec up to the villages they are nearest before they start heading west, and move Azel alone into the range of the last enemy squad on the map.

They’re all fire mages and he’s got a thunder tome for weapon triangle advantage, plus being parked on a forest. This should be fun. End turn.

… Why, though?!

This at least makes sense. They had no other targets. But seriously, this is just screwing with my head. Last week the AI was running rings around me, and this week it seems to have just given up. My turn begins with just a little more cleanup; Azel starts mangling the stragglers of his unit, while Midir and Finn clear the first village of vile piracy.

A few little heals to round things out, and I move Sigurd and Arden up to start drawing out Madino’s defenders, while Erin swoops up toward a pirate going for the villages; there’s ballistae, so she can’t engage at the main battle right now anyway. This is going pretty smoothly, so I’m a little worried. What can go wrong?

N… nothing. Nothing went… wrong.

Huh. Well. The enemy army has some mages in it, which Arden cannot handle, so I do pull back slightly and have Aideen cap up his health. Erin strikes a blow against piracy, and gains a level.

Midir clears another village, and Azel and Ethlyn both start moving to the main conflict. The only one in range of a large number of enemies right now is Sigurd, who the AI usually doesn’t prioritize because he’s a damn killing machine. End turn.

… I did say usually. Luckily, he survives, though it was damn close. Fortunately, we have an app for that now.

Even more fortunately, the tide has well and truly turned. Holyn assassinates the remaining mage, and the eastern front catches up to the center.

Other than Alec being his old self at the end there, pretty optimal! And yes, I do realize Sigurd is past level 20; he can’t promote. Or rather, he starts the game already promoted. Same with Quan. They’re so badass because they have that +5 stat boost when the game starts, instead of picking it up along the way

The only thing I’m worried about is Finn being more hurt than I remembered. I don’t think they’ll go for him, with Jamke and Aideen both in range, but… end turn.

Fuuuuuuck…

Oh, you magnificent son of a bitch, I could kiss you.

The enemy ends it phase by having their healer move down, for some reason; he has a long range healing staff, but maybe he missed his friends. Anyway, he has low defense and no ability to attack, so he’s all yours, Dew!

Oooh, and he was pretty loaded too! After that, it’s a matter of clean-up once again…

While Ethlyn and Aideen do some healing to patch up the horses for the long ride over toward Silvail, and Sigurd, Lewyn, Holyn, and Arden go north to neutralize the ballistae around the castle and stop the final two pirates. End turn!

The enemy phase is honestly kinda sad. All the ballistae shoot. All of them miss. And then on my turn…

Dew, you are being much less reliable than usual this run. I’m taking risks on you, you know. Lachesis would do great things with that Paragon Band. End turn; there’s not really any enemies left to have an enemy phase, so it’s just dodging some ballista bolts while Dew bullies a priest. On my phase, Arden smacks the last pirate, while Azel frees a village.

Man Who Doesn’t Know What ‘Pirate’ Means: We could’ve sworn that boss of theirs was a good lass… Bridget or something, was it?

Do you remember Bridget being mentioned before? Think baaaaaaaack~

Anyway, I think it’s time to take Midano. The ballista falls;

And the war machine rolls to life.

Tastes pretty good. Ayra gets the bolt sword, which isn’t great but gives her a distance option. Dew continues to pick on a monk. The healers do some healin’.

And other than Aideen, continue to gain levels that make one forget they are healers. We pause here for a moment to get some ducks in a row; the cavalry group up on Silvail. Azel gets warped home to finish the arena.

Much better. I also pull Lex and Sylvia out of Agusty and send them to Silvail too; it’s all hands on deck for this motherfucker. Dew finally finishes murdering a priest, as well:

See, if you got that sort of thing every level, you wouldn’t even need to promote. You could just kill people with your burning stare.

And with that, time to seize Midano.

(I would say ‘poor Eldigan, having to share a house with Chagall’, but honestly he’s kind of earned this.)

Sigurd: His Cross Knights are the last remains of Agustria’s army. At this rate, all should be well if we can subdue them, but…

(Shit, neutral units.)

