#it's not like fast food prices have doubled in the past three years or anything

[takeonmetakemeon]

no one in charge of anything large in this country should be in charge of anything

[victoria-daydreams]

The Long Way Home

Chapter Three: What the Hell Happened to Him?

AN: Thanks for the birthday wishes everyone and thank you to everyone who has liked this story! Claudia hasn’t even shown up, but you all are invested in this story and I appreciate it!

Trigger Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.4k

Taglist: @iloveeverything-09, @eiferundruhe​, @greatscott--wrongdecade​

Chapter Four: Recruiting for a Jailbreak

Logan, Hank, and Charles all stood around a table, discussing how to get Erik out.

"The room there holding him in was built during the Second World War when there was a shortage of steel. So, the foundation is pure concrete and sand. No metal," Hank explained, gesturing to a rolled out blueprint of the Pentagon, specifically, the facility Erik was being held in.

"He's being held a hundred floors under the most heavily guarded building on the planet," Charles added, with a sigh.

A look of confusion took over Logan's face, "Why's he in there?" he inquired, his eyes bouncing between Hank and Charles.

Charles let out a snort and raised his head as the rest of his body hunched over. "Did he forget to mention?" he asked with a laugh that was anything, but humorous.

"Uh...JFK." Hank muttered.

"He killed..." Logan trailed off, with shock evident in his tone before cutting himself off in disbelief. "That was Erik?" he questioned.

"How else do you explain a bullet miraculously curving through the air? Erik's always had a way with guns," Charles said snidely, as he turned his head to face Logan. "You sure you want to carry on with this?" he asked, uncertainty evident in his voice.

You could tell that a part of him wished that Logan would give up. Naturally, that didn't happen.

"Hey, this is your plan, not mine," Logan shrugged.

"We don't have the resources to get us in," Hank argued, shaking his head.

"Or out," Charles added. "It's just me and Hank," he breathed out.

Logan paused for a moment, "I know a guy. Yeah, he'd be a young man now, living outside of D.C.," he chuckled, as a look of fond memories filled his eyes. "He could get into anywhere. Just don't know how the hell we're gonna find him..." Logan trailed off.

Hank turned to Charles, "Is Cerebro of the question?" he asked, and Charles rolled his eyes before lowering his head down, slightly nodding it with an exhale. "We have a phone book," Hank offered.

~~~x~~~

"Here, here, here," Logan said, as he leaned forward between the seats.

"Where?" Charles questioned, carefully driving down the small street.

"Just stop here," Logan replied with agitation.

"All right, all right!" Charles surrendered, pulling up to a house in a suburban neighborhood.

"Next time I'm driving," Logan scoffed, as Charles brought the car to a stop, it was clear he hadn't driven in years.

"Don't get used to it," Charles retorted, rolling his eyes.

The three of men stepped out of the car and up to the house's front porch, passing by a mailbox with 'Maximoff' written across it's side. Strangely, the doormat at the front door had skid marks across the lettering. Logan knocked on the dark wooden door, before watching it open up to a brunette middle-aged woman her smile dropping from her face.

"What's he done now?" she sighed. "I'll just write you a check for whatever he took..." she shook her head, the woman sounded so tired.

"We just need to talk to him," Logan reassured, she nodded and opened the door all they way, allowing them in.

"Peter!" She called. "The cops are here!" she stepped out of their way. "Again." she added, seemingly sick and tired of her son's troublemaking antics. "Down there," she told them, pointing to a door.

Logan turned the knob and led the group down the wooden stairs. Stolen road signs hung on or leaned against the walls as they made their way further down. There was music was playing loud along with what sounded like a ping pong game. Once the men got to the last step, they stood in a large room and witnessed a peculiar sight. There was indeed a ping pong game being played by a young man with silver hair, but he was playing against himself, rushing to each side to hit the ball effortlessly.

"What do you guys want?" Peter asked quickly, not taking his eyes off the game before flashing past them and onto a couch eating an almost finished popsicle, "I've been here all day," he told them.

"Just relax, Peter. We're not cops-" Logan reassured, before Peter cut him off.

"Course you're not cops. If you were cops you wouldn't be driving a rental car," Peter pointed out.

Charles raised his eyebrow, "How'd you know we got a rental car?" he questioned.

"I checked your registration when you were walking to the door. I also had some time to kill so I went through your rental agreement. Saw you were from out of town. Are you FBI?" he asked, speaking quickly. Using his speed, he grabbed Charles' wallet in a second, looking through it's contents. "No, you're not cops. Hey, what's with this Gifted Youngsters' place?" he asked, as he sped away, dropping the wallet and Charles' business card on the floor.

"That's an old card," Charles stated annoyed, slipping the items back into his pocket.

"He's fascinating..." Hank commented, watching Peter speed around.

"He's a pain in the arse," Charles scoffed, running his hand through his hair, which was windblown because of Peter's speed.

"What? A teleporter?" Hank questioned.

"No, he's just fast. And when I knew him he wasn't so...young," Logan replied.

Peter frowned at his statement before grinning, "Young? You're just old," he quipped.

They turned back to the couch, seeing Peter already lounging on it finishing up a popsicle that he just got.

Hank stepped forward, "So you're not afraid to show your powers," he observed, raising an eyebrow.

Peter faked innocence, "What powers? What are you talking about? Do you see something strange here? Nothing anybody would believe if you told them..." he said very quickly, before zipped between Charles and Logan to the Pac-Man machine across the room, that was obviously stolen. "So, who are you? What do you want?" he asked.

"We need your help, Peter," Logan stated briefly.

"For what?" he quickly asked back, keeping his eyes glued to the game screen.

"To break into a highly secured facility...and get someone out,"

"Prison break? That's illegal you know..." Peter chuckled back, looking at the middle aged men who were apparently planning to do something worse than all of his crimes combined.

"Um..." Logan looked around the room at all the stolen items filling the room, which were mainly TV's and Twinkie boxes that still had price tags on them. Logan turned back to look at Peter who was still playing his game. "Well, only if you get caught,"

"So, what's in it for me?" Peter asked, keeping his eyes glued to the game screen.

"You, you kleptomaniac, get to break into the Pentagon," Charles informed, taking off his sunglasses to wipe his eyes.

This promise piqued Peter's interest, he stopped playing the game and turned around to face them.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Peter questioned.

"Because we're just like you," Logan said plainly, keeping his arms folded.

"Show him," Charles told Logan.

Logan raised his fist up, slowly, three bone claws poked through his skin and grew between his fingers.

Peter grimaced before nodding, "That's cool, but disgusting,"

~~~x~~~

"Built in 1943, the Pentagon is the world's largest office building," The tour guide began her routine. Charles, Hank, and Logan walked together in a large tourist group. "Housing more than 25,000 military employees stretched out over six million square feet,"

"Where's the bathroom?" a little boy near the front asked.

"He always need to pee!" the little boy's sister groaned.

"Well, lucky for you, you'll have plenty to choose from. The building was constructed during the segregation so..."

Logan and Charles quickly slip away from the tour guide, throwing their visitor's passes in a bin at the bottom of the stairs they went down. While Peter went away earlier to break Erik out. Hank stayed with the group and as discreetly as he could, pulled out a small a radio monitor twisting a couple switches—to interfere with the security camera signals. When activated, it would cut all the signals in the Pentagon, canceling the security footage and show Sanford & Son on the screens.

Logan and Charles climbed several flights of stairs until they finally reach door to the Pentagon kitchen. Signaling for Hank to set off the fire alarm sprinklers causing water to sprinkle down on the staff and them. Charles began speaking right away.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, this is a Code Red situation. We are evacuating the entire floor...so that my associates and I...can, uh, secure the prison..." Charles finished, and Logan sent him a 'what the hell?' look, but all the kitchen staff immediately left, leaving only two guards to deal with.

"Who are you?" One of the guards asked, advancing on them.

'We're special operations, CB...FB-CID..." Charles was getting flustered. "Perhaps you didn't hear me when first I spoke...but it is imperative that you understand... we're in a complete lock down situation. We have to get you to the third floor..."

Logan getting frustrated with Charles' rambling, rolled his eyes before taking charge of the situation. He walked forward to the guards, grabbing a frying pan on his way and punched one guard in his gut before smashing the pan on the other guard's leg then slapping him with it, knocking him out cold. Logan used the pan again on the guard that was doubled over and smashed the pan against his arm, throwing over a cart of food.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Were you finished?" Logan asked Charles sarcastically.

He stared at him in shock for a few seconds before shaking his head and grabbing the key to the lift from one of the guards.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, looking up to meet Logan's eyes. "I'm just not very good with violence," he declared, as the elevator doors opened.

Revealing someone Charles never thought he'd see again...Erik.

Erik looked at his old friend in shock, "Charles?" he asked in surprise.

Charles looked at him for a second before his face scrunched up, fiery with anger, and he launched a blow into the other man's face. Charles was no fighter though and ended up stumbling into the corner of the lift.

"Good to see you too, old friend," Erik commented, as he wiped at his sore lip. "And walking." He noted.

"No thanks to you!" Charles snarled.

"You're the last person in the world I expected to see today," Erik stated truthfully.

"Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to," he informed the man. He quickly advanced on him. "If we get you out of here, we do it my way. No killing," Charles demanded.

Erik nodded unfazed, "No helmet," he said, tapping his head. "I couldn't disobey you even if I wanted," Erik reminded.

"I am never getting inside that head again. I need your word, Erik," Charles pressed.

Erik nodded his head slightly, not knowing the truth that Charles had lost his powers. Once there silent agreement was established between the two of them they turned to walk out of the lift. Before they could even leave they were surrounded by six security guards, aiming their guns at the intruders who broke into the Pentagon.

"Nobody move! Hold it right there!" an officer shouted.

"Charles," Erik called, turning to his friend.

"Don't move! Hands up, or we will shoot!" another ordered.

"Freeze them Charles!" Erik instructed him.

"I can't," Charles admitted bitterly.

Erik's face dropped, looking at his old friend then faced forward with a look of determination. Suddenly, all the metal in the room began to vibrate.

"No!" Charles cried, as the metal rose into the air causing the guards to fire their guns.

Logan held up his hand and his bone claws began to protrude from his knuckles. While Peter put on his goggles and slid on his headphones and began to zip around the room. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion compared to the pace that Peter was moving. He knocked some guards' hats off, poked another one's cheek as he ran along the wall. He set one of the officer's fist right beside his own face, so he'd knock himself out. He pulled a plate out of the air and sent it flying across the room. He gave two men a wedgies and raced back to move the bullets fired from the officers guns from their targets. He raised them slightly above everyone's head and stood back in his place.

Erik was the first to recover from the shock of everything that had just happened. They all looked around in complete confusion. Charles looked at the young man who was smiling at them. Charles made his way through the kitchen and out the door without even a second glance. Erik looked down at Logan's claws for a moment, and followed Charles out.

Logan nodded, "Thanks, kid," he said, patting Peter on the shoulder as he passed.

He grinned and jogged to catch up with everyone. The mutants left the Pentagon building as quickly as they could. Hank stood outside with the car, waiting for them to return. He started the car immediately as soon as he saw everyone, once the five men were seated in the car Hank took off from the parking lot.

"So, that's it then? Right?" Peter asked, looking at the older mutants.

"Still gotta get Claudia," Hank replied, focusing on the road.

"Get?" Erik echoed, before glancing at Charles. "I was wondering why the lovely Claudia was strangely absent from your side," he stated.

Charles' lips formed into a thin line, "It's a long story that I rather not delve into right now," he complained, narrowing his eyes at Erik. "I hope either of you remember seeing her address in the phone book, because I don't," he said.

"Well, that's the thing, I didn't see a Claudia Walker listed," Logan responded, frustration lining his forehead. "We have no way of finding her." He added.

Hank began to shift uncomfortably in the driver's seat which Charles noticed, frowning he slowly leaned forward in his seat.

"What is it, Hank?" Charles asked, sensing something was off.

Hank was most definitely hiding something, and it was setting Charles on edge slightly. Even Logan seemed to pick this up and looked curiously at him.

"Charles..." Hank called. "How angry would you be if I told you I had Claudia's address...for several years now?"

Chapter Five: A Summer Place

[anistarrose]

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!��� Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

[ada-mike]

The Truth Always Comes Out - Digimon (Davis/Yolei)

Hey, guys, long time no see. Hope you’re all doing well, all things considered. I decided to dust off this blog and post a little FanFiction for a change! Fancy that. Why FanFiction for a fairly rare pair in a children’s cartoon from twenty years ago? Good question. I was honestly inspired by the work of a truly amazing writer @tanyatakaishi and their incredible story Innocent Games, whose sequel is currently in progress and definitely worth the read whether you’re into Digimon or not (but you should be into Digimon, i mean seriously?) But yeah, drop by and give Innocent Games a read, drop a comment and a kudo too while you’re at it. This short story I’m posting myself is so inspired by Innocent Games, it’s pretty safe to call it a FanFiction of a FanFiction, doesn’t really fit into any canon, and is just something I had rattling around my head that I needed to bang out. Please give it a read and let me know your thoughts! Stay safe, ya’ll.

- Mike

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In hindsight, he really should have known better. Yolei had always possessed an inquisitive streak to put it lightly (whether or not the matter being investigated was her business was rarely a concern) and she was typically about as adept at snooping things out as Davis was poor at hiding them.

And really, on his laptop of all places?

Davis, along with the rest of their friends, had spent his fair share of time around – as well as inside of – computers, but regardless, they were still Yolei's domain through and through, her expertise. And as his father had once told him many years ago, during a family trip to the supermarket where Davis had denied, despite being caught, that he'd tried to shoplift a pack of gum down the front of his shorts: The truth always comes out.

His thoughts were scattered though as they stumbled through the front door and into the blackness of the dorm he shared with Ken. Yolei was strung over his back like a long-legged, lilac-haired knapsack – having mounted him during the elevator ride, laughing, the liquor in her belly turning her playful.

The haze of alcohol still hung heavy in Davis’s mind too, enough so that his legs wobbled dangerously as he carried her through the blackness to where he approximated the futon was.

“Is Ken here?” Her breath was warm in his hair and the heat climbed up his neck to settle in the tips of his ears.

“Nah,” He said. “He’s with his parents this weekend.”

“Perfect.” She purred.

Davis picked up the pace, stumbling over a pair of soccer cleats in the dark. He spun in a circle, pulling a fresh laugh from Yolei, before depositing them both on the sagging futon cushion. Yolei sat pinned behind him, a little squished, but regardless it was the perfect position to plant sloppy kisses on his exposed neck. Davis squirmed, his heart racing.

“It doesn’t smell in here, does it?” He asked.

“Only a little.”

“It’s the trash, I bet. I haven’t taken it out since Monday.” He moved to rise, but she pulled him back into her lap, near growling:

“Leave it.”

“Mmm,” He hummed. “You like the funk, huh? It sets the mood for you?”

“You’re about to ruin the mood if you don’t shut it.”

“Such a way with words, love.”

Love.

That word. It was enough to diffuse squabble that had been sparking.

Davis sunk back into her and she wrapped her arms around him, feeling up and down his chest, then down his gut. He seized one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing her sharp knuckles, the pads of her fingers, her wrist. It was surprisingly tender for him.

And it drove her absolutely wild.

Her free hand had just wrapped around the buckle of his belt, when the door to the bedroom creaked open.

“Davish?”

They both flinched as tiny feet pounded on the floor, leapt, then thudded lightly on the futon by their side. Yolei reached and flicked on the lamp switch by her head.

“DemiVeemon!” Davis was grinning at the sight of his partner, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I thought you’d still be sleeping, buddy.”

“I had a dream that we were on a boat! I wanted to tell you about it!” The in-training Digimon clambered onto Yolei’s knee. “Yolei, your face is so red you look like a tomato!”

“It’s hot.” She explained. And it was, the compounding moments of passion followed by DemiVeemon’s interruption had them both sweating slightly.

“Where’s Poromon?” The Digimon asked, unperturbed. Fresh from his nap, he was ready to play.

“Um- He’s spending the night in the Digital World.” She dug her nails into Davis’s side, causing him to wince in pain, the soft touches suddenly gone. “I kind of thought you’d be there too.”

“Nope!” Chirped DemiVeemon. “But we could all go now!”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” Davis brushed his hands over DemiVeemon’s ears. Even if a trip to the Digital World could be fit into their agenda, the phantom feeling of Yolei's hands on him was fresh and that very likely meant that standing up anytime would be a bad move. “But hey, you know, I think I still have some Udon in the fridge from yesterday. Ya hungry?”

“Yes!”

As DemiVeemon scampered away, Davis sighed and lifted himself out from between Yolei’s legs so he could sit beside her.

“Sorry about that,” He settled his arms on her shoulders, leaning close. “But where were we?”

“Davis, no.” She pushed him back. “I told you that I was taking Poromon to the Digital World so we could be alone tonight. Why didn’t you do the same?”

“I was going to. I just – I dunno, felt bad about dumping him there.” Davis rubbed his nose. The alcohol's buzz was fading from him now, much too fast for his liking. “He’ll be in a food coma in twenty minutes though, I guarantee it. Then we can get back to -”

“Hold on,” Her eyes sharpened into knives behind her glasses “You think I dumped Poromon in the Digital World?”