Oifey: Sire, we have a visitor. Father Claude of Edda has just arrived.

Sigurd: Father Claude! See him in, please.

(If you don’t remember him, and I don’t blame you since he was only mentioned once in the prologue, Father Claude is the Duke of Edda. And, as the name implies, a priest. Don’t worry, they aren’t celibate in this universe, so he’s not gonna be starting a war or anything over succession. Just ask Aideen and her sexy green-haired man-candy.)

Claude: Prince Kurth is dead. He was murdered en route from Isaach.

Sigurd: What?! This can’t be… who could have done this?!

Claude: Lord Byron was once constantly by His Higness’s side… yet, ever since the murder, he is nowhere to be found. I regret to say this, but… as it stands, Lord Byron… your father… is the prime suspect.

Sigurd: Wh-what?! That’s impossible!

Claude: I am sorry to say there’s been nothing but horrid rumors in Grannvale lately. Among them are those which say you and your father worked in concert to assassinate the prince… alas, His Majesty’s anguish over the affair has rendered him dreadfully ill.

Sigurd: My father was already the prince’s closest confidante! What could he have possibly gained from the prince’s demise?! Surely, wouldn’t Reptor, Langbalt, and the others who opposed the prince be the likely culprits?

(… Holy Shit, Sigurd, you used your brain to make a statement of logic! Keep that up!)

Claude: I am of the same mind, but we’ve no evidence tying either to the crime. And Reptor and his minions currently hold a great sway over the royal court.

Sigurd: What about Lord Arvis, his Majesty’s aide? Do you know where he stands on this?

Claude: I cannot say for sure. He seems to hold no enmity toward you, but I am loath to consider him an ally…

Sigurd: Hm… I worry for my father. If I could, I’d head home now and do what I can to heal, but my orders haven’t changed. I still need to hold Agustria. Please, Your Grace… do you have any idea what I should do?

(No! No, dammit, Sigurd, you were doing so well!)

Claude: I am on my way to the Tower of Bragi, on the island to the north-west of here. As an heir to the great Saint Bragi, if I pray at our sacred tower, the truth shall be revealed to me.

Sigurd: Hm? Aren’t you Taillte of House Freege? What are you doing with Father Claude?

Taillte: Wouldn’t you worry if I left him to wander all his lonesome? Somebody’s got to protect him.

(Her name is actually supposed to be Tailtiu, but you know what, I don’t mind Taillte and Lachesis is hard enough to keep this constantly going.)

Sigurd: But you’re Duke Reptor’s daughter…

Taillte: I just can’t wrap my head around father’s schemes, you know? Besides, I love the priest!

Claude: Gods, give me strength to cope with this child…

(You’re okay, Claude.)

Claude: Anyway, I’ll rendezvous with your group once I’ve learned the truth. I pray we’ll both return home this day.

Sigurd: As do I, Father Claude. I can’t thank you enough.

And with that, Father Claude and his slightly dippy helper head off to talk to the gods, and we cut off here. See you next-

(DEIRDRE, THE SMALL CHILD SHOULD NOT BE ACTING MORE LOGICAL THAN YOU)

Deirdre: I know. I want you to look after Seliph while I’m gone.

Shanan: No way! I’m just a kid. I can’t look after a baby all by myself.

Deirdre: I won’t be long. I promise. Please, Shanan… I implore you…

(SERIOUSLY, DEIRDRE, I KNOW WE’VE BEEN JOKING ABOUT HOW DEADLY YOU ARE BUT THERE’S LITERALLY NO SITUATION WHERE SIGURD COULD EVER NEED YOUR HELP. STAY HOME.)

Shanan: Okay, fine. I’ll look after him. Just be careful out there and get back here as soon as you can, okay?

Deirdre: Thank you, Shanan. I’m sorry, Seliph, I’ll be back for you right away.

(FUCK)

Deirdre: Oh? Who are you? … Wait, how do you know my mother?