“No, I-”

“I did not dump him,” She continued, shifting further away on the cushion as she sat up straighter. “He’s helping out in Primary Village. I’ll be there to pick him up again tomorrow.”

“I know!” Davis felt a fresh wave of heat roll up his ears, annoyed that she was picking apart his words tonight of all nights. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

“I have no reason to feel guilty.” She folded her arms and sank back, eyes settling on the kitchen where DemiVeemon’s ears were casting shadows up the wall from the light of the open refrigerator. “He’s fine, just – dammit, Davis.” A heavy sigh billowed her lips, then: “You and I just got back together, what? Three days ago? And between school and everything, you and I haven’t had time… We needed a night like this.”

It was true. This most recent “break” of theirs had been a rough one and longer than any previous up to now. Almost an entire two months had passed where they barely spoke a single word to each other, only interacting when strictly necessary for Digimon matters, or the occasional late-night message over their D-Terminals.

Davis slumped back too.

“Tonight was a good night.” He said lamely.

She just nodded.

They sat in silence for a minute as DemiVeemon finished rummaging for food. He eventually waddled past them back to Davis’s bedroom, a warm bowl nearly as big as he was balanced on his head. All dreams of boats forgotten for the time being. Whether or not he had heard the beginning of their spat, Davis wasn’t sure. Regardless, he now wished his partner had stayed to break some of the tension that hung heavy in the room.

What he really wanted was another drink.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Instead, he lurched forward, propping himself on one arm as he reached over Yolei. She opened her mouth, ready to rebuke him again, until he reached past her and snatched the clunky laptop that sat on the end table.

It was five pounds heavier and just as many years outdated for anything Yolei would have considered satisfactory, but Davis had got it for a good price in a resale shop and desperately needed a computer for school. He grunted as he settled back in his seat and flipped open the lid, determined to find a way to break the awkward silence.

“Can I – um, play some music?”

He was already scrolling through his rather extensive music library, not waiting for an answer, but Yolei nodded anyways.

“Just no dub-step, please for the love of God.”

He chuckled and something in her chest unwound. He eventually settled on something, and with a double-click the room was filed with smooth guitar and steady drums. They listened, Davis nodding his head in beat and Yolei watching him.

“The speakers on that thing are awful.”

“Yeah.”

The song transitioned, adding more varied guitar and aggressive vocals.

“I haven’t heard this one before.”

“Ken showed it to me.”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah.”

As the song started to fade, Davis reached, without looking, and rubbed a line up and down Yolei’s thigh. She unfolded her arms, but before she could move further towards him, he was lifting the laptop from his lap and moving it into her’s. He stood up.

“Gotta take a piss.” He muttered, trudging towards the bathroom, tripping over the same pair of cleats as he went.

Yolei watched him leave, long nails tapping on the plastic laptop chassis. After the bathroom door closed and she heard him emptying his bladder into the toilet through the thin wall, she sighed and began flicking through his music.

She had gotten a little too defensive earlier and she knew it.

The truth was, she did feel a little guilty for parting ways with her Digimon, even if it was only for a night. Despite the lack of crises in the Digital World needing their intervention, it sometimes felt like she was shirking responsibility by turning more attention to other aspects of her life.  

But she was older. She was busy – they all were.

Breaking up with Davis a few months ago had been a mistake, a rash decision after a stupid fight.

Drawing a good night out by coming home with him and arguing tonight had been a mistake. The wounds from the breakup were still fairly fresh. They couldn’t exactly just pickup where they left off.

Hell, maybe getting back together had been the mistake.

She wasn’t even reading the list of songs anymore as she scrolled. Her ring finger tapped a little too quickly on the arrow keys and the music program locked up from overestimation. Grumbling, she tapped more—even though she knew better—and the window was suddenly minimized, and then she was confronted with the egregious mess of folders on Davis’s desktop.

What immediately caught her eye was the folder labeled ‘Sexy Sexy Sexy’, and with that, any thought of innocently returning Davis’s music library vanished up in smoke.

Eyebrow quirked, she clicked and opened the oddly-named folder without hesitation. Of course she knew that most every guy had that particular folder stashed away. Having it on the desktop was definitely bold though.

What she saw though almost made her guffaw, and she struggled to steel herself.

The folder contained pictures upon pictures of different styles of ramen, most likely purloined from some high-end bistro’s online menu, judging by the nearly indecent high quality and their tiny watermarks in the corner of each. Nearly every photo was accompanied with an adjacent text document, containing what Yolei astutely guessed were Davis’s attempts at parsing out the recipe by looks alone.

This ramen folder was probably more organized and cared for than the one he used for homework, and a quick visit back to the desktop and to a directory simply dubbed ‘hw’ confirmed this.

Yolei glanced at the bathroom door. Things inside had gone silent, but if history and the number of sliders he ate at the bar were reliable indicators, Davis would probably be preoccupied for a few more minutes. She had plenty of time.

Yolei cruised through the rest of his desktop in record time, finding nothing of note outside of a few folders containing game roms, a second folder of his own home-brewed ramen recipes, and much to her surprise: an alarming amount of digitized Shoujo manga, definitely pirated. She filed that away for teasing ammunition later.

Now, to find the really good stuff.

Her practiced fingers danced over the keyboard, running a shell command to search for recently accessed items. Buried in several sub-folders was one entry that caught her eye, a single folder with a timestamp indicating it was opened just an hour or so before he’d picked her up for their date earlier that evening.

The folder was named ‘yolei’.

A swirl of emotions flooded her as she opened the file with her namesake, and she found it was a dumping ground of yet more photographs.

Instead of gratuitous snapshots of food however, they all featured her.

Yolei immediately recognized a series of selfies she’d sent him herself – some as early as when they had first started their on-again/off-again relationship years ago. It had never occurred to her that Davis would be the type to save them anywhere but his phone. It was surprisingly sentimental of him.

An image of Davis lying in his bed, clicking through and lovingly studying a slideshow of her, sprung to mind and she felt a warm swell of affection for him. She had done something similar on occasion, when their respective university work had kept them apart for multiple days on end.

There were other styles of pictures too. As she scrolled further, she found photos they had taken together at her high school graduation ceremony, shots of them at a beach trip, and one from her recent birthday where he’d tried to wrestle her face into the cake. She couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

She came to a stop at one photo in particular, the image’s age betrayed by how grainy it’s quality was.

They couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Davis was round-faced and grinning in the middle, one arm slung over Ken to his left and the other over a mildly miffed Kari. T.K. stood on Kari’s other side (Yolei had forgotten about that silly hat he used to wear) and on the opposite edge stood Yolei herself, all spindly limbs and thick, round glasses—stained brilliant white from the flash of the camera.

Their Digimon partners stood huddled around their feet and Yolei felt a fresh pang when her eyes fell on Hawkmon.

She scrolled further, perhaps more quickly than necessary, but then came to a screeching halt.

“Bastard.” She hissed, an angry blush spreading across her cheeks.

“What?” Davis had somehow exited the bathroom and was halfway back to his seat. Yolei had been so engrossed in her recent discovery she hadn’t even heard him flush.

Without missing a beat, she twirled the laptop around and pointed the screen at him accusatory.

“What the hell is this?”

To his credit, Davis had learned since the gum smuggling attempt in his youth that it was best not to lie when he’d be caught.

“Oh,” His mouth formed a perfect O-shape. Now he was blushing too. “I can explain-”

“You better!” She rattled the laptop at him, the hinge wobbling dangerously. “I told you to delete these, Davis!”

It had been her one demand when they had broken up most recently. He had listed several himself, including the unconditional return of the multiple sweater-shirts she’d swiped from his dorm. She considered this a devastating blow, as they made the perfect sleeping shirts in her opinion. But to be fair, he actually needed them more than she did, his winter wardrobe being sparse as it was.

“I did delete them!” He shot back.

“Oh—that is so obviously not true.” She flipped the laptop back around so she could look at them again. The photos were definitely there, present and accounted for, completely not deleted. Her eyes were flashing as she glared back up at him. “Why did you keep these?!”

“Look, you specifically asked me to delete from my phone,” He explained. “And that’s what I did.”

“Oh, so you thought you could keep these on a technicality, huh?”

“We’re back together now so why does it matter?” He threw his hands in the air. “They’re not even that bad of pictures.”

“They’re disgusting.”

Davis chose not to argue with that. Certainly most of the photos could be construed as less-than appealing.

His laptop currently contained the only copies in existence of seventeen candid photos of Yolei, caught in various stages of sleep, sickness, and general foulness.

It had started as kind of sweet. On one of the nights she had slept over he’d woken first, and had snapped a quick picture of her face as she slept rather serenely, messy hair splayed over his pillow. When he’d showed her the picture later, he’d called her beautiful. She made a show of rolling her eyes, but smiled and blushed all the same.

For the second photo, he’d caught her while she was trying to subtly pick her nose.

It had kind of snowballed from there.

“Why were you even going through my laptop anyways?” He demanded in turn.

“I was looking for music.” Yolei turned her nose up matter-of-factly.

“In my pictures? Yeah, Right.”

“You’re missing the point.” She waved her hand as if his words were a fly buzzing by her ears. “This is a major breach of privacy.”

“Now that, you’re right about.” He stepped forward finally and reached for his laptop, but she pulled it to her chest.

“I mean my privacy, you jackass.”

“I took those, so they’re actually mine.”

“But they’re not pictures of you, are they?” She looked down, scrutinizing one of her in an unseemly, homemade guacamole facemask, filename: ‘she-hulk��. She had seen all these pictures before at one point or another, usually accompanied with some gentle ribbing at her expense, but seeing the collage now felt entirely different. “Davis, how could I ever trust you again? You promised me that you’d get rid of these.”

She was right of course, and that caused the words to sting all the more. Davis was near a hundred percent sober now, but his vision still blurred. Hot tears of shame, and a heaping dose of frustration, pricking his eyes. He fought and managed to keep his voice level, mostly:

“Yeah, well... how am I supposed to just go around like it’s nothing when you could be sniffing through my drawers every time I turn my back?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

A half minute passed where neither said anything. The music from the laptop was still playing passively, shuffling through Davis’s library automatically and currently playing some upbeat video game OST Yolei didn’t recognize. Eventually he moved and sank down onto the futon with her again, a few inches of space between them, and both their eyes settled on the gallery of photos still on display on the glowing screen in Yolei’s arms.

Davis remembered telling his friends oh so recently that he and Yolei were back together. Tai and Izzy had exchanged a quick glance, a silent exchange of barely-contained, mild exasperation. He imaged them placing bets on how long he and Yolei would last this time and pictured money exchanging hands when he broke the news that they were surely once again parting ways-

“That was the most sick I’d ever been in my entire life.” Yolei muttered suddenly, indicating one of the pictures. “I literally thought I was dying.”

He chuckled despite himself.

“Your nose is so red there.”

“Yeah, the tissues from I-Mart were like sandpaper. They still are.”

“Red looks good on you though.” Their eyes met then, and Davis continued quickly, stammering slightly. “I mean, not many people can pull off crimson flight pants, but- um… you did.. for years.”

Her face had an unreadable quality to it, and it seemed as if she might respond with something, but then she turned away and began scrolling through his computer again. He noticed her eyes weren’t focused though and he didn’t have it in him to try and dissuade her from searching still. There was nothing else to find anyway.

“Why do you even have this folder?” She asked, eyes forward.

He debated with himself for a few seconds, then decided on the truth.

“I like… having photos. You know, of you.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And when we broke up last time, and you told me to delete all those ugly pics of you, I did.” Yolei’s mouth opened to object, but he continued before she could interject. “I really did. I honestly just forgot that they were on my laptop with everything else too, and when I saw them later, I just… couldn’t get rid of them.” He stared at her profile, tracing with his eyes the lines of her cheek, the bump on her nose. “I really thought this last time was the real deal.”

“Me too.”

“Do you think we should break up again?”

“I don’t know.” Even though they weren’t quite touching, Yolei felt him stiffen by her side. She closed her eyes, and said her next words to the blackness of her eyelids. “I don’t want to.”

He breathed out, the air leaving him as if released from a balloon.

“God, me neither.”

She twisted on her seat, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry for looking through your laptop. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay.” He responded quickly.

Yolei continued anyways.

“If I’m being honest too, I was looking to see what kind of porn you had saved on here.”

“What?” Davis balked. “Seriously? Why would you think I had… that stuff… on there? I don’t even…” He shook his head, the image of incredulity. “I don’t even watch that.” Yolei watched him steadily, a single brow raised. “What? I don’t!”

“Sure. We’ll talk about that some other time.” She was only half teasing.

The promise of ‘some other time’ bolstered his spirits quickly. He eyed his laptop in her hands, suddenly loathing the pathetic thing and how he’d used it to hide away the secret vestiges of what he had once thought would be all that remained of his and Yolei’s relationship. She had owned up to her transgressions.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Standing, he pulled the laptop from her slack grip before she could argue, and looking her dead in the eyes, gripped each half of the computer and snapped it in half along the hinge. The music died with a pitiful wheeze and splinters of plastic flew everywhere, a few bouncing off Yolei’s glasses to disappear into the fibers of the rug at her feet.

“Davis!”

“I shouldn’t have kept those pictures.” He discarded the broken halves of the computer, speaking passionately. “I want us to start over fresh, okay? I don’t want any dumb secrets or anything like that to cause any problems. I want you to trust me, because I trust you – I really do.” He swallowed hard. “I still love you, Yolei.”

Her eyes shone and laughter bubbled in her throat.

“But you computer-”

“I needed a new one anyways. You can help me pick one out!”

“Yeah, but,” She wiped her eyes clear. “What about all the other pictures? My graduation, the Digimon?”

“I still have those on my phone, no worries.”

“And your homework?”

“My homework?” It took a second for Davis’s brain to catch up. His eyes passed from one broken piece of the laptop to the other, then his hands rose to bury themselves in his hair. “Oh shit, shit. My mid-term paper is saved on there...”

Yolei wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but instead she reached out and pulled him to her. She gently unwound his fingers from his hair and twined them with hers. She kissed him and kept pulling until he was climbing onto the battered futon with her, then over her.

In the morning, she would take off the back panel of his broken computer and pull the hard drive. She’d help him recover his homework and maybe, just maybe, a couple of the more agreeable photos that she would allow him to keep.

For now though, he didn’t need any of the digital keepsakes. As far as either of them were concerned, any number of pictures paled in comparison to the real thing.

For now though, she held him close and breathed in his ear.

“I love you too.”

When DemiVeemon bounced back into the living area sometime later, he found the pair asleep and huddled under a blanket together on the futon. The small Digimon took in the mess on the floor, the couple’s mussed hair, their slow and steady breaths, chests rising as one. Of course, he had heard every word of their argument from Davis’s bedroom, but he was used to the ruckus by now and too preoccupied with his noodles to care. Anyways, no doubt there would be many such squabbles in the future for him to witness.

He decided to let them sleep for now and bounded to the kitchen in search of a mid-night snack. He would just have tell Davis about his dream some other time.

[softbiker]

Steve Rogers Oneshot

Warnings: maybe a bad word or two? I forget, sorry

Summary: If it’s green, it’s healthy. Nobody tell Steve otherwise.

Word count: ~2k (oops my hand slipped)

A/N: This was supposed to be a very short drabble based on a conversation I had with @kentuckybarnes​ last night...and then I don’t know this happened. Anyways! This is a little gift for @nacho-bucky​ , who deserves all the extra whip; the story features her character Agent 41, as well as a brief appearance by @kentuckybarnes​ Agent 28! A “reader” character may or may not make an appearance ;) Enjoy!

He hasn’t said so out loud - not yet - but Steve is really proud of her. She’s been doing really great this time around. Really, really great. 

After last year’s health kick ended (sometime around the holidays, even the heroes stop caring), everyone’s diets slid back to a state of normal that was…somewhat shy of their (read: Steve’s) original goals. Sugary cereals and waffles dripping in syrup and butter; everyone having their own pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer; Sam and 41 insisting on an extensive comparison of all available delivery pizza, often side-by-side taste tests that led to multiple pizzas devoured each night. 

Steve gave them a warning this time, 4 weeks in advance. It would be hard to jump right in and change their habits on January 1, since they’d be up late partying the night before, and then of course there were the holiday leftovers, etc etc. So he’d give them some time to mentally prepare.

“Mark your calendars, guys,” he warned, eyebrows arched, Captain Six-Pack posed in the community kitchen. “We’re cleaning up this kitchen - starting February 1st.” 

A month of healthy eating - but he picked the shortest month, so he was going easy on them, right? 

Like before, he had worried a little about their agent with the biggest sweet tooth. Poor thing, 41 had nearly had a breakdown last time, and Steve thought she might hate him forever. It was probably a close call. But she made it through the first time around, and February is only 28 days anyway. Well, 29 this year. 

She took it like a champ. Met his announcement with quirked brows and an amused glance in Clint’s direction, but no more wailing and gnashing of teeth than the rest of the team. Bucky had watched them over his steaming mug of coffee, secret smile around his mouth. 

“You know,” 28 piped up from across the island. “It might be a good idea to cut back on caffeine, too. It is an addictive substance.”

Bucky’s eyes had twitched, big knuckles flexing as his hand tightened on the mug.

“Come back with a warrant,” he grumbled. 41 giggled behind her hand and patted his shoulder. Steve just rolled his eyes.

Fast forward a few weeks, just over halfway through this little challenge, and he has to admit that she’s really leaned into the healthy lifestyle. More so than last time; in fact, she’s the one in the kitchen, night after night, iPad poised with a healthy recipe from Pinterest. Everything she’s made has been damn good - he always goes back for seconds. And she’s the first to volunteer to go for grocery runs for the team, dashing off to Whole Foods and the farmer’s market, a triumphant return with a beaming smile and arms full of lush, colorful produce. 

Feeling accomplished, and not a little proud of his leadership skills, Steve decides they’ve earned a little treat. Just a little one. 

Modern coffee and Steve Rogers have struck a deal - he’ll pipe down about price margins and inflation, as long as they continue to deliver strong, kick-you-in-the-teeth flavor. He loves a mean cup of joe, bitingly bitter, with only the occasional splash of milk to soften the harsh taste in his mouth. Coffee was scarce during the war, desperate rationing pared down the drink to little more than brown water, drunk from a helmet while he crouched down next to Buck in a foxhole. He’ll dig a little further in his wallet for something stronger than that. 

He’s familiar with the Starbucks down the block from the tower, having stopped in several times after runs with Bucky and Sam; they haven’t been in a while - a part of his health initiative includes less eating out and more making their own food and drinks. But it’s just coffee. And coffee has plenty of health benefits - he was just reading an article this morning about studies on the preventative effects of caffeine in dementia patients. Not that his brain cells are likely to be affected, but still.

Coffee it is.

41’s eyes light up when they walk in the door, a chorus of “Hello!” and “Welcome to Starbucks!” greeting them from behind the bar. She can smell the syrup in the air, blenders whirring double chocolatey chip frappuccinos with extra mocha drizzle and - what did the menu say? A…caramel ribbon crunch? Yum.

Steve Rogers is a purist in terms of coffee. The concept of frappuccinos and white chocolate mochas makes him want to roll his eyes a little. But he doesn’t make the rules - and hey, the people who invented this are raking in profits, so it looks like they’ve got the right idea. 

Clint’s got his arms around 41 from behind, his chin propped on top of the beanie he knitted her, both of them swaying a little as they glance over the menu. Steve knows Clint is a coffee-addict, too - he’ll probably order straight espresso. 41 loves her lattes, the sweet-flavored ones of course, but she’s done so well cutting out sugar. He trusts her. She’ll be fine. 

It’s just the three of them, with a list of coffee orders to bring back for the team. The cafe doesn’t seem too busy, so he doesn’t feel like an asshole when he shuffles up to the register, pulling up the list on his phone. 

“Be with you in just a second, okay?” 

His head pops up and he notices her standing there, smiling over her shoulder as she preps a new batch of coffee to brew. He nods, a little smile - “sure” - and slides one hand in his pocket while she finishes. She’s efficient and fast, measuring the grounds into the basket, sliding the urn into place and pressing the right button. He notices the way her hair swings, twisted up into a big butterfly clip at the back of her head, the ends falling like a ponytail, longer strands hanging next to her face. 

And then she’s twisting back around and popping up at the register, a nose-scrunching smile and a “What can I get started for you today?”

Blink.

“Um, I’ve got a list-” He fumbles for his phone again. “Sorry, it’s quite a few drinks.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” she nods. Smile still curling up her cheeks - he can’t quite tell if she’s wearing makeup or if that glow is just natural. 

“O-okay,” he clears his throat, swipes at the notes app on his phone. “So first, a tall dry cappuccino with an extra shot-”

He gets through Sam, Bucky, Nat, Wanda, and 28’s orders, before sliding his phone back in his pocket, puffing a harsh breath past his lips. 

“What else can I get for ya?” The barista leans a hip against the counter, tilting her head, smiling eyes still watching him. There’s just something about that look - like she’s in on a joke and he’s still waiting for the punchline. 

“For me…uh,” he shrugs, falling back on a standby. “An Americano, with a little bit of milk and cinnamon, please.” 

That makes her smile deepen, and he would really love to be let in on the joke, but she just nods and repeats the drink, tapping the buttons on her screen. 

“Okay - anything else?” 

“Oh, and whatever they’re having.” 

Over his shoulder, he nods Clint and 41 forward, their hands linked as they slide up to the register. With a smile and a quick greeting, Clint goes for a triple shot, double cupped, one Stevia. Pretty standard - whenever he’s not sharing sweets with his sweetheart, Clint tends towards strong flavors. For Christmas, 41 bought him a bag of something called Death Wish coffee - he brewed it all within a week. 

When it’s her turn, 41 grins at the girl behind the counter, standard sweet and friendly. She leans close to the register and tilts her eyebrow as she orders. 

“I’ll have a spinach milkshake,” she hums. “Venti, please. Oh! With extra whip.” 

Spinach milkshake, huh? Steve’s ears prick up, a little bubble of pride floating up in his chest. He knew if she just gave it her best shot, she’d get used to it. 

The barista grins back at her, and Steve does not at all notice the dimple in her cheek. 

“You got it, girl,” she winks. 

Steve pays, leaving a generous tip in the jar by the register, as the girl flits away from the computer to help prep their drinks herself. She smiles and chats with 41 over the espresso machines, her hands wicked fast between steaming milk and pulling espresso, lining up the finished drinks in the little cardboard tray at the end of the bar. Under her apron, she’s wearing a pair of baggy overalls and for a moment a memory sweeps up in him - factory girls and borrowed boots and rolled up sleeves. A victory smile, that’s for sure. Standing next to Clint at the counter, he pretends not to watch. 

She’s got the trays loaded up, all except one, and turns around to the counter behind her, pouring cold milk and some kind of green powder into a blender. Must be 41’s drink - she’s busied herself at the counter writing everyone’s names on the tops of their cups, adorned with little hearts. Characteristically cute. 

The blender whirs loudly, and as she reaches for a cup and lid the barista meets his eyes over the machines. It startles him, that guilty thump in his ribs, like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. Her smile stays glued in place as she turns back to the blender, fetching the pitcher and neatly filling the cup with the creamy, green drink, before dropping the pitcher in the sink to rinse. She flips the metal canister in her hand, shaking it a few times, before swirling up a veritable mountain of whipped cream on top. 

Steve sighs one of his long-suffering sighs, his eyes flitting up to the ceiling before he catches the look of excitement on 41’s face, already peeling the wrapper from a straw as the pretty barista snaps the plastic lid over the cup. Well…what can some whipped cream really hurt? At least it’s a healthy drink…she called it a ‘spinach milkshake’ and he has no idea what the ingredients would be in that, but the bright green color has him sold on some marginal health benefits. She’s earned a little dollop of cream. 

“Here you go, babe,” the barista grins as she hands over the drink to an eager 41, who immediately scoops her finger under the dome lid and pops a little whipped cream into her mouth. 

“Mmmm,” she smiles, dreamy. “You did great.”

“Oh, thanks,” the girl laughs back, now wiping down her counters with a rag, cleaning up any of her milk and coffee spills. 

“Seriously,” 41 insists, between slurps through her straw. “You’re, like, my new favorite person.” 

“Hey, now,” Clint hip-checks her as he reaches around to grab the drink carriers. He offers the barista a smile. “Thanks, kid, it looks great.” 

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she insists, sliding away her steaming pitchers and milk jugs. 

They’re turning to leave, all drinks accounted for, and the girl gives Steve one last smile as she turns to restock the cups next to the espresso machines. He sips his Americano - good, bold, perfect combination of milk and cinnamon. 

“Steve?” 41 is slurping at her…spinach thing, Clint holding the door open with his back, hands occupied with the drink trays. Steve licks his lips. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Starbucks employees have their names on their aprons, right? He remembers that being a thing.

She turns back, bright-eyed, expectant. 

“Yes, Captain?” The smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. “Anything else I can help you with?” 

He opens his mouth, starts to say yes, not surprised she recognized him but willing to hope-

His eyes slide down to the top of her apron, corners adorned with colorful, cute little pins, black name tag fixed to the top left corner. A neat cursive scroll spells the word ‘Fourteen’ in stark white chalk. 

Oh. 

His mouth shuts. 

41 gives an exuberant wave as she grabs his elbow and all but drags him out the door. The grip around his drink tightens when he almost stumbles over her behind him. 

“Thanks, see you next time!” 41 grins. 

Without breaking his gaze, the barista leans against the counter and winks, waving her fingers at them. 

Maybe he should give one of those spinach milkshakes a try. 

[surly01]

This Week in Collapse April 11, 2021

"Give me bacon, or give me death!" ~Shaneka Torres, February 9, 2014

If you believe, as we do, that environmental and social collapse is already well underway, the news of the week provided a cornucopia of data points in confirmation. Next week will mark the sixth anniversary of the conviction and sentencing of Shaneka Torres for storming a Michigan McDonald's upon discovering her baconless burger. The frustration Torres felt is now mirrored in all of us as we consume each day's headlines in similar frustration.

But hostility, like violence, is as American as cherry pie. Did you know that members of the starving Donner party were offered assistance by local natives, only to be shot at for their troubles?

Washoe scouts brought the stranded migrants food — including a deer carcass, fish, and wild potatoes — but were met with hostility. On one occasion, an offering of fish was refused. On at least three others, the Washoe approached the Donner camps with food only to be met by gunshots, leaving one man dead…

When a scout saw the white people cannibalizing their dead, the tribe was said to retreat, afraid they too might be killed and eaten. From then on, the Washoe referred to the migrants as “not people.”

Today this hostility toward others, even those trying to help you, pervades most of American society. Many look back upon their high school years as an American version of "Lord of the Flies." Similar put-downs, one-upsmanship, and attack behavior can also be seen in our popular entertainments. This framing our headlong retreat from the natural world and from one another as we immerse ourselves in our phones. To say nothing of our political divisions, best characterized by objectification (of the other, making them “not people”) and derision, and where any attempt to find common ground is met by the back of the hand of friendship. Little wonder that the rising generations find our current set of arrangements hopeless.

But this week's headlines suggest that for a variety of reasons, that set of arrangements won't last indefinitely.

Who could forget the recent Suez Canal flap with the large container ship stuck like a throat lozenge? Not Egypt, who has said to Ever Given’s Owners: Pay Us $1 Billion Or You Aren't Getting Your Big Boat Back. If you thought the Egyptian government would be thrilled to see it go, think again. Nice boat you have here… be a shame if anything happened to it…

“The vessel will remain here until investigations are complete and compensation is paid,” Osama Rabie, chairman of the Suez Canal Authority, told state television in Egypt on Thursday.

“We hope for a speedy agreement,” he said. “The minute they agree to compensation, the vessel will be allowed to move.”

A country filled with people traumatized by the Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020 paid full attention to the threat of supply chain collapse. Why you should expect more Suez-like supply chain disruptions and shortages at your local grocery store  In one short week, the price of oil went up, and companies fretted as hundreds of ships carrying everything from coffee and cattle to toys and furniture were delayed. Just-in-time delivery means low to nonexistent inventories. Experts estimated that every hour traffic remained stuck cost the global economy over US$400 million in lost trade.

The pandemic revealed that even simple supply chains, such as that of toilet paper and hand sanitizer, can easily break in the face of disruptions. The same was true with food, personal protective equipment, pharmaceuticals and ordinary household items, which all suffered from severe shortages that lasted for months into the pandemic.

Pandemic-strained supply chains are now creating a global shortage of semiconductors, a component used in a wide variety of consumer goods, from Samsung smartphones and Apple laptops to Ford Explorers and Sony PlayStations. Virtually every piece of electronics needs a chip, and the supply chain is much more complex than for toilet paper.

All coming to a supply-chain chokepoint near you. Read more in The Conversation.

The weekly economic news is not good, but economic news is never good.  How does a country deal with climate disasters when it’s drowning in debt? Not very well, it turns out. Especially not when a global pandemic clobbers its economy.

Today, the debt that Belize owes its foreign creditors is equal to 85 percent of its entire national economy. The private credit ratings agency Standard & Poor’s has downgraded its creditworthiness, making it tougher to get loans on the private market. The International Monetary Fund calls its debt levels “unsustainable.”  Many other smaller countries are in a similar bind. It's a house of cards.

Government Admits Zimbabwe Dollar Collapse, Pegs Passport Fees In US$. Information Minister Monica Mutsvangwa said the senior government officials had acknowledged Zimbabwean currency was no longer a viable option for offshore purchases. That's weaselspeak for “our money is officially toilet paper.”

“Foreign currency is required for the off-shore procurement of consumables. However, the current fees payable in the local currency are no longer viable…”

And that is just one domino. Africa offers others.

Collapse often follows insurgencies. Hunger spreads as Mozambique crisis reaches tipping point.

Insurgents from a group known as Al Shebab attacked Palma, a town in Mozambique’s far northern Cabo Delgado province. They launched an attack on the coastal town, firing indiscriminately, setting fire to buildings and killing dozens, according to local officials. Residents there did what people do: scattering in a desperate attempt to reach safety by whatever means possible: on foot, by road and boat fleeing with the clothes they were wearing and a few things for their children. To hide in the bush for the smoke to clear.

Townspeople joined thousands of others sheltering in displacement camps with limited food supplies across Cabo Delgado.

Much of the strife in the Global South stems from the stresses unleashed by climate change. The climate news this week was as ugly as the economic news.

Despite pandemic shutdowns, carbon dioxide and methane surged in 2020

NOAA announced last week that levels of the two most important anthropogenic greenhouse gases, carbon dioxide and methane, continued their unrelenting rise in 2020 despite the Covid-driven economic slowdown. Carbon dioxide levels are now higher than at anytime in the past 3.6 million years. The last time atmospheric CO2 was this high, sea level was about 78 feet higher than today, the average temperature was 7 degrees F higher than in pre-industrial times, and forests occupied areas of the Arctic that are now tundra.

Methane Has Never Risen This Fast in the Atmosphere

There’s more methane in the atmosphere than any other time since record keeping began. Levels really spiked last year, despite the fact that we were all inside for most of the time. Methane shattering records is one of those things that seems to happen every year. But what’s really troubling is that last year’s rise in methane levels was the biggest rise in a single year since record-keeping began. Methane is over 80 times more potent as a warming agent than carbon dioxide over a 20-year period.

Short takes and highlights from the week:

'A biological Fukushima': Brazil COVID-19 deaths on track to pass worst of U.S. wave

Brazil’s coronavirus death toll passes 4,000 a day for first time

Bolsonaro a 'Threat to the Planet,' Says Lula as Brazil's Daily Covid Death Toll Hits All-Time High

New 'Double Mutant' Coronavirus Variant Found In California

Americans' Worry About Catching COVID-19 Drops to Record Low

A record-low 35% of Americans worry about catching COVID-19. At the same time, 77% say the coronavirus situation is improving.

Ecocide: Should Destruction of the Planet Be a Crime?

Atmospheric CO2 Passes 420 PPM for First Time Ever

Scientists: Mass Extinction Is Coming as Organisms Flee the Equator-- Oceanic life is fleeing the increasingly-hot equator for more hospitable water, and a mass extinction event is likely to follow.

The Coming Antibiotic-Resistance Pandemic that Could Make COVID Look Like the Flu

America Never Wanted the Tired, Poor, Huddled Masses

Another Day, Another Far-Right Fantast: Texas Man Tried to Blow Up the Internet-- Federal Investigators allege that a Texas man wanted to use C-4 to blow up around 70% of the internet.

So it’s been a week of extortion for supply chain disruption, CO2 and methane-based catastrophe, immanent ecosystem collapse, unsustainable debt, and worthless currencies. Another week of downward spin as the American Empire unwinds along with late stage capitalism..

[squidpro-quo]

Hi I absolutely adore your writing, please never stop!! Also for prompts if you ever need some ideas; - Katsune Jaskier that follows Geralt like a shadow, which he's aware of but doesn't know who/what it is and it drives him mad until he finally sets a trap to catch him and lo and behold, it's a cute famous bard - THE HANAHAKI DISEASE AU BUT NOT FATAL - just Geralt secretly loving Jaskier's voice and pining for his singing - Feral Antisocial Geralt who's only Soft with Jaskier is my shitok

 AN: I'm so sorry this took so long! The world went to shit and my brain went along with it, but I loved your prompt so much I needed to write it, even so late >.

   It starts small. Geralt thinks it starts with the djinn but it really began much earlier, years earlier when Jaskier burrows past his defenses in a way that he barely even realizes and plants the seed that will turn Geralt’s life upside down. But it does start with the djinn, in a way. 

    The tickle in his throat had been growing for months, in hindsight its progress was likely inhibited by the twisted physiology of witchers, and Geralt ignores it in favor of working towards the next job, the next town, the next good night’s sleep. Until it turns to an itch that he can feel with every breath, keeping him tossing and turning on the spring earth like a dying beetle. He doesn’t sleep easy in the first place, even with swords in reach and Roach nearby, but the faint pressure in the back of his throat leaves him grasping for even the thinnest veil of peace every night. 