Manfroy: Kehehehehe… the day of your rebirth is upon us. Through my black magic, the slate of your life will be cleansed, paving the way for your true husband… your fate was written the day you were born. There’s no use in fighting destiny.

Deirdre: Wh-what are you doing?! Stop it! No! … … Aaaah… Sig… u…r…

……………….

………………………………….

………………………………………………….

WELL THANKS FOR HELPING OUT THERE, AZEL AND ERIN.

#Let's Play Fire Emblem IV #Let's Play Genealogy of the Holy War #Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War #fe4 #let's play

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moonfirebrides · 6 years ago

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‘In this country in 15 or 20 years’ time the black man will have the whip hand over the white man.” ― Enoch Powell, River’s of Blood’ Speech, Birmingham 1968

I don’t normally like explaining my art process, as it can differ according to my mood and the topic of my work. I prefer to leave it open to interpretation but I’ll attempt to just this once. I was asked by Nottingham based magazine Leftlion to create a front cover and middle page poster for their June 2018 Issue. For a while I was wondering what imagery should I create for this cover? I needed to embark on a journey in search of fresh inspiration.

Leftlion Editor, Bridie Squires, sent over a list of some of the featured articles, notably black British poetry legend and activist Benjamin Zephaniah, an article on Female Genital Mutilation featuring Valentine Nkoyo, a feature on artist Jasmin Issaka, Human Rights Lawyer Usha Sood, activist and Jamaican WW2 veteran Oswald George Powe and a play by a local Nottingham playwright Mufaro Makubika called ‘Shebeen‘ about the 1958 race-riots in Nottingham. All of which made for a very culturally important edition of Leftlion. Now, I see myself as being relatively deep, I knew that I wanted to say something colossal and powerful with my art… but what?

Then the news of the Windrush Scandal hit, basically the UK government have been steadily kicking out Caribbean’s who immigrated to the UK in 1948-1971 (of whom were deemed them British Citizens according to the Nationality act of 1948). For more info on the Windrush see link What is the Windrush scandal? How the Windrush generation got their name and why many fear deportation by Ann Stenhouse

My blood boiled after seeing Prime Minister Theresa May and Former MP Amber Rudd’s faces in Parliament drowning over facts, figures, tepid apologies, and pathetic last minute attempts to save political careers. David Lammy MP delivered a brilliantly emotive, soulful, parliament shaking speech and after hearing a tsunami of stories of deportation being reported in the national press and not only in black newspapers such as The Voice, Gleaner or as merely word of mouth amongst PoC communities. I decided that I was going to channel the nauseous concoction of pride and disgust I was feeling into creating a collection of pieces of illustration inspired by the Windrush Scandal.

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The Windrush Generation, Navigating Britain, How to Convey Them Visually

Excited fearfulness, queasy vulnerability, disappointedly chilly, a seasick loneliness, a war torn run down realisation, relieved to be safely on dry land, eyes searching for familiar faces. I have gathered info from the Windrush generation, those that I know personally and have researched in interviews. Above are a few of the emotions that would have been running through the youthful minds of people first stepping foot off the ship Empire Windrush in England, ‘fresh off the boat’.

I decided to base my illustration on a freeze frame taken from footage shot by the BBC of the literal moment that a young black Jamaican man had first laid eyes on England (see slideshow above). He’s a young dark skinned black man, smartly dressed in a trilby, pinstripe suit and bowtie. Though in slight wonderment you can see that he is hopeful.

My parents are a part of the Windrush generation, they came from middle class backgrounds in Jamaica, my dad arrived in 1958, as a detective in Jamaica he was only able to be a Traffic Warden and Bus Driver in the uk. Likewise my mother arrived in 1962 as a teacher and had to start off working in a factory, but why?