    Naturally, his only solution to this dilemma is to find a djinn. The net’s wet cords are unwieldy until he’s thrown it over three dozen times, more beyond that when he loses count until Jaskier’s voice cuts into his frustrated groans. He’d never admit that it might have been the bard’s lucky presence that wins him the amphora after so many hours of fruitless searching but even that thought is quickly tossed away when he sees what the djinn has wrought on Jaskier. 

    The long rides on his search for help are time enough for him to listen to the ragged breaths Jaskier fights to take and Geralt swears under his own at the foolishness his sleep-deprived brain had concocted as a solution. He’d bear the itch in his throat for the rest of his life if it meant Jaskier’s voice wasn’t torn to shreds between wheezes like this. His traitorous mind wonders if the solution to his problem of sleeplessness might have even happened if he’d had Jaskier’s strumming in the evenings to drift off to, that he’d gotten used to and only found he missed when the bard had left for the Countess de Stael. But it doesn’t matter, the hands weakly gripping his waist are what he should be focusing on. 

    He keeps a hand on Jaskier every second until he stands before the mage, the back of his throat scratched with how many times he’s cleared it in the past few hours and the exhaustion bleeds into his voice just slightly as he hears that haunting wheeze whistle from Jaskier’s lips again. 

    “Just a… friend?” Yennefer arches a brow with enough refined subtlety that he barely understands. 

    “Companion.” 

    “Ah.” The unimpressed look on her face doesn’t stand in the way of her offering help however, for a price Geralt would gladly pay many times over. The guilt that gnaws at him seems to crawl up out of his stomach and nestle in his lungs, his usually slow exhalations paced fast enough to almost be a normal human’s. The change would be disquieting if he wasn’t more worried about someone else’s chest rising and falling faster, and easier. 

    He’s standing over Jaskier, watching his eyelids flicker and trying to explain away why he’d rushed through a bath with a mage like Yennefer when she broaches the subject again. 

    “You care so much about what he’d die thinking, what did you say?” 

    Geralt considers not telling her but he could imagine what Jaskier would say. Brave enough to fight monsters as your day job but not enough to admit you cut me with a sharp quip? It would sound far better in Jaskier’s voice; Geralt’s mind had never been good at filling in Jaskier’s side of conversations unlike Jaskier himself was for Geralt’s. And maybe it was the sleepless nights that had brought back his habit of substitution, of trying to fill the hole in the everyday that had once been bursting at the seams. 

    “I insulted his singing.” 

    “He must be the bard then. The ‘humble bard’, no less. Well, I’m sure he’s heard worse.” Yennefer leaned against the post at the corner of the bed, arms wrapped around the wood as she pressed her face to the whorls carved into it. 

    “He shouldn’t—” He can’t finish the words, a cough disrupts his thoughts and forces him to focus on what had grown in the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, he feels something slip down from the force of it, a tightness as that of food eaten too fast. 

    “I’ve healed his ills, do I have to add yours to the bill?” 

    “No. This is nothing.” He braces himself on the post she’d abandoned, seeing the marking drawn on the floor and his mind scrabbles for something other than Jaskier to revolve around. “You’re planning to use him as bait.”

    “He’ll get his last wish, fully healed. What happens after is a matter of circumstance,” Yennefer says, shrugging. 

    “It’ll make everything worse, trying to cage…” Geralt stops, this time from the cloying scent that’s flooded his nose. 

    “That was faster than I’d have thought. You, witcher, are distracted.” She sways towards him as his senses begin to cloud and her glance towards the bed has him jerking to intercept. “Hush. He’s got all of your attention already, I’m just borrowing you for a bit.” 

    The world goes dark and Jaskier returns. But it doesn’t stop Geralt from marching back into the building to save her in the end. She had saved Jaskier, and as much as he’ll deny any conclusions one could jump to about how much he cares, or as Jaskier creatively put “give a monkey’s about”, him, that act deserves some kind of repayment. 

    ———

    Once it starts, it takes far longer for it to end, however. His and Jaskier’s path weave together in the years after that and he sees the bard’s fame continue to grow and his ballads about him growing wilder, if still mostly true, while for him the only change is the tickle that grows into a cough with every sunny step Jaskier’s takes away from him when he leaves even as he tries to hide it. 

    By the time he meets Triss, he’s found out what he swallowed that night. He leaves them strewn around his campsites, when he can afford to simply hack them up and discard them, and keeps his mouth shut otherwise, breathing only thinly until he can weed out the fresh patch that grows over the course of the day. The only reprieve he ever found was in the slip of meditation when his senses dull just slightly and Jaskier’s wandering fingers pluck out tremulous notes of his latest creation. But that only lasts so long. 

    Triss frowns as soon as she sees what Geralt holds in his palm.

    “If you weren’t a witcher, you might have died from this already,” she mutters, spinning the stem between her fingers. 

    “It won’t be what kills me directly. One good slash from a bruxa while I’m coughing these up and I’ll be the next piece of roadkill in the night.” 

    “I was talking about the poisoning. Buttercups are toxic, but at the rate your—You say you’re coughing them up so much that you swallow them instead, that might just be making it worse.” 

    “What am I supposed to do about it? What cursed me? Who? If I could solve this, I would have done it already. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

    “This isn’t something I can heal.” 

    “Then who?”

    “You. Just like how symptoms of a sickness get worse the more you ignore them, so too with this. Except this time, your body isn’t what’s being repressed but rather your emotions.” 

    “That’s what the mutations did. Too late to undo that,” he growled, the soreness in his throat mounting in the now-familiar foretelling of a fit. He doubled over, coughing a shower of drifting yellow petals onto the frosted earth. Buttercups in the dead of winter, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading back to him, giving him away even more thoroughly than Jaskier’s singing usually did. 

    Triss continued once she saw he’d stopped. “This is something you’re deciding to do. Or more likely, something you’re deciding not to do.” 

    “There’s plenty I don’t do. Fight every human who sneers my way or cavort in the streets, for a start.” 

    “But something you want to, but decide not to. That’s your mystery to solve. Not mine.” She smiled. “Unless you really do have a fancy for dancing a jig in the main square, I’d surely watch that.”

    He leaves her disgruntled but with an answer to his problem, even one he doesn’t like. While he racks his mind for what the solution is, the days start to blend together until he finds himself growing used to his condition. The flowers grow rampantly, but clearing his throat helps to at least keep the stems from clogging his breath for the hour it takes for them to grow back. It serves the same purpose as his usual monosyllabic sides in conversations about jobs, with the side effect of earning more than a fair share of stupefied, and disturbed, looks as the petals slip from his lips whenever he does open his mouth. 

    The only one who seems to ask him about it however, is Jaskier. He stumbles into Geralt’s campsite one dusk with a few of the flowers tucked behind his ear. 

    “I hear you’ve been spreading rumors without me! What’s this about the ‘Spring Witcher’? It’s like something from a fairytale, except instead of diamonds you get the burden of flowers dropping from your mouth. Shame it’s only the one kind. Pretty color though!”

    Geralt doesn’t say what he can feel lying on his tongue, that with Jaskier’s sky-blue doublet, the same one from when he’d wished the bard silent and come closer to killing him than anything else, goes so well with the yellow in his hair. Instead, he coughs, leaving a dusting of buttercups on Roach’s back just as he’d finished brushing her down. 

    “The tales don’t tell of that. Is it a curse? Can you still talk? Is it painful?” 

    By the time Geralt clears his tongue of any more bitter stems, Jaskier’s stroking Roach’s nose and looking at him with concern. It takes a second for him to speak, caught in the relief of the weight of those eyes on him, something he hadn’t realized he’d missed. 

    “What are you doing here?” 

    “That answers one of my questions at least,” Jaskier sighs, but acquiesces, “I’m… wandering, for now. I don’t know, I happened to find you. Maybe it was destiny, although I know you don’t like that word. Maybe I can stick around for a bit before I go, help you get rid of those weeds.”

    “You a healer now?” 

 ��  “No, but I’ve taken care of plenty of other things for you.” Jaskier takes hold of Geralt’s wrist, raising it until the scar running to his elbow is shining white in the firelight. “Wouldn’t look as nice if I hadn’t taken that embroidery class all those years ago, you know. And the rash from the—”

    “Yes, I remember the rash, Jaskier,” Geralt cuts in before he can continue down that vein any further. The tightness in his lungs eases just slightly in the moment, and he finds he doesn’t want it to be temporary. “Stay.”

    “Where? Here? I mean I don’t mind holding your hand, Geralt, but I’m also not a dog.” 

    “Just… It helps.” It feels like he’s pulling the words out, slowly and methodically uprooting them from inside and shaking the dirt from them before offering them up. 

    “Does it really?” Jaskier’s eyes widen, his hand tightening slightly on Geralt’s skin and he relishes the warmth of those nimble fingers, but it feels like he still hasn’t finished clearing out the field. 

    “And it’s been too quiet. Roach is good company but…” 

    “She’s not the best conversationist? I’ve noticed that too. She’s all eye-rolls and huffing, with good reason but there’s only so much of that deadpan you can take.” Jaskier smiles, still holding onto his wrist as he talks, stopping only to pat Roach’s flank between sentences. “I’ve missed you too, Geralt. I’ve never met anyone who can brood so expressively. And insult me so bad I almost die.” 

    “Jaskier, I’m—”

    “I kid. I can respect a good repartee as well as any jester. Besides, I flatter myself to think you may have learned such sharp wit from me.” 

    “I somehow doubt it.”

    “See? That was good, but I bet if you spend another decade or so with me, you’ll be killing monsters with just your words.” Focusing back down on the scar that had been the first point to his argument, Jaskier runs the pad of his thumb over the beginning of the raised skin, turning thoughtful. The expression scares Geralt, his mind always returning to the conversation before the djinn, to all the points where he could have stopped what he was doing and spared Jaskier the ensuing pain. To all the hurts that Jaskier bared to him, without him even realizing it. 

    “By then, will you still be using ‘old friend’?” he asks, realizing his words are coming easier, as is his breathing. The dull ache that had sat inside his chest for almost a year had eased, the taste of pollen against his teeth waning with every clear breath. 

    “Maybe something different. I have a few ideas, but I’ll run them by you. See how you react.” He almost doesn’t see Jaskier’s wink, with the darkening sky and the thumb that has traveled from his wrist to his palm, but he catches it. By then, the only buttercups left are those in Jaskier’s hair and even those are knocked loose by his next gesture. 

I’m open for prompts

[purplesurveys]

1102

survey by joybucket

What color are your eyes? They are dark brown. They’re actually really more of black because of how dark they are, but that sounds creepy so let’s just go with really really dark brown.

What's your favorite type of milk? I don’t take a lot of milk and am not familiar with most of them.

What's your passion? What a deep, introspective question three questions into this survey lmao. My interests are always changing so I don’t really give much thought into this. I don’t let myself be bound to just one thing.

What's your favorite color? I really like the way baby pink looks on everything.

Are you shy? Sure, but I’m trying to break out of that shell. Based from hundreds of past experiences, being shy is the easiest way to be forgettable and I’m tired of people never remembering my name or anything about me.

What is/was your favorite school subject? History. Anything about it I will surely enjoy.

Do you celebrate Christmas? Yes.

What's your favorite quote? I don’t keep track of quotes.

What is your natural hair color? It’s black.

Do you like it? There’s nothing to complain about. I’d love to have it dyed just to try out something new with my look, because it’s been black and untouched for 23 years; I guess it’s just a matter of when I’ll push through with it.

Are you happy with the way you look? I wish some aspects were different, like my hair to be less frizzy, my front teeth to be straight, my eyesight to be clearer, etc. But it’s also whatever; I don’t really focus on these things too much as I’ve never been the type of person to concentrate on my physical looks.

What would you change about your appearance if you could? ^ Well, those things I listed. Also, to have boobs?? Puberty never did anything for me in that department.

What would you change about your bedroom if you could? I’d move the bed up against the wall because that’s always been more my vibe. If I had the energy, I’d buy a storage container and place all Gab-related stuff in there so I can finally hide away those things (but not entirely throw them out). I would also fix my closet, all three sections of it. I’d also love to get a homey and soothing night lamp and be able to regularly buy scented candles to de-stress at the end of the day. In other news, my room has remained stale for so long and needs a revamp HAHAHA.

Are you rich or poor? I’d say we are in the middle, but our financial situation throughout Covid has been making me increasingly worry.

Are you double jointed? Nope.

What's the most physically painful thing you've ever experienced? The time I ripped my ear piercing, and my foot infection from snorkeling. Also getting my blood drawn, but that’s only because I’m a big baby when it comes to sharp things.

Do you like shots? See above.

Are you afraid of spiders? Our spiders are never too large or look menacing where I live, so not really. I’m aware of how big they can get in other places though so I totally understand the widespread hatred for spiders lol.

Have you ever had an allergic reaction to something? Not sure if it’s an allergy, but my legs quickly get irritated if they’re exposed in a grassy area for too long. My face also doesn’t seem to appreciate face masks, (the skincare kind), but I’m not sure if that’s an allergic reaction or if face masks are meant to do that.

Name a food that you like that's green. Green curry, or broccoli.

Do you like to read? Yes. More of non-fiction, though. I haven’t read a fiction book since I wasssss probably in middle school or early high school.

Do you know what your purpose in life is? No. I don’t stress out over stuff like this lol, I just make sure I’m happy where I am and at the same time, still feel fulfilled with the things I’m doing. 

Are you lonely? I can be, but I guess it’s just meant to happen sometimes.

What's something you are good at? Reading people. Sometimes to my benefit, sometimes otherwise.

What's a color that looks great on you? Olive green and maroon are my favorite shades.

What's something you would like to improve at? Being creative. My work requires a lot of it and I end up being a shitty teammate whenever we have to do brainstorming, because I literally just stay to the side, unable to think of anything.

Do you believe you have great potential? Yes.

What's one word to describe you? Right now? Tired.

Are you spiritual? Nope.

What's one thing that you get a lot of compliments on? My writing.

What's one hidden talent that you have? I dunno if it counts as a talent but I memorize a great deal of songs from Jay-Z and Kanye’s Watch the Throne album, which has always been a fun ‘talent’ to whip out and surprise friends with when we’re partying at a club/bar and a song from the album is suddenly played.

What are three girls' names that you really like? I love Olivia, Mia, and Harper. I’ve probably listed those names a thousand times on these surveys by now.

What are three boys' names that you really like? I like Liam, Mason, and Lucas.

What is the most beautiful scenery you have ever beheld?  The prettiest place I’ve been to was probably Palawan.

What is your favorite pizza topping? Just cheese is fine with me. If that doesn’t count, bell peppers come second. I can definitely live without the other usual toppings like pepperoni, beef, etc.

Name a food that you like that's red. I said green curry in the green foods question, and I’ll answer red curry here, haha.

Are you color blind? Nope.

Have you ever had a crush? Yes.

Can you type fast? I can and I do on a daily basis.

What's your favorite type of cereal? Erm, I’ve never tried them before but I’m drawn to cereals that are rather sweet lol, like Reese’s Puffs or Hershey’s Kisses cereal line. The thing is, they’re classified as one of the luxury imported brands over here so their prices are very unreasonable for a box of cereal, and I never get to have them as a result. Otherwise I don’t enjoy cereal too much.

What is one of your dreams? I would love to have a family.

What are your top three favorite colors? Baby pink, white, and mustard yellow.

What is your favorite book? I don’t have one.

What is your favorite amusement park ride? Ones that would provide enough thrill but won’t make me pass out, like the octopus.

What are three middle names you wouldn't mind having? Idk, I’m fine with my second name. I actually really like the name Isabelle and at one point I unsuccessfully tried to make it my main name, back when I still hated Robyn.

Are you flexible? Not really anymore. I used to be, kind of.

Do you consider yourself religious? Not at all. I haven’t been in around five years. I’ve been atheist since I was in the 4th grade, then I had this very sudden (but very brief) change of heart back in senior year when I started praying a lot. I went back to atheism as soon as I started university.

Are you bold? I can be, but it’s not one of my principal traits.

Are you spontaneous? It’s nice to be every once in a while, but I’m not always.

Do you have a significant other? No.

What's your pet peeve? Lateness.

How tall are you? Just a little over 5 feet, which does not classify me as tall at all.

What's your sexual orientation? Demi. I’ve also been increasingly self-identifying as asexual, so let’s go with that too.

Can you sing? Nope.

Can you dance? Nope, but I still do it when I’m alone.

Can you draw? No.

Do you play an instrument? I mean, just the recorder, but I don’t know if that counts.

What school subject do you hate the most? Chemistry. I struggled with it both in high school and in college. I hated physics and geometry too, but at least I got better at them as I got older. Chemistry is just far too complicated for me to appreciate.

What's your least favorite color? Most shades of yellow and neon green.

Do you eat healthy? I wouldn’t say I exclusively eat healthily, but I do keep a good balance in the food I consume. I enjoy my junk food as much as I like eating vegetables.

Do you think you look better with short or long hair? I’d say short.

What's a color that doesn't look good on you? White.

Are you passionate? Sure.