Which brings me to what has to be one of the single most cruel plot twists for Caribbean British citizen’s in post WW2 British legislation. My parents had always drilled into me that ‘Education is key’ and that I have to work at least twice as hard as my white counterparts. I later learned why they were so adamant. The British government ran Jamaica’s education system but even so; Britain disallowed by law all the qualifications of Caribbean British citizens (down to age 11). The effect was that it acted to ghettoize; you cannot have access to higher paid jobs, which would afford you better places to live. Even though on average middle-class and many working class Caribbean’s knew a lot more about stuff like… ‘the Queen, Buckingham palace, William the Conqueror, Shakespeare, Sheffield Steel, Clive of India, The Brontës, David Livingstone and how he ‘civilised the savage’ in Africa, industrial revolution’ etc more than your average white working class Brit. To convey this element in my art, I created conflict within each image in terms of their mood. The imagery I created is deliberately jam-packed with contradictory information that my parents and other Caribbean’s had to navigate and survive under.

“White privilege is an absence of the consequences of racism. An absence of structural discrimination, an absence of your race being viewed as a problem first and foremost.”  ― Reni Eddo-Lodge, Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race

Channelling The Caribbean Perception of Post War Working Class White Britain & My Feelings on The Windrush Scandal

‘We were taught that the streets were paved with gold and that most white people were rich ’. Caribbean’s were generally taught whitewashed version of history, religion and a blind allegiance to British nationalism. All of this was a effective tool to insure that many Caribbean’s would

well behaved

subscribe to conservatism, meritocracy, respectability politics

aspire to be like white people

Be non-critical thinking servants at Britain’s beck and call, that would be compelled to come running just like the ‘good old days of Empire and slavery’. Then could be disposed off as the Britain Government and white ruling class saw fit. Though many did not adhere to all of the above and fought against the indoctrination by re-educating, decolonising and rebelling in a myriad of ways. I conveyed the clashing views of the Black British Caribbean self under the narcissistic paternal rule of Britain by using dissonant imagery, such as religious iconography, 19th century etchings of the torture of slaves calling for abolition, photography of Caribbean’s toiling in plantations, Caribbean war veterans both men and women, BlackLivesMatter protests of Nottingham, Nottingham Riots of 1958, interracial couples, the permanent influence of Jamaican culture on popular British culture and the English language, Caribbean nurses, Brexit scaremongering and racist signs.

I incorporated the beauty of paradise, sunsets, palm trees, houses with red tin roofs into my art. I wanted it to represent rose tinted memories of belonging, innocence, the memory of being a part of an ethnic majority and the confidence in ones stride that brings. A saturated use of colour was used to convey paradise and to appear diametrically opposite to the overcast aesthetics of Britain. I tried to convey that Caribbean people comment that they were shocked to find that in reality they found Britain to be smoky grey, old, dirty, dank, shoddy, ignorant, unhygienic, depressing and hostile. Caribbean’s and notably Jamaicans were instantly deemed as troublemakers, criminal, smelly, ugly, noisy and inferior in every way. ‘No, Blacks’ was a regular sign that would be seen in most accommodation available for rent and in places of employment. Most white churches would ask Caribbean’s not to return in a most polite and very British fashion. Many Caribbean people would have to defend themselves from attackers, which helped fuel riots and protests for basic human rights in Britain. I chose to represent these elements by incorporating real newspaper headlines and riot photography slashed into the imagery.

Black British Caribbean women have arguably been the anchor of the Black British families and community, a much needed ‘big up’, acknowledgement and appreciation of the beauty and strength of those women. Hence my depiction of the black caribbean woman as queen, plus I wanted to convey the 2 figures as ‘the Adam & Eve’ of the biggest influx of Black people in Britain since its creation.

Scandal is the word for this malicious act of the British government effectively wanting to get rid of the Windrush Generation now they 50+ and their children and in some cases grandchildren, after all of our great sacrifice, great contributions to Britain I wanted this art to be a visual smack in the face, machete chops and cuss words in visual patois, a beautiful explosion of consciousness.