Are you doing the most you can with your life? Right now, with the world falling apart around me? I definitely try to. I have a great job, I spoil myself and try out new things for myself every now and then, I’ve pulled myself out from the rut I used to be in a few months ago, etc. I guess I can say I like where I am.

Are you proud of yourself for the way you are living? See above.

Do you love yourself? I've started taking a couple of steps down that path.

Do you have regrets? Sure.

Do you have wishes and dreams? Of course.

Do you have a huge secret you are keeping from the world? I suppose so.

Do you have neat handwriting? Yeah, I get quite a lot of compliments on my penmanship in general. I liked practicing my writing as soon as I learned how to properly hold a pencil, so I guess all those times served as good training.

Name a current favorite song. I dunno but Hayley is set to release a new album by tomorrow so a couple of songs from there will most definitely end up being a favorite.

List a song lyric that you like. “Can you live with what you know about yourself when you're all alone, behind closed doors?”

Are you happy? I think so. I’m definitely not as sad as I used to be.

Are you a generally optimistic person? I try to be, but I allow myself to be negative or realistic sometimes.

Have you ever had something horrible happen to you? Between deaths in the family, depression and other mental health issues, and personal life events that were less than nice, absolutely.

Have you ever been abused? Sure.

Have you ever been harassed and/or bullied? I was bullied as a kid because of my name, and as a result it was difficult to make friends for years. I’ve never been harassed though.

Do you love nature? Yes, I love being around nature when I get the chance.

Are you free-spirited? I wouldn’t consider myself that. I like being on the careful side when it comes to many things.

Are you carefree? Not really. 

Would you say you are an overcomer? Yup.

Are you a good friend? I hope I am.

Do you like animals? Love them, except insects.

Do you meditate? No. I actually tried yoga for the first time yesterday because that’s what my workout app had planned for me, but I quickly learned that I am way too impatient for it, lmao. The whole session was meant to be I think 30 minutes? but I quit by like the 14-minute mark and did another program. Idk, I guess it’s just not for me.

Do you pray? No.

What month were you born in? April.

What's your favorite season? We don’t have the usual four seasons but I’m gonna go ahead and say winter because it’s what appeals to me most.

What's one place you've been to that you want to visit again? I want to keep coming back to Sagada.

What's one place you want to go that you've never visited before? Thailand.

What's your favorite type of tree? I don’t have one.

Are you laid-back? I tend to be uptight most of the time, actually.

Are you hard on yourself? Yes.

How's your self-esteem? It’s been getting better, but sometimes I still can’t help but feel insecure.

What medical conditions do you/have you had? Scoliosis.

What are you allergic to? I have had itchy, irritable reactions to face masks and grass before, but not sure if they’re allergies.

Do you like to try new things? For sure, as long as it’s not a crime or if it involves my fears lmfao. Like I would be willing to skydive or dye my hair a strange color, but I’d never scheme a burglary or jump in a tub of cockroaches.

What's one word to describe your style? Chic.

What's one word to describe your bedroom? Plain. I definitely need to mix it up so that it can feel more like who I am.

What's one thing you like about yourself? I like that I’ve always been able to surpass difficulties and come out a better person from them, instead of letting them consume me.

What's one thing you dislike about yourself? I need to stop blaming myself for things out of my control.

Are you competitive? To a fault.

Are you faithful? Sure.

Can you cook? Hell no.

What's your favorite restaurant? Ramen Nagi.

[twotwinks]

a thing i was tagged in a long time ago by @rochc93. i am, believe it or not, attempting to catch up on these things. i always intend to do them but it’s either not a good time when i think about them or i’m not thinking about them. sorry i’m a mess

Who were you named after?

First name, nobody bitch. That’s all me. Middle name, like twenty different characters who are important to me but all on accident because I didn’t realize we shared the name until after I’d picked it. Notable instances include Rita Rose Vrataski from Edge of Tomorrow and also Amy Rose (a recent discovery). Last name, Gary King and also because I like confusing people about my gender by deliberately using a “male” title while presenting female (though hopefully not for much longer) and also being nonbinary. (Also s/o to ladies who call themselves king instead of queen. Yes I’m thinking of Kagamine Rin in the WanOpo songs Death Should Not Have Taken Thee and Our Adventure Log Has Vanished.)

Last time you cried?

two weeks ago to the day, when my dad let our dog Koko get hit by a car, things have been Extra Bad around here since then

Do you like your handwriting?

No. When I was little everyone always used to tell me how pretty it was but then I started trying to be a Serious Writer and my penmanship degraded as a result of how fast I had to get the words out of my head. Now my mom whines all the time about how messy and illegible my writing is.

What is your favorite lunch meat?

TURKEY

Longest relationship?

Umm....about two years ago for about three months-ish? I think? Maybe two months? I don’t know, we were dating for Christmas and then I broke up with him right before Valentine’s Day because my mental health couldn’t take it. I realized I was aro shortly after. Who would’ve guessed, huh?

Do you still have your tonsils?

Yep!

Do you bungee jump?

no and i never will

What is your favorite kind of cereal?

Dude this changes like monthly. Sometimes Honey Bunches of Oats. Sometimes Frosted Flakes. Sometimes I get a ridiculously strong craving for Strawberry Awake or Lucky Charms or Honey Nut Cheerios. I just get to eat cereal so infrequently that I can’t really have a favorite, I just have to indulge whatever craving I currently have because I only get the chance to eat one box every three months or so.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

Yes because when I was little my mom ingrained into me that not untying my shoes first would ruin the backs of them way faster than they should. In all fairness we were poor and couldn’t afford to buy me new shoes that often because my feet are so sensitive that an actual comfortable pair costs $100.

Do you think you’re strong willed?

oh fuck no i mean have you ever spoken to me??? i’m the biggest baby pushover to ever live

Favorite ice cream?

Either that Death by Chocolate stuff they serve at Purdue’s dining courts sometimes or mint chocolate chip. It has to be green though or it loses something sdkhsdhk

What is the first thing you notice about a person?

Usually like their shirt, I guess? I don’t know, this isn’t something I’ve ever really thought about. Maybe it’s also if they have one of those annoying faces or voices. Or if they have a queer vibe. Look I’m not good with people ok.

Football or baseball?

Football but only because marching band and/or soccer

Favorite doughnut?

Okay this is going to sound weirdly specific but. Chocolate cake donut with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles. Also on a related note I once let a girl in high school copy my homework (that I myself had found the answers to on the internet, it was a really unfair English assignment). She was so happy that she said she’d buy me a donut for breakfast the next day (she made a donut run for herself once a week as a special treat). I gave her my oddly specific request, but since I knew it was kind of a rare donut to find I told her anything chocolate would work. The next day, lo and behold, she showed up with the perfect donut. She had them make it special for me (insert Discord’s pleading face emoji). That was the day I learned my lesson about judging “dumb blondes”.

What music are you listening to?

I’ve been back into Touhou doujin arrangements again lately, especially eurobeat. However I’m also hyperfixating on Sonic the Hedgehog again so the game soundtracks and the Crush 40 albums are starting to show up in my frequent rotation on Spotify.

If you were a crayon, what color would you be?

The obvious choice is mint green but I could also very easily be a lime green or a glittery ruby slippers red.

Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?

I believe I talked to my grandma a little bit on my mom’s phone not that long ago? Other than that according to my phone it looks like I took a call from my dad back in April?

Hair color?

that real deep almost black brown. i nearly got into a fistfight with some boys in second grade who insisted my hair was black. it’s not black it’s just very thick. it actually looks much lighter if you just separate a smaller chunk and look at it.

Eye color?

Hazel. Brown with some green flecks. Or possibly green with some brown flecks. Also both of my irises look different up close but you can’t tell unless you’re really up in my face.

Favorite food to eat?

pasta but it can’t have red sauce

Scary movies or happy endings?

happy endings all the way

Last film you watched in the cinema?

do you really expect me to remember this. i honestly do not fucking know. i have no brain when it comes to movie theaters. i was gonna do a double feature of birds of prey and the sonic movie the tuesday before spring break (cheap prices for students!!!) but i ended up having a headache that day so i couldn’t go and then shit hit the fan and there was no theatergoing. i have tried and failed to get my parents to rent the sonic movie since. i’m very unhappy about it now that i’m hyperfixating again.

What color shirt are you wearing?

well i think it used to be white but it’s really old so now it’s like off-white. also it has a big snake on the back. i don’t even like snakes i just enjoy this shirt.

Favorite holiday?

Christmas!!! I don’t necessarily actually enjoy celebrating the holiday (thanks fam) but I love the idea behind it and the aesthetics. Also it’s peppermint season!

Beer or wine?

Listen I am super picky about alcohol. I haven’t liked any of the wine I’ve tried, but the first two wines I had other people told me it was bad (and then they took me out and bought me alcohol I would actually like because I’d never drank before and apparently getting me tipsy in Ireland over spring break was an Honor for them I literally didn’t pay for a single drink that night) and the third wine I had was paired with the wrong type of food (we couldn’t get the Right wine bottle open). I didn’t really mind the beer I tried in Ireland though, so I guess beer? I really like cider best though, and apparently I can also handle vodka.

Night owl or morning person?

night owl i wish i could be nocturnal

Favorite day of the week?

Friday. It has all the joy and anticipation of the coming weekend without the curse of my dad being home or the responsibility of homework looming over everything.

Favorite animal?

HEDGEHOG yeah i never really got past that from when i was little. but i also just love pretty much all animals. except like. snakes and spiders but sometimes snakes have their moments.

Do you have a pet?

Yeah. We have a lot of “family” pets but I consider Patches (cat) and Gabby (dog) to be Mine Specifically. If my mom hadn’t forced me out of therapy I’d probably be bringing Patches with me to college next year as an emotional support animal.

Where would you like to travel?

Europe babey. I just wanna hang out in France and England and Scotland and also go back to Ireland. I miss Ireland so much y’all.

ok that’s it. that’s all for this one. i’m not tagging anyone because i’m sure it’s already made the rounds among everyone. but if it missed you and you still wanna do it go for it. consider yourself tagged. poof.

[bountyofbeads]

The ‘follow-up appointment’

https://wapo.st/2z4uWXR

The ‘follow-up appointment’

'For many people in medical debt, it leads to a courtroom' (THIS SHOULDN'T BE HAPPENING IN AMERICA)

By Eli Saslow | Published August 17 at 5:41 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 18, 2019 9:18 AM ET |

POPLAR BLUFF, Mo. — The people being sued arrived at the courthouse carrying their hospital bills, and they followed signs upstairs to a small courtroom labeled “Debt and Collections.” A 68-year-old wheeled her portable oxygen tank toward the first row. A nurse’s aide came in wearing scrubs after working a night shift. A teenager with an injured leg stood near the back wall and leaned against crutches.

By 9 a.m., more than two-dozen people were crowded into the room for what has become the busiest legal docket in rural Butler County.

“Lots of medical cases again today,” the judge said, and then he called court into session for another weekly fight between a hospital and its patients, which neither side appears to be winning.

So far this year, Poplar Bluff Regional Medical Center has filed more than 1,100 lawsuits for unpaid bills in a rural corner of Southeast Missouri, where emergency medical care has become a standoff between hospitals and patients who are both going broke. Unpaid medical bills are the leading cause of personal debt and bankruptcy in the United States according to credit reports, and what’s happening in rural areas such as Butler County is a main reason why. Patients who visit rural emergency rooms in record numbers are defaulting on their bills at higher rates than ever before. Meanwhile, many of the nation’s 2,000 rural hospitals have begun to buckle under bad debt, with more than 100 closing in the past decade and hundreds more on the brink of insolvency as they fight to squeeze whatever money they’re owed from patients who don’t have it.

The result each week in Poplar Bluff, a town of 17,000, has become so routine that some people here derisively refer to it as the “follow-up appointment” — 19 lawsuits for unpaid hospital bills scheduled on this particular Wednesday, 34 more the following week, 22 the week after that. Case after case, a hospital that helps sustain its rural community is now also collecting payments that are bankrupting hundreds of its residents.

“Think of me as the referee,” the judge explained, as he called the first case. “It’s my job to be fair. I’m not going to be chugging for either side.”

On one side of the courtroom was a young lawyer representing the hospital, and he carried 19 case files that totaled more than $55,000 in money owed to Poplar Bluff Regional. Three nearby hospitals in Southeast Missouri had already closed for financial reasons in the past few years, leaving Poplar Bluff Regional as the last full-service hospital to care for five rural counties, treating more than 50,000 patients each year. It never turned away patients who needed emergency care, regardless of their ability to pay, and some people without insurance were offered free or discounted treatment. In the past few years, the hospitals’ total cost of uncompensated care had risen from about $60 million to $84 million. Its ownership company Community Health Systems, a struggling conglomerate of more than 100 rural and suburban hospitals, had begun selling off facilities as its stock price tanked from $50 per share in 2015 to less than $3 as the lawyer approached the judge to discuss the first case.

“We’re seeking fair payment for services we’ve provided. Nothing else,” he said.

Behind him in the courtroom were some of Poplar Bluff Regional’s patients — a population that was on average sicker, older, poorer and underinsured compared with the rest of the United States. More than 35 percent of people in Butler County have unpaid medical debt on their credit report, about double the national rate. Most of the 19 people on the morning docket had been treated in the emergency room and then failed to pay their bill for more than 60 days before receiving a summons to court. Many of them had insurance but still owed their co-pay or deductibles, which have tripled on average in the past decade across the United States. One patient owed more than $12,000 after being treated for a heart attack. Another was being sued for $286. If the hospital won a judgment, it had the right to garnish money from a patient’s paycheck or bank account or it could put a lien against a house.

“I’m hoping to negotiate a payment plan, but I can only afford $20 a month,” one patient told the court.

“I’m late for work, so if there’s someplace I can sign, I guess I’ll just sign,” said another patient, who owed more than $3,000 after spending six hours in the emergency room for chest pain.

“How am I supposed to pay $4,000 to see a doctor if I’m barely making $2,000 a month?” asked another.

One by one the patients came up to plead their cases until the judge called Gail Dudley, 31, who was sitting with her mother in the third row. She had gone to the emergency room at Poplar Bluff Regional in 2017 after passing out because of complications from Type 1 diabetes. The hospital had given her medication to stabilize her blood sugar, kept her overnight for observation, and then sent her home with a bill for $8,342, of which she was still responsible for about $3,000 after insurance. She’d tried to appease the hospital’s billing department by sending in an occasional check for $50, but with accumulating interest and penalty fees, the balance on her account had remained essentially the same for two years.

“I’m grateful for what they did for me, and I know I owe it, but I don’t have that kind of money,” she said.

The judge gestured in the direction of the hospital’s attorney and then looked at Dudley. “Would you like a chance to talk to this gentleman for a moment and see if you two can work something out?”

“Okay,” she said. “We might as well try.”

Matthew McCormick, 27, led Dudley into the hallway to begin the same negotiation he’d been having with dozens of hospital patients each week. On Thursdays he was listed as a hospital attorney for the court docket in Doniphan, population 1,997. Mondays it was Kirksville, Tuesdays were Bloomfield, and Wednesdays often brought him here, to a 95-year-old courthouse in Butler County, where he’d represented Poplar Bluff Regional on more than 450 billing cases so far in 2019.

“We’d like to find a way to work with you on this,” he told Dudley as they sat down together in the courtroom lobby. He reached out to shake her hand. He smiled and offered his business card. For the past year, he’d been working on behalf of the hospital as the newest attorney for a law firm called Faber and Brand, which promised to “use the judicial system to recover money owed.” McCormick’s cases hardly ever went to trial. More than 90 percent of the people being sued weren’t represented by an attorney and at least half failed to show up in court, resulting in default judgments in the hospital’s favor. The rest of the patients McCormick met came into court with little to offer in their own defense except for apologies and stories of poverty, poor health, unemployment and bad luck.

“I’m real sorry about this,” Dudley said. “If I’d been thinking straight, I would never have let them take me to the emergency room. I know I can’t afford that. I wish I could pay you all of it right now.”

“Let’s make this as easy as we can,” he told her. “Is there something you can pay? A little each month?”

“I don’t have anything extra,” she said, thinking about the paycheck she earned for a full-time job as a clerk at Goodwill, which totaled $736 every two weeks. After paying for rent and utilities on a subsidized three-bedroom apartment, groceries, and child care for her 6-year-old son and 3-year-old daughter, she sometimes ran out of money by the end of the month.

“How about $15 out of every paycheck?” she offered, even though she doubted she could afford it. When McCormick didn’t immediately respond, she revised her offer. “Thirty? How’s that?”

“Let’s say thirty,” McCormick said.

He had more patients waiting to negotiate, so he thanked Dudley and led her back into the courtroom to sign her judgment. It said she had agreed to a total claim of $3,021, plus $115 in court costs and 9 percent annual interest. She would send the hospital $60 each month until the balance was paid in full, and if she failed to make a payment the hospital could pursue garnishment of her wages.

“I’m glad you worked something out,” the judge said as he signed off on the agreement.

The court clerk handed Dudley a copy of the judgment, and once she was back outside the courtroom she took out her phone to run the math. If everything went right, and she somehow managed to save and pay $60 each month, she’d be sending checks to Poplar Bluff Regional for the next 5½ years.