‘If you are the a big tree, we are the small axe, sharpened to cut you down, ready to cut you down’ – Bob Marley & The Wailers

As big black women of Jamaican descent taking up room in the uk in any sense can be treacherous, often greeted with backlash; be it via my art on the cover of a magazine, singing self penned songs, navigating unemployment, voicing my opinion or merely walking down the street. I have personally have never felt a part of Britain and the recent scandal comes as no surprise to me, is it any wonder why? Most black Caribbean’s seldom talk about the moment they encountered England for the first time. I hope my art can act as a mouthpiece for their feelings, mine and for those no longer with us

The beautiful struggle continues…

If you are interested in buying any of my work please click on this link https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/THEHONEYEFFECT . Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think and thank you for reading my blog.

Middle page poster of the June 2018 Issue of Leftlion Magazine

Front cover of the June 2018 Issue of Leftlion Magazine

What To Do When ‘The Mother Country’ Wants To Send You Back On The Windrush: Navigating The Hostile Environment of Brexit Britain ‘In this country in 15 or 20 years' time the black man will have the whip hand over the white man." …

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glitterychaosprince · 3 years ago

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A/N: This was inspired by the song Time Machine by BOTDF, sleep deprivation, and half a liter of coca-cola. I hope you all enjoy this one-shot.

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Angela woke up with a smile on her face as she wondered what her loving boyfriend had planned for her. She chuckled as she grabbed her bath robe and wrapped it around her before heading downstairs to the kitchen. Her smile slipped from her face when she saw the letter neatly folded on the table. Picking it up, she read it. 'I'm sorry for leaving without telling you but me, Ever, Freed and Bickslow had a mission to go on. See you when I get home.'

Angela felt a tear run down her cheek which she quickly wiped away. 'I can't believe he forgot again,' she said with a depressed chuckle. For the third year in a row Laxus had forgotten her birthday. Had gone on a mission with them and told her through a letter.

And it wasn't just her birthday. Valentine'a Day, dates, anniversaries, all conveniently forgotten and traded for missions with the Thunder Legion. Angela had spent the past three years hoping that one day he would prove her wrong, but every time he ended up disappointing her. 'That's it. This time I'm gonna do it.'

~TIME SKIP 2 WEEKS~

Laxus walked into the guild with the Thunder Legion and smiled as he saw Angela sitting at the bar talking to Mirajane. He loved her more than the world itself and he had found the perfect thing to give her after the three years they've been together. He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms protectively around her. When she didn't react at all he turned her chair around. 'Is something wrong Angel,' he asked caressing her cheek.

She gave him a weak smile before placing a light kiss to his cheek. 'No Laxus. I'm just tired. I think I'll head back home and take a nap.' He nodded and watched as she left.

He was about to go talk to his grandfather when he noticed the faint disappointed look on Mira's face. 'What?' he asked, slightly annoyed at her because of it. She just sighed and shook her head, going back to managing the bar and pouring drinks.

~TIME SKIP~

Laxus smiled as he entered his and Angela's shared house only to be met with an unnatural stillness to the air. Frowning he went to their bedroom and gently knocked on the door. 'Angel, you up?' he asked as he opened the door only to find the bed untouched with a note placed on his pillow.

Frowning, he picked the note up and read it. Then reread it to make sure that it truly said what he had read. 'Dear Laxus, I'm sorry but I can't do this anymore. For the past three year's you've not only forgotten Valentine's Day and our anniversary, you've also forgotten my birthday and dates we had planed weeks in advance. Everyday I woke up and saw another of your notes was a day my heart cracked. So I'm sorry, but I'm leaving. I already had master remove my guild mark and by now I'm long gone. Hopefully next time you find someone dumb enough to fall for you you'll treat her with more respect than you did me. I tried to be patient, but my patience with you has run out. I hope you have a nice life.'

Laxus crumpled the paper and sat on the edge of the bed, not even bothering to try and stop the tears that were falling. The room was silent aside from his sobs. He should've followed her earlier today. He should've asked gramps if he knew if something was wrong.

He pulled the small jewelry box from his pocket and opened it to reveal the sapphire ring that he had gotten for her. That night he had been planning on proposing to her, but now it's all over. If only he knew how to build a time machine. Then maybe he could prevent himself from being so stupid. Why couldn't he have, just once, remembered the things they had planned in advance. Remember her birthday without her having to remind me about it. Say no when Bickslow and Ever drag me on a mission.