In order to make 66 monthly payments, she had to somehow come up with the first, but her bank account was almost empty and payday was still a week away. Dudley left the courthouse, got into the car with her mother, then changed into a polo shirt for work. They drove away from the cobblestone streets of downtown and headed toward Goodwill.

“Could’ve been worse,” said her mother, Norma Garcia, 48. “Sixty isn’t so terrible.”

“It is if you don’t have it,” Dudley said. “Who do you know that’s sitting on an extra sixty each month?”

They drove past a dollar store, a payday lender and a fast-food restaurant advertising “full-time career opportunities” starting at $7.80 an hour.

“Maybe you can borrow it?” Garcia suggested.

“I don’t do credit cards or lenders,” Dudley said. “That’d just be another debt I couldn’t pay.”

“I meant from somebody.”

“Who?” Dudley asked. “Everyone we know is paying the hospital already.”

Their family had lived for three generations in Poplar Bluff’s predominantly black neighborhood just north of downtown, where according to credit records more than half of adults had debt in collections for unpaid auto loans, credit cards or medical bills. Dudley’s aunt had been sued twice by Poplar Bluff Regional and was forfeiting 15 percent of her paycheck to a court-ordered hospital garnishment. Her cousin was being sued for $1,200. Her sister owed $280.

But none of them had cycled through the emergency room as often as Dudley during the past several years. Her two pregnancies had complicated her diabetes, and she’d tried to save money by skimping on insulin. Instead of paying $50 every few months for a preventive medication, she had collapsed at work and been rushed to the emergency room, where she was sent home with thousands of dollars in now-unpaid bills. Poplar Bluff Regional was an ambitious rural hospital — a $173 million facility with a cancer center, a cardiac center, dozens of specialists and state-of-the-art surgical suites — and Dudley believed she was alive because of it. But during the past five years, the average amount that rural patients owed for hospital visits nationwide had doubled, and Dudley was earning $11 an hour at Goodwill as new hospital bills kept arriving in her mailbox.

She owed a $100 co-pay from another hospital visit in November 2018 that had already been sent to collections.

She owed $485 from another trip to the ER in April.

She owed $159 for lab tests, $85 for a doctor’s visit and now $60 for her first court-mandated payment, which was due at the end of the month.

“I’m trying to make peace with the fact that this debt could sit on me forever,” she said.

“Maybe I can help,” Garcia offered, even though she was on disability and avoiding her own billing notices from the hospital, seeking $365 in unpaid deductibles.

“It’s my bill to pay,” Dudley said. She’d been saving a little money for back-to-school supplies, and she said it was enough for her first month’s payment. “I’ll handle it,” she said. “There’s no other choice.”

There was one person in town who did believe patients had another choice, and over the past several years Daniel Moore had begun encouraging his clients to make it.

“Don’t pay one cent,” the lawyer had advised dozens of clients. “I don’t care how much the hospital says you owe. Fight them over it.”

Moore had been working for almost five decades as a self-described “old hillbilly lawyer” out of a converted house downtown. He specialized in criminal defense, with more than 400 cases pending all over the state, and he liked to align himself with the underdog. He’d been unable to afford a doctor himself while growing up on a farm with no running water, so when clients began coming to his office with bills from Poplar Bluff Regional that they could neither pay nor understand, he had agreed to take a look.

What Moore found in some of those itemized receipts didn’t make sense to him either: $75 for a surgical mask; $11.10 for each cleaning wipe; $23.62 for two standard ibuprofen pills; $592 for a strep throat culture; $838 for a pregnancy test. He searched through court records and discovered that the hospital was collecting hundreds of monthly garnishments from hourly employees at places like Quickstop, Earl’s Diner, Wendy’s, Instant Pawn and Alan’s Muffler.

He decided to represent several hospital patients free, and went to court against the hospital for a jury trial for the first time late in 2015. Moore’s client was a Poplar Bluff police officer with decent insurance, an Army veteran who went to the emergency room one afternoon because of chronic stomach problems. He’d been given a battery of tests in the ER, then treated with three IV medications before being discharged after three hours with a bill for $6,373. His insurance had paid some, but the hospital was suing him for co-pays totaling about $1,650, plus interest.

“The facts show that he came to the hospital and received treatment that alleviated his symptoms,” the hospital’s lawyer at the time told the jury. “He received three separate bills. He just didn’t pay the balance.”

“These charges are outrageous,” Moore told the jury. “He doesn’t owe the hospital anything.”

A billing manager from the hospital took the stand and said Poplar Bluff’s prices were in line with other hospitals in rural Missouri. She mentioned the high cost of providing care at rural hospitals, which must pay higher salaries in order to recruit doctors, nurses and specialists while also suffering more from federal cuts to Medicaid and Medicare compared with urban hospitals.

Moore began to question her about each charge on his client’s itemized receipt. Why, he asked, did it cost $800 to spend approximately 40 seconds with a doctor? Why was the hospital charging $211 for an oxygen sensor that was on sale for $16 at Walmart? Then Moore asked about three identical charges on the bill labeled “IV Push,” which each cost $365.

“An IV push, if I understand it, that’s the act of sticking the needle in that little port and then squeezing it,” Moore said. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” the billing manager said.

“So that takes maybe five seconds, right?”

“Yes.”

“So you, the hospital, think that act alone, not counting the drugs inside the IV, which cost thousands of dollars more — that act alone is worth $365.38?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“It makes me so mad,” Moore told the jury, in his closing argument. “If you’re content to let the hospital just crush people, then go on and give them their measly $1,650. But what you can do today is say, ‘Hey, we’re tired of this.’ How many times are we going to let working people take the shaft?”

“In reality, this is a simple bill,” the hospital’s lawyer countered. “All we’re asking for is his co-pay and his deductible. The hospital provided treatment. He still owes.”

The jury deliberated for less than an hour and then found in favor of Moore’s client, wiping away his hospital debts. But whatever sense of victory Moore felt was mitigated over the next months as Poplar Bluff Regional’s lawsuits continued to spread across the civil courts of Southeast Missouri, and he agreed to take on more free cases. “The hospital circuit,” Moore called it, which meant Mondays in Caruthersville, Tuesdays in West Plains and Wednesdays in Poplar Bluff.

On Thursdays it was Doniphan, a town of fewer than 2,000 people, where Poplar Bluff Regional had filed more than 300 lawsuits during the past several years. Moore drove past horse farms and timber plants, parking near an abandoned hospital. Ripley County Memorial had closed six months earlier, and there were locks on the doors and a sign taped above the ambulance bay.

“For Nearest Emergency Services, go 29 miles to Poplar Bluff Regional,” it said, and now several of those Poplar Bluff patients had been summoned right back to downtown Doniphan, to a red brick courthouse at the center of the town square.

They crowded next to each other on a wooden bench in the lobby, waving their hospital bills as fans against the late July heat while they waited for the courtroom to open and then entered one by one: a husband and wife who went for cancer treatments at Poplar Bluff Regional each week but couldn’t afford the co-pays. A community college student who owed more than $7,000 for treatment of a chronic heart condition. And then the judge, who had presided over hundreds of hospital cases during his career and also recused himself from one case a few years earlier, when the patient being sued was his wife.

“How are we all doing today?” he asked, as he looked down at a docket with 14 more cases between a hospital ownership company that couldn’t afford to keep losing money and patients who couldn’t afford to pay. Both sides were drowning in debt, fighting to stay above water, and pulling each other back down.

“It’s another full docket,” the judge said. “We might as well get started.”

Eli Saslow is a reporter at The

Washington Post. He won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Explanatory Reporting for his year-long series about food stamps in America. He was also a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing in 2013, 2016 and 2017

[thetruthseekerway]

Managing Our Plastic Addiction

New Post has been published on http://www.truth-seeker.info/featured/managing-our-plastic-addiction/

Managing Our Plastic Addiction

By Asma Jarad

Managing Our Plastic Addiction

The invention of synthetic plastic in 1907 by Belgian-born American immigrant, Leo Hendrik Baekeland, gradually and completely changed life for people around the world. In the search for a substitute to shellac–a natural electrical insulator–Baekeland invented Bakelite. Because it provides endless possibilities with its unique ability to be molded into virtually anything, Bakelite was marketed as “the material of a thousand uses.”

Over time, plastic evolved even further and replaced our reliance on natural materials such as metal, wood, stone, and animal tusks, becoming the material of infinite uses. Indeed, the development of plastic has proven invaluable to people and the environment. However, as with all good things, there is always a price to pay. Unfortunately, plastic products show up in places we don’t want them to; piling up in landfills, blocking our waterways, and polluting our oceans.

We are endowed by our Creator for good, so how can we utilize plastic in the countless beneficial ways it is offered without harming our health and contaminating our environment?

Plastic Everywhere

In the 1960s, plastic began gaining popularity due to its exceptionally versatile characteristics. Our lives today are saturated with plastic products; from the medical field, tech devices, furniture, toys, car and plane parts, to food containers and drinking vessels; reliance on plastic is everywhere. In addition to being precisely moldable, plastic is light yet durable, provides a practical alternative to glass and ceramics, is cheap to produce, and sterile enough to be used in medical procedures and devices.

It is indeed difficult to imagine a day without plastics because they make our lives easier, healthier, and safer. For example, safety helmets people use for riding a motorcycle or bike are nearly 100% plastic. Plastics also furnish our lifestyles; whether it’s the cellphone in our hands, the clean water delivered to our faucets, the television mounted on our walls, or the structural foundations of our homes, innumerable lifestyle possibilities would not be available if not for plastic.

As practical human beings, we know that there is no such thing as an all-around good thing. Everything has its downfalls and when it comes to plastics, there is no exception. With increased reliance on plastic as an alternative to natural resources, we gradually learn the negative result of the proliferation of plastics in our lives. As we become increasingly aware of taking care of the environment and reducing our waste, we also cannot ignore the collecting plastic debris, piece by piece occupying vast miles of ocean space, clogging our waterways, and piling up in landfills. The troubling effect of plastic waste certainly cannot be disregarded.

Since the chemical structure of most plastics renders them resistant to natural processes of degradation, plastic pollution has become a leading environmental plague. According to Rick LeBlanc, an expert in the area of sustainable packaging, “Normally, plastic items can take up to 1,000 years to decompose in landfills. But plastic bags we use in our everyday life take 10-1,000 years to decompose, while plastic bottles can take 450 years or more.”

There are solutions to this epidemic which include what I learned in grade school as the 3 Rs: reuse, recycle, and reduce. According to Laura Parker, a National Geographic staff writer who specializes in covering climate change and marine environments, “A whopping 91% of plastic isn’t recycled. Billions of tons of plastic have been made over the past decades, and much of it is becoming trash and litter.”

When we reuse and recycle rather than tossing away, we reduce the need to create more plastic products, thus helping to stave off what many experts fear will be a time in the not so distant future where the ocean will be filled with more plastic waste than fish. Roland Geyer from the Bren School of Environmental Science & Management, specializes in industrial ecology and found that “The rapid acceleration of plastic manufacturing, which so far has doubled roughly every 15 years, has outpaced nearly every other man-made material.” Unlike other man-made materials such as steel, nylon, and glass, the lifespan of plastic products in our lives average under a year.

Tips for consuming less plastic as described by Stephanie R. Kinnon, a Vancouver-based freelance writer, include:

– Make an effort to purchase products with minimal plastic packaging.

– Use cloth bags for grocery shopping.

– Reuse plastic containers within your home. For example, plastic grocery bags can be reused for additional trips to the grocery store or as lunch bags, gym bags, and garbage can liners. Yesterday’s yogurt container can become tomorrow’s lunch pail. Old margarine containers can become storage vessels for an assortment of household items.

– Familiarize yourself with plastic recycling in your community.

Plastics on Our Health

In addition to the negative impact we inflict on the environment with our over-consumption, lack of recycling, and reliance on plastics, there is also a documented adverse effect on our personal health. For example, plastic containers are made with additives such as bisphenol-A (BPA), an industrial chemical that some experts claim is toxic because it binds to estrogen receptors and influences bodily processes such as cell repair, fetal development, growth, energy, reproduction, and fertility. When certain plastic containers are made, BPA is added to aid in product resiliency.

BPA is meant to remain sealed within the product, however, it commonly seeps into the food or beverages the container is holding. Given this information, BPA has been banned or restricted on several fronts, however the common replacements, bisphenol-S or bisphenol-F are similar to BPA in structure and toxic effect. To minimize BPA exposure, Aline Petre MS, RD, recommends avoiding packaged foods, drinking from glass bottles, being selective with toys, not microwaving plastic, and only buying powdered infant formula.

Whether we like it or not, plastics are here to stay. Despite the negativity surrounding them, plastics are critical to our modern lives. Without plastics, we would not have much of the technology we enjoy and depend on such as cell phones, computers, TVs, and lifesaving medical devices. Plastics’ versatility has raised our standard of living and helped shift reliance from natural materials in a safer, lighter, cheaper, reliable, and durable manner. It is incumbent upon each one of us to do our part in becoming plastic savvy to preserve our environment and protect our health.

We must reduce our waste by choosing reusable and recyclable plastics to keep them out of landfills as well as out of the water we share with other living creatures. When we are done with our plastic products, we should take responsibility for delivering them to reputable recycling centers where they are converted into other useful products. The benefits of recycling are far reaching as they include reducing the amount of waste sent to landfills and incinerators, conserving natural resources, preventing pollution by reducing the need to collect new raw materials, and saving energy.

As Muslims who seek to follow in the footsteps of our ultimate altruistic role model, Prophet Muhammad (Peace Be Upon Him), we should heed his teachings when he advised us to hold ourselves accountable for our actions and to avoid going into excess as reported by Abu Huraira, “Verily Allah likes three things for you and He disapproves three things for you.

He is pleased with you that you worship Him and associate nor anything with Him, that you hold fast the rope of Allah, and be not scattered; and He disapproves for you irrelevant talk, persistent questioning and the wasting of wealth.”—(Sahih Muslim, Book 30, Hadith 12. Wealth comes in many forms, including a healthy environment. In the Quran, God commands us to avoid wasting resources and to be mindful of our guardianship role. He says, “But seek, through that which Allah has given you, the home of the Hereafter; and [yet], do not forget your share of the world. And do good as Allah has done good to you. And desire not corruption in the land. Indeed, Allah does not like corrupters.” (Quran 28:77).

———

Asma Jarad is a Chicago-based freelance writer and editor published across multiple forums.

Reprinted from the Summer 2019 issue of Halal Consumer© magazine.

[antoine-roquentin]

Paul Sliker: Michael, Argentina recently agreed to a $50 billion loan from the International Monetary Fund. That’s the largest ever in IMF history. It is supposed to run for 36 months. Argentina began talks with the IMF last month, after three central bank rate hikes. Despite pushing borrowing costs above 40%, this failed to stop the fall in the peso, which has now fallen by 25% against the US dollar this year.

This agreement brings back a dark history for most Argentinians regarding the IMF’s role there during their devastating economic crisis in 2001-2002. The IMF imposed severe austerity measures, as usual. That’s its basic anti-labor policy, so Argentina’s decision to return to the IMF has triggered huge national protests over the past few weeks.

Despite this being the biggest loan in IMF history, we don’t really hear anything about it in the US media, except for the typical brief reporting in the financial press. There’s no real political or economic analysis of this especially on the Left, which one would think would be more sympathetic to the Global South, as well as countering IMF austerity philosophy.

Before we get into the current massive deal with the IMF – you are one of the world’s leading experts on IMF and World Bank loans. When you were at Chase Manhattan Bank’s economic research department, your role was a balance of payments specialist, and your task was to establish the payment capacity of Argentina, Brazil and Chile. To give people a general understanding of the historical context leading up to what’s going on today, can you give us some history about the last Argentine economic crisis in the early 2000s, and the IMF’s role at that time?

Michael Hudson: The reason there is so little discussion of Argentine or other Third World debt problems is that hardly anybody studies balance of payments (BOP) any more. There’s no course in balance-of-payments accounting or even in National Income and Product Accounts (NIPA) at any U.S. university. The right-wing Chicago School propagandists keep claiming that if a country’s currency is depreciating, it must be because its prices are going up. But that gets the line of causality inside out. For debtor countries such as Argentina or other Latin American countries, the balance of payments has little to do with domestic prices, domestic wage rates or domestic cost of production. The balance-of payments – and hence, the exchange rate – is swamped by debt service.

Debt service is paid on what’s called Capital Account. Politically, government debt denominated in dollars is run into by these countries to cover their trade deficit that results from structural factors, such as their agreement not to grow their own food but to rely on U.S. grain exports, and to let U.S. investments in their countries avoid paying taxes. These are structural factors, not wage and price factors.

Argentina is the poster child for countries that have totally screwed up their economy. Their predatory right-wing oligarchy has managed to steer their country from the most prosperous in the world in the late 19th century to one of the the poorest and most debt-strapped countries. This is a political problem. But the oligarchy blames labor and says that it has to be paid even less.