There was a timid knock on the bedroom door and he looked up to see Freed standing there with a shocked look on his face. 'She left,' was all Laxus could manage to get out before he broke down again. Not to his surprise the green haired mage came over and tried to comfort him, but nothing would sooth the pain he felt deep within his chest.

~TIME SKIP 8 YEARS~

Laxus walked around Crocus as he waited for midnight to come. It had been eight years since Angel had left him and it still hurt to think about her. Of course it didn't help that seven of those years he had been sealed in time so it was technically only a year ago that it all happened.

As he was drifting off in his thoughts two small children ran into him. 'Sorry mister,' the black haired girl shouted before her blonde haired brother grabbed her wrist and started dragging her away. He couldn't tell why, but they looked so familiar to him.

He smiled as the boy gleefully dragged his sister off but it soon faded once he saw the lady they were heading to. 'Mommy, can we please go to Ryuzetsu Land?'

'Angela?' he breathed out but it was loud enough to distract her from what she was about to tell the boy.

She turned around and looked right at him before clearing her throat and putting on a straight face. 'I'm sorry but do I know you?' she said.

Laxus frowned. 'You were always terrible at lying,' he said with a chuckle as he approached her.

Angela steeled herself for what he would do. She expected his anger but when he hugged her she felt like crying. 'I've missed you so much,' he whispered into her ear. He then pulled away and looked down at her children. 'So what are their names?'

She smiled and rubbed Jane's head as she hugged her leg. 'Jane and Ash,' she said as she picked Ash up.

She was about to try and get away from him but before she could do anything he brought up the one question she didn't want to answer. 'Hey Ash,' she said to get his attention. With a fake smile she handed him some jewel. 'How about you take your sister into that toy store over there and buy something, okay.'

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Once they were gone Laxus asked again. 'So who's the father?' He didn't really want to know, but he also wanted to make sure they were being taken care of.

A sad look crossed her face as she stared into his eyes. Are free online slots fixed. 'When I figured out I was pregnant I was half-way across Fiore and by the time I got back to Magnolia, you had been kicked out and I couldn't find you. Eventually I came to Crocus and went into labor and have been here ever sense.'

Laxus felt like he had been punched in the gut (except lower) as what she was saying sunk in. 'They're mine,' he whispered as he looked to the ground in shame.

Angela nodded as she looked towards the toy store and laughed at what she saw. Jane and Ash were trying to capture Bickslow's babies as they flew around the big lug. 'You better not harm my children you idiot,' she shouted at him playfully.

He looked up and a big smile spread across his face, his tongue sticking out. 'Long time no see Angel. Where you working now?'

She let out a small chuckle. 'As a bar maid for the Sabertooth guild. The master's strict but it pays well and Jane and Ash love Frosche and Lector, so I'm not gonna complain too much.'

Angela checked her watch and gasped at the time. 'Jane, Ash, come here,' she called out as she worried about being late. 'I'm sorry to cut this reunion short but I have a dinner date with friends before the games start. See you later.'

With that she left, leaving Laxus to watch as her and their kids left. 'So who's the father?' Bickslow asked with his babies chanting 'father, father.'

'Me,' he said with a longing look on his face. 'Now I really wish I had a time machine or some way to go back and fix my mistakes before they happened.'

Laxus sighed before turning and going in the opposite direction that Angela had gone, thinking of everything that he had missed out on due to his own stupidity. He remembered one day Freed told him that over time he would feel better, but at this moment he couldn't have felt worse. He was completely aware of how his own stupidity had played a major role on her leaving him. Had caused him to miss out on the first seven years of his children's life.

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But he swore at that moment that he would find someway to capture Angela's heart again and convince her to rejoin Fairy Tail and become his wife.

He sighed as he came to a stop and removed the box from his pocket and opened it to look at the ring it contained. He would convince her to be his and then he would never let them go.

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Not until the day he was forced to leave them forever.

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