In 1990, I helped organize the first Third World bond fund. It was issued by Scudder, Stevens & Clark. At that time in 1989-1990 Argentina was paying 45% per year on dollar bonds. Brazil was paying the same. Now just imagine: 45% a year. That doubles your money in two years! No country can possibly pay that for long. But it was clear that the Argentine dictatorship – bolstered by a US-backed assassination program against labor leaders, land reformers and left-wing professors – would continue paying for at least five years. So that was the fund’s time frame.

Despite these high interest rates, we weren’t able to sell the bond fund to any American or any Europeans. But Merrill Lynch, which underwrote the bond fund, sold all its shares in Latin America. The fund was organized and the Dutch West Indies, so it was an offshore fund. Americans (including myself) were not allowed to buy it.

So who did buy it? The bond buyers turned out to be the wealthiest families in Brazil and in Argentina. I think I’ve discussed this before on your show. Argentina’s foreign debt was owned almost entirely by the domestic Argentine oligarchy – the very richest class. They moved their money out of domestic currency into dollars, buying dollar bonds because they knew that they were going to authorize the high interest being paid – to themselves, masquerading as “Yankee dollars”.

This is the oligarchy that followed the 1973 US-Chilean military coup that assassinated Allende and installed Pinochet. The US mounted a mass assassination and terrorism campaign throughout Latin America. In Argentina it was called the Dirty War. The Americans came in and applied the Chicago School economic principle that you can only have a free market if you’re willing to assassinate labor leaders, land reformers and university professors. Tens of thousands of Argentine reformers were tortured and killed to put the oligarchy in power and slash taxes on high incomes. Their tax laws make Donald Trump look like a moderate. And like most financial elites, they took the money and ran, putting their takings offshore in Argentina dollar bonds. Politically they denounced Yankee bondholders for forcing huge debt payments at 45% a year driving the currency down, but the wealthiest families themselves were the “Yankees” who were actually collecting. The real American Yankees simply didn’t trust the Argentines!

When Scudder went around and talked to US investors in 1990, they said that the Argentinian politicians are crooks, and were not going to invest in a kleptocracy whose intention was to cheat us just like they cheat their own people!

Now, fast forward to 2001. The IMF came in and followed US Defense Dept. and State Department directions to support the oligarchy and its terrorists. The CIA feared that otherwise Argentina might have a democracy as the wave of “free market” assassinations had died down.

The IMF staff saw that it was obvious that Argentina was unable to take on any more debt. Nonetheless, they lent Argentina enough money so that the wealthiest Argentines could have a high enough exchange rate for the Argentine peso to take their money out of the country and move into dollars. It was a huge subsidy for capital flight out of Argentina into dollar-denominated Argentine debt to the IMF and other bondholders.

Any realistic balance-of-payments analysis would show that Argentina can’t pay off this foreign debt. The IMF staff knew that the money was being stolen offshore. It’s as if they lent to Ukraine. That wasn’t a bug, that was a feature. The IMF staff got so upset – downright disgusted with its corrupt anti-labor, pro-bondholder leadership – that for the next decade, the IMF motto was “no more Argentinas.”

Already in 1965 at Chase Manhattan I had done an analysis of Argentina’s balance of payments and hence its ability to pay debt service. My job was to calculate how much foreign currency Argentina could afford to borrow? First, I calculated their export capacity and their import needs. They’d agreed to buy from America and to become dependent. I found that Argentina already was paying all the debt service that it could, so it couldn’t afford to borrow any more. For almost half a century the country had been limping along.

The IMF staff must have made a similar analysis, but its US-appointed board overruled its internal economic staff. It’s as if they operate out of a subbasement in the Pentagon and do whatever they’re told. So the IMF lent the money to support the oligarchy and its capital flight. This was basically what the US/IMF also did in Russia.

When Argentina issued foreign dollar bonds, it signed an agreement whose language was ambiguous, saying that it to treat everybody with parity. As you know, my book Killing the Host has a chapter on Argentina’s foreign debt. The vast majority of bondholders agreed to write down this debt to an amount that realistically could be paid. But a few years ago an almost senile American judge ruled in favor of the hedge funds, saying “parity” meant payment in full, not subject to the agreed-upon writedown. Judge Griesa said that a debt is a debt, even though the majority of Argentines had written it down. So the vulture funds cleaned up.

The result today is that Argentina is as strapped as Puerto Rico, Greece or the Ukraine. It can’t possibly pay its foreign debts, so bondholders are dumping its bonds and the currency is plunging. The reason is not because it’s importing more, and certainly not because its wages are high. They’re very low, because as I said, the police state assassinated the main labor union leaders.

The IMF sets terms on its loans: You cannot give labor unions power, and you have to privatize your industry (that is, sell it off to US and other foreign investors). You have to put the class war back in business with a vengeance. That’s how we got to the situation were the IMF lent enough money so that any wealthy Argentine families can convert their pesos into dollars. This capital flight leaves the economy empty and strapped. That’s the IMF’s “free market” philosophy.

The situation is going to get worse in the coming months, not only for Argentina but for other Latin American countries. The main problem is that in the United States, the Federal Reserve is raising interest rates. It’s worried that there’s full employment, and its job is to keep wages low. The Fed thinks that the way to lower wages in the United States is to raise interest rates to deter new investment and employment, except at minimum wages or “gig” rates.

Raising interest rates for the US economy means that the dollar’s exchange rate will rise against foreign currencies. It’s going to take many more pesos or other third world currencies to service their dollar debt. That means foreign countries are suddenly going to owe more for their foreign currency debt. That’s another reason why private capital is being moved out of Europe, Latin America and Asia into the dollar. Investors can make more money securely by buying U.S. government bonds than they can any other way, because the international financial system is looking very shaky right now.

That’s why we have an inverted yield curve in the United States: short term rates are higher than long-term rates, because “savers” (a.k.a. the One Percent here and abroad) are parking their money in liquid U.S. Treasury IOUs.

If the Federal Reserve actually goes ahead with its policy of raising interest rates, this will force defaults on the part of countries that owe their foreign debts in dollars, because the hard currency is becoming more expensive relative to the soft currency of debtor countries.

Paul Sliker: As you mentioned earlier, it’s just amazing that for the IMF, the term “never again another Argentina” became its motto many years ago, and was actually cited by the European Desk economists who walked out when the IMF made its awful loan to Greece. The IMF acknowledged that Argentina’s debt was not payable. So to be a bit more clear about what you think is going to happen this time around with this massive $50 billion loan agreement, is it simply going to bail out speculators in Argentine bonds?

Michael Hudson: Not only speculators, but the domestic oligarchy of bondholders, landowners and corporate owners. The wealthy Argentinans who deal with foreign banks want to keep their money offshore, in currencies other than the peso. They realize that the game is over and that it’s time to take the money and run.

Paul Sliker: Just to be really clear here in comparison to the 2001-2002 situation, what is this going to do specifically to the Argentinian people as a whole this time around?

Michael Hudson: The same thing that it’s done to the Greek people and the Puerto Rican people. Many will try to emigrate. Some will commit suicide. Lifespans will shorten.

The standard scenario is what happened to Russia under neoliberalism in the 1990s. There is little the Argentine people can do, because the President essentially works for the U.S. commercial banking system and has let the IMF put pressure on Argentina. He has stopped the domestic subsidies for gasoline and the price of oil and gas to domestic producers. Basically he’s taking away social subsidies in general.  It’s a classic neoliberal austerity program.

Argentina is following the Donald Trump program of balancing the budget by cutting back its social programs. So the reason that Argentina should be interesting to your audience is that it looks like the future of the U.S. What is happening to Argentina is what Donald Trump – and before him, President Obama – want to do to the U.S. economy.

Paul Sliker: That’s the question I was just going to ask you. As we’re closing this conversation out, Michael, maybe you can expand on that. I think some people generally know that the central theme of Latin America for decades is that U.S. economic and foreign policy deploys the IMF and World Bank to back creditors, foreign investment, and privatization. But why exactly should people care here in the U.S.? I know you started to explain that. But dig a little deeper for us there.

Michael Hudson: What really is at issue is whether all debts should be paid, or not? I think that there should be an international rule that no country should be obliged to pay its debts to the wealthy One Percent, especially to a creditor class that prefers to hold its domestic wealth offshore in foreign currencies. No country should be obliged to pay its bondholders if the price of paying means austerity, unemployment, shrinking population, emigration, rising suicide rates, abolition of public health standards, and selloffs of the public domain to monopolists. To make matters even worse, the privatizations demanded by the IMF and World Bank, for instance, will sharply raise the prices for what had been public services, transportation, water and sewer, communications, and telephones.

There should be principle that the domestic people should come before foreigners. But the guiding principle of the IMF, World Bank, and the United States is the opposite: namely, that no nation should put its own interests first. Instead, every nation is told to put the interests of international creditors first, even when the cost is impoverishment, dependency, mass poverty and deindustrialization. This is what globalization really means today. It’s an international imposition of class war by the creditor One Percent against labor and the indebted 99 Percent and their governments.

The madness of this was spelled out over 2000 years ago. In Book I of Plato’s Republic you have Socrates arguing against the idea that all debts should be paid. He asks, what if you borrow a weapon from a crazy person, and he asks for it back. Should you give him a weapon if he’s likely to hurt people?

This applies to creditors in general: Should you pay off debts if the creditors are going to use their money to impoverish society and reduce people to debt dependency? That’s what the Republic is all about. We’re still dealing today twenty four hundred years later with the same issue.

The issue is: what should come first: the people’s welfare, or that of creditors?

Paul Sliker: Everyone will be able to learn soon about the history of debt and ancient economic civilizations in Michael’s upcoming book slated for release later this summer. The book is called “…and forgive them their debts: Lending, Foreclosure and Redemption, From Bronze Age Finance to the Jubilee Year.”

[scottielambchop]

Tite Five Vol. 1

Here's the deal: Unemployment really sucks.

But it's important to keep "flexing my writing muscle." So, I decided to take the blog format I had with my old company and take it here. Which is rad because I can now write all the f-swears I want. But even better, I can rename this stupid fucking thing. So without further ado, I present to you my Tite Five.

Arby’s Subscription Box

Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I may not be writing blogs for an ad agency anymore, but that doesn't fuckin' mean I won't talk about fast food.

For those who don’t know me (and now that I’m writing on my own blog, I don’t know why the fuck you wouldn’t), I have sort of backed myself into a corner with Arby's. It all started innocently enough. I wrote a Facebook post asking if anyone wanted to go on a romantic date to Arby’s. Seemed like a funny-enough thing to say. But then I doubled down and asked the same question again a few weeks later. Then again. And again. Soon enough, I became the “Arby’s guy.” Which, to be honest, isn’t the worst thing to be known for. Especially since Arby’s is pretty good and their Pizza Slider is one of the most underrated QSR food items on the market.

Alright, now that I got that little nugget of useless bullshit out of the way, let’s get to this subscription box. For the past couple of years, Arby’s has been fucking killing it in the advertising game. Their hilarious Ving Rhames-voiced copy spots and subsequent transition to more visual stuff with H. Jon Benjamin, their delightfully nerdy paper-craft social posts, and now, their subscription box. That’s right, you fuckin’ heard (or read) me correctly, Arby’s now has a subscription box.

In early January, Arby’s tweeted out they would be sending a subscription box called Arby's of the Month. All you had to do was sign up for $25, and you would get six mystery boxes of seasonal gear from everyone’s favorite roast beef provider. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, “Who the hell would want that?” Well, let me tell you, a lot of people the hell would want that. It sold out in less than an hour.

Minneapolis' Fallon (my dream agency) has done amazing work with Arby's. They've taken your grandparents’ favorite fast food joint and turned it into something for everyone. By simply getting weird with everything they do, the younger generations have latched on. Honestly, who the fuck would think about sending a subscription box full of roast beef swag, and how the fuck did it work so well? The answer is Fallon.

P.S. If anyone from Fallon is reading this, my portfolio is scottielantgen.com. Hire me, please.

Re-Watching South Park

One of the most beautiful things about unemployment in the digital age is the ability to hunt for jobs across the country while sitting on your couch and streaming a seemingly endless supply of shows. And that’s exactly what the fuck I’ve been doing with South Park.

Now before I begin, I just need to say that, yes, the show’s liberal use of the “f-word,” “r-word,” and countless racial stereotypes DO NOT hold up well to today’s standards. And honestly, I’m not going to defend it. It’s not my place.

Problematic dialogue aside, what I love about rewatching South Park from almost the very beginning (just skip the first three seasons. You're not missing much) is how it’s a perfect current event/pop culture time capsule. I seriously forgot about Elián González, Terri Schiavo, how the popularity of Paris Hilton made everyone fucking terrible for a while, and just the Passion of the Christ in general. But thanks to South Park, those headlines came rushing back in vivid detail.

South Park still holds up as some of the best satire ever created. It’s quick, funny, and often offensive. And I’m pretty sure that’s what Trey Parker and Matt Stone wanted it to be.

Also, Butters and Randy Marsh are two of my favorite fictional characters.

Skittles Commercial: The Broadway Musical

The “Big Game” (who has the money, amirite?) is tomorrow, and it’s like a goddamn advertising cotillion. It’s the day where the entire country gathers around a TV to eat a variety of sauced meats, drink one of three different beers, and watch the newest batch of commercials from some of the biggest brands in the country. I am told there’s also a football game.

This is the day companies spend millions of dollars for 30 seconds of air time. It’s absurd. But it’s the most viewed event of the entire year, so companies feel the need to get their air time. Except for Skittles. They've been doing something a little different.

Last year, Skittles was fed up with the high price of “Big Game” ad placement, and decided to ditch that mess and do their own thing. So, they did what any other rational company who wanted to advertise to millions of viewers would do. They made an ad for just one person (Check it out. It rules). This little stunt got them billions of media impressions, which, in a lot of ways, is just as good as paid placement.

Where does Skittles go after the major success of last year’s stunt? Broadway of course. During halftime, Skittles will present a one-time performance of Skittles Commercial: The Broadway Musical. Lead by Six Feet Under’s own Michael C. Hall (fuck Dexter), this 30-minute musical is slated to be very meta. Their website states, “Through song and dance, the show takes an absurdly self-reflective look at consumerism and the ever-increasing pervasiveness of brand advertising in our lives.”

It’s fucking brilliant, and I can’t wait to hear how it turns out.

Companies Taking a Stand

Other than writing as many “fucks” and “shits” as I want, one of the coolest things about writing this blog untied from any agency has to be freely expressing whatever dumb-fucking-shit opinion I have. Don’t get me wrong, my old company gave me a lot of freedom, but I always felt it best to stray away from any “controversial” or “political” opinions. Now I’m off the leash and ready to spread my leftist propaganda like a mother fucking virus!

There is a great divide in our country. I know it’s always been there, but it seems way worse ever since the 2016 campaign trail. Regardless, with this growing separation between liberals and conservatives/left and right/cool dudes and white people, companies are also taking sides. And I think it’s a really fucking smart idea.

As you’ve probably seen (and possibly burnt your own shoes about), Nike was one of the first major companies to take a stand for what they believed in. Hiring “controversial” athlete, Colin Kaepernick, to be the face of their newest campaign was a really bold move, but it paid off big time.

Yes, they faced a backlash. Fox News was all up their ass about “DiSrEsPeCtInG tHe FlAg,” and Twitter users shared a litany of videos of people destroying the products they already bought and paid for. But overall, the campaign was killer and showed that the company was willing to put themselves at risk for equality and doing what is right—though I’m sure they’re heartbroken your shitty uncle won’t buy their socks ever again.

Gillette was the next big company to pick a side. They took a stance on the truly controversial topic of “not being a shitty dude.” I really don’t know where the backlash for this came from, but apparently, men don’t like being told that it’s wrong to catcall and sexually assault women. For a bunch of “manly-men,” they’re really crying like little babies over a minute-long video. The ad is still pretty new, but it already seems to be resonating well with younger male audiences, but not so much with boomers. Weird, right?

And lastly, Patagonia just announced that they will donate all 10 million dollars they saved on tax cuts to environmental groups. I don’t know how people will find a way to be upset by this, but I don’t doubt for a single second that someone will. The world is a nightmare.

Listen, I know there are always going to counter-arguments.

“Oh, they’re just exploiting a current issue to make money.”

“Oh, you may think they’re doing the right thing, but their internal business model is totally fucked.”

“Oh, not all men.”

“Oh, that money could have gone to hard workers and not a stupid tree or whatever.”

It really doesn’t matter. This is advertising. They are spreading a message. You may not need a razor at this moment, but that spot can also serve as a reminder to be a better man. You may prefer a different brand of athletic wear, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be able to see how much a person has sacrificed to support a cause. You may not be a white Instagrammer, but now you know that some companies are doing honorable things. These companies aren't just selling products, they’re also selling ideals.

Gratitude

As I’ve alluded to throughout this post, I recently lost my job. I wanted to make light of it a little, but I also just wanted to get some things off my chest. The truth of the matter is this: I am forever grateful for the opportunity I was given and the people I befriended along the way. I was able to work with and learn from some of the most talented people I have ever met. I took a huge risk moving to a smaller, one-agency town to take this job—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I am forever thankful for this time in my life.

One of my biggest New Year’s resolutions was to express more gratitude. As I said before, the country is divided. I can’t seem to hop on any social media channel without seeing some kind of bullshit-fueled fight going on. Everyone seems to be focusing on the negative and no one really cares about the positive (I fully understand the irony of this sentence). But this could change by expressing more gratitude for the people in your life and amazing opportunities.

Listen, I could be really pissed about the current state of the world. And honestly, I am. But I’m trying to express more positivity. Everyone else can complain about our turd of a president 24 hours a day. Why not tell the important people in your life why you’re thankful to have them? It’s a really fucking simple thing to do—and it could possibly start a chain reaction.

Listen, I’m not going to tell you to not focus on the bad parts of your job or whatever because that shit is so much more easily said than done. And it also goes on a job-by-job basis (I couldn’t really think of a positive in working in corporate finance or some soul-sucking shit like that). But I will say this, I’m thankful I was able to work a job where I could see a bright side. I learned a lot and I’m looking forward to the next steps in my career.

I know it seems tough to remain positive in such dark times. But, fuck, this is your life. You’ve only got one of em. Don’t spend it worrying or complaining all the time. Find the positive and try and improve upon that… or don’t. It’s your fuckin’ life. Do whatever you want.

Well, guys, that’s it for my very first Tite Five (but also not, ya know?). I hope this was as enthralling as Chris made it out to be. I love you all. I’ll probably see you next week with another post of sorts. Take care and don’t drink and drive after the “Big Game.”

[perfectirishgifts]

Smart Manufacturing Could Turbocharge U.S. Global Competitiveness

New Post has been published on https://perfectirishgifts.com/smart-manufacturing-could-turbocharge-u-s-global-competitiveness/

Smart Manufacturing Could Turbocharge U.S. Global Competitiveness

Even before Covid-19, the manufacturing landscape has been in a constant state of change, and the pandemic has only accelerated it. Shaped by new technologies and shifting global consumer demands, companies are faced with finding how to make their products as fast, cheap and safe as possible — and increasingly with minimal environmental impact. While the past year has been anything but conventional, it has provided an opportunity for the United States to address its multidecadal decline in its manufacturing sector. Three trends — digital disruption, resilience, and domestic energy production — will be key to taking this once-in-a century chance to spur a manufacturing renaissance. 

Embracing Disruption

With more sensors, networks, and data monitoring and recording every step of the process than ever before, U.S. manufacturing is getting smarter thanks to digital disruption. Companies are now able to better understand their operations, from the cut of every blade to every movement of material to use of energy down to the minute. Autonomous systems detect and respond to problems, enabling the adaptation of machinery and systems to changing conditions, and the deployment of artificial intelligence further allows producers to optimize every aspect of the manufacturing value chain. All of these processes are accelerating innovation and product development, while dramatically reducing costs and risks.

This is a productivity revolution in the making powered by real-time, smart manufacturing. Digital manufacturing technologies such as the internet of things, advanced robotics, and AI could generate massive cost savings and productivity gains. Last year, Gartner IT estimated that AI augmentation could generate $2.9 trillion of business value in 2021. Smart manufacturing will enable our producers to meet changing demands and conditions in factories, supply network, and customer needs like never before. 

Improving Resiliency 

Covid-19 exposed how fragile our supply chains are across multiple sectors, from medical supplies to food to household staples. The high risk of single sourcing critical supplies from vulnerable or unstable regions of the globe forced governments and companies to question business as usual and reevaluate where and how they source materials and distribute products. The American manufacturing sector would benefit from doing the same.

In order to ensure we remain competitive, manufacturers and our network must become more resilient, meaning they’re able to recover quickly from disruption and unforeseen events. As organizations look to better integrate resilience into their processes, there is a tremendous opportunity to not only enhance efficiency, but also shorten the time to be back up to normal. The erstwhile wisdom of needing one year to 18 months to recover from a crisis is outdated; there’s no longer time for that, and maximizing the new tools, smart manufacturing, and digitization can help modernize and quick recoveries.

Producing Domestic Energy 

The generational reemergence of advanced and highly productive American manufacturing capacity is being powered by an inexpensive, abundant, and diverse domestic energy portfolio. The shale gas boom has delivered lower energy prices to energy-intensive producers, and to industries that use natural gas feedstocks stocks such as chemicals. According to data from the American Chemical Council, since 2010, the chemical industry has invested $89 billion in 343 new or expanded facilities completed, under construction, or planned. Additionally, over the past decade, the U.S. has solidified its role as an energy exporter, sending liquified natural gas to 25 countries, such as Mexico, China, and Japan. 

Natural gas is also just one piece of America’s energy puzzle. Major investments and efficiency improvements in solar and wind have put renewable energy on a level playing field with other energy sources providing companies with an unprecedented buffet of energy choices. Meanwhile, nuclear power, another clean, viable energy alternative, reached its highest U.S. production level on record in 2019, according to the Department of Energy. 

Beyond access to energy, adoption of advanced manufacturing systems will play a major role in the production of energy intensive goods reaching net zero carbon goals. Advanced manufacturing will also be essential to reach a national goal of doubling energy productivity by 2030, which was central to the Obama administration and will likely again be a key target of the incoming administration.

The U.S. is presented with exciting economic and operational opportunities, if we act now. Will our companies seize this moment to shore up their supply chains, leverage smart manufacturing technology, and take advantage of U.S. energy abundance before competitors catch up? As the end of pandemic appears in sight and we look to jumpstart the economy in 2021 by growing domestic manufacturing, embracing the three trends of digitization, supply chain resilience, and energy abundance will be critical for a more competitive, prosperous future. The belief that manufacturing is “dirty, dumb, dangerous, and disappearing” doesn’t have to be true. If we capitalize on these trends, the new reality is that this new era of manufacturing will be “smart, safe, sustainable, and surging.”

From Energy in Perfectirishgifts

[pekofskyinparadise]

the true story of our Ireland trip

     I have the audacity to call myself a travel blogger and not even write anything about my international travel that happened A WHOLE MONTH AGO. And ok, I’m not really a travel blogger, because I mostly just blog about my normal daily life in good ol’ Baltimore County, Maryland, but I do love to travel, and travel blogger is like, the dream, obviously. So, as I was saying… here’s the epic saga of our trip to Ireland.

     I bought the trip on Groupon, and the Groupon voucher was for Great Value Vacations, so after the purchase through Groupon, all of my correspondence was with GVV. They were FANTASTIC. I only spoke with one person who was less than enthusiastically helpful, and even right after I hung up with that person, I called back and got another wonderful customer service rep. The price was RIGHT and they made everything very easy. I absolutely recommend them. I paid a little extra for a few things: upgrading our car to automatic (we were NOT about to be driving manual on the left side of the road and the right side of the car…); breakfast every day and admission to the Cliffs of Moher and the Guinness Storehouse (more about those later); and to move the trip a bit later in March (to avoid inclement weather). So, of course, since I did that, the weather called for snow the day we were supposed to leave.

     We had planned to stay with friends in NY the night before we left and the night we got home, so we decided to leave a little earlier than planned to get up there and avoid the weather in Maryland. We managed to miss the ice and snow down here… but after dinner with our friends in NY, I received an email that our flights had already been canceled in anticipation of the foot of snow that was supposed to fall in NY the next day. I quickly hit “rebook to the closest flight before or after,” but the soonest we could go was a full 24 hours later—and we were going to have an 8-hour layover in London instead of a 2-hour one. But, we rebooked for free, so we just went with the flow and enjoyed our snow day. Also, we drank a bunch of wine to feel less bad about the missed day. 

     Finally, the day had come, and we made our way to the airport… only to joyously (NOT) find out that our British Airways flight was being operated by American Airlines, who we have had plenty of issues with in the past. We also noticed our bags were only checked to London, not Dublin, so we were going to have to pick them up and re-check them. And, of course, in true American Airlines fashion, the flight was delayed almost two hours. “At least we have that 8-hour layover in London,” I thought, and tried to get some sleep (mostly unsuccessfully) before we started our day in Europe. 

     Once we got to Heathrow, we had to wait in a VERY long line to get through customs and immigration, go get our bags, and then take a train to the terminal we thought we were leaving from to go to Dublin. But then, because we are us, and apparently have horrendous travel luck, we couldn’t check in. We double checked our itinerary and realized… we weren’t flying out of Heathrow, where we had flown into: we were flying out of London City Airport. Thankfully, there was an INCREDIBLY helpful man downstairs in Heathrow who explained to us how to get there on the London Underground for only 6 pounds apiece… and we had a few hours, so we should be fine. So, we lugged our luggage onto the train, up flights of stairs, through crowds, across streets (we changed trains THREE TIMES) and thankfully, into London City Airport with an hour and a half before our flight. And I didn’t even cry. 

     We hopped on our short flight to Dublin, and then realized we needed to tackle our next adventure: the drive to our hotel. Since we had missed our first night, we weren’t staying an hour and a half from the airport anymore, but four hours away. And my incredible fiancé, on about two hours of sleep, after 8.5 hours total of flying and an incredibly stressful tube ride, drove us the four hours on the wrong side of the road, half of it in the dark, to Killarney. I swear… he’s the best partner to have for most things in life, but especially in stressful situations like these. We would not have made it through without each other. We also would not have made it through without a little divine intervention: about halfway in to the drive, sleepy and delirious and hungry, we decided we needed to stop, stretch our legs, get a snack and some caffeine, and just get out of the car for a moment. We searched for the closest gas station to us, and what pops up but “0.1 miles away: Barack Obama Travel Plaza.” We could not believe our eyes. In Moneygall, Ireland, in the middle of nowhere, there was a rest stop branded with America’s first black president. It still feels like something my subconscious made up, but it provided us with the necessary chips (sorry, CRISPS) and caffeine to continue our journey. Seriously... thanks Obama!

     We finally made it to Killarney around 10 p.m., were helped by the most wonderful staff at the International Hotel there (seriously, props to GVV on their hotel choices), got some Irish fast food, some Guinness, and some much-needed sleep. 

     When we woke up on Saturday morning, vacation had finally, truly begun. We had a lovely breakfast—Ireland does not mess around on the breakfast front—and went to chat with the front desk about what we should do that day. They suggested a hop-on, hop-off tour of the area, including some nature, pretty views, and historical buildings, so we went with that! Honestly, it was one of my favorite days of the trip. We saw Ross Castle, Torc Waterfall, Muckross House, and some amazing nature and viewpoints surrounding them and along the way. We finished out the evening with beers at the Killarney Brewing Co.—when in Rome—and then more drinks and dinner at the Shire bar (honestly, cute but a little disappointing) and another drink out on Killarney’s main street. All of this was walking distance from our hotel, so it was super convenient. And, the weather cooperated, so while it was chilly, it wasn’t too cold to walk around comfortably. 

     Sunday started with our very first “full Irish” breakfast: and while black and white puddings sound weird, they were freaking delicious. And don’t even get me started on Irish bacon… it’s a mix between our bacon and our ham, thick cut, absolutely delicious. Plus the homemade brown bread… and I’m not even normally a butter person, but the butter in Ireland is phenomenal. Definitely not to be missed. Then, we headed up to Galway. On the way, we got to see the Cliffs of Moher: something I’ve wanted to see for most of my life. It did not disappoint. There are few things more breathtaking than a view of the ocean and cliff faces from a high vantage point, on a day so clear you can see the Aran Islands and peninsulas jutting off the Emerald Isle. I’d go back in a heartbeat. That day we also visited the Burren, a strange, almost lunar landscape that really did feel like another planet. We didn’t stay long, but the drive through the national park was beautiful. Finally, we arrived in Galway. Despite the drizzle, their “shop street” was lively and packed with bars and restaurants. We popped into the Quays (pronounced “keys”) bar for a seafood dinner with deliciously briny Galway Bay oysters, had a couple drinks, and went to bed. 

     Galway’s breakfast (Menlo Park Hotel) was a buffet, and while they had the typical fixings for a full Irish breakfast, they also had house-made jams for the bread and sautéed mushrooms… weird for breakfast, but I’ll never argue with it. Like I said, the Irish do not mess around with breakfast. French press coffee, etc. etc. It was great. Our second day in Galway started off with Randy getting a permanent souvenir: a tattoo of his family motto to go with the Ireland-themed sleeve he’s been working on. We had lunch in an adorable bar on shop street, and then attempted to go drink at Galway Bay Brewery… except it was just the brewery, not a taproom, so we sent our poor taxi driver into this industrial park… he was very confused. We decided just to go rest in the hotel for a bit and then go explore some more later. This was good, as that day was the only day I’d had any stomach trouble: but it was the WORST heartburn I’ve ever had. I’ve only had one other episode like that since we’ve been back… really terrible. But for the most part since we’ve been back, my stomach has been mostly fine, and I’m really grateful. I think stress did have something to do with the whole thing, and I changed jobs after vacation, and that has really added to my peace of mind. But more on that later. 

     That evening in Galway was our favorite of the trip: we went to this fantastic seafood restaurant for dinner, hit up a bar that actually served Galway Bay Brewing beers (and found a Maryland beer in there with the craft imports!), and then went to a tiny bar with live music that was just a band of 10 or so sitting around a table, playing instruments and singing. We made friends with (and were bought whiskey by) Randy’s long lost Irish kin—they bonded over blue eyes, family history, and both being plumbers—and had a phenomenal time. We felt like we really had the true Irish experience that evening. 

     We woke up in the morning (somehow not hung over… I don’t know how) and headed east to Dublin. On the way, we visited Clonmacnoise: a monastic village established in the 800s, very reminiscent of the crumbling Irish castle ruins and graveyard tattooed on Randy’s arm. We walked through the ancient buildings and gravestones, knowing that almost 1000 years before the United States existed, there was a thriving civilization right where we stood. We gazed out on the river Shannon and decided to head straight to Dublin to make sure we had time for the most important part of the trip: the Guinness brewery. It was drizzling again, but we walked from our hotel in Dublin up to St. James Gate, and began our journey through how Guinness is made. Ascending the levels of the brewery and museum, we got to learn exactly how to properly taste a Guinness and how to pour our own pint perfectly. And at the top, we drank our perfectly poured pints and gazed over Dublin from the 360 degree glass gravity bar. Once we came back down, we headed back to our hotel (it was more than drizzling, and kinda cold at this point) to clean up for dinner and drinks later. We took a cab to the (in)famous Temple Bar area, grabbed dinner (and some souvenirs) there, and determined drinks would be better had somewhere else. So we walked to the Molly Malone statue that Randy wanted to see, and then onto Grafton Street and into McDaid’s for a pint (double Ed Sheeran reference locations… it was very exciting) and then back to the hotel to call it a night for our last one in Ireland. 

     We woke up early to squeeze in one last phenomenal breakfast and some last bits of tourism before we had to check out. We hopped in a cab, and went to Trinity College to see the Long Room in the old library (where the Book of Kells is displayed), then walked to Dublin Castle and to Ha’Penny bridge, the couple of (slightly overrated) touristy things that “they” say you have to do in Dublin. But, we did them, and got back to our hotel in time to check out, and start our journey home. We drove to the airport, dropped off the car, had some lunch and a final Irish Guinness, and made our way home: much less eventfully than the journey there, thankfully. We stayed one more night in New York, had a leisurely morning there, and then set off for home. Then, because we planned brilliantly, we had three more days off before having to return to work on Monday. Glorious. 

     While I know being on vacation all the time would make it less special, and it’s also kind of impossible (currently, anyway)… I wish I could be. Traveling the world is my favorite thing, especially with my husband-to-be, and I can’t wait to do more of it (stay tuned for Massachusetts/Rhode Island in September, Shenandoah in November, and Greece next summer!)

[sunken-standard]

Drabble Meme Prompt Fill #57 (ish)

Three requests in one fill:

@juldooz requested: New prompt list for the drabble challenge: 144 (I cheated.), 146 (Pillows are over-rated.), 147 (Zombies aren’t real, I promise.)?  (from the list for Round 2)

@8minutehooper requested: For the Drabble ask meme, if you're inclined to keep going with these: #2 We're going to freeze to death or #14 Fire! Fire! Fire! Please and Thank you! ?

@fiammablade3466 requested: Hi! You asked drabble prompt from that list... if your requests are still open I ask 94. Let's bet Have a nice day!

(This is an AU that's canon-divergent sometime after TEH and sometime before TSoT.  Sorry, it's not humor, but I just kind of go where the winds take me, and after so many dropped attempts at these prompts, I'm just thrilled I had an idea.)

"We're going to freeze to death"/ "Fire! Fire! Fire!"/ "Let's bet"/ "I cheated."/ "Pillows are over-rated."/ "Zombies aren’t real, I promise."

*

"Oh Sherlock, zombies aren't real, I promise," Sherlock said, his voice a grating falsetto.

"I said that like a year ago, would you let it go already?" Molly hissed back, peeking around the library shelf with her axe at the ready.  Never had she been so thankful for Tom's absolute nerdiness as the day the outbreak started; he'd been a rubbish fighter but his manchild arsenal had kept her (and Sherlock) alive since then.

"You were wrong then and you're wrong now.  Wiggins said he had a cache here, he knows how to hide things, it's still here."

"Well then let's just hope it's more than a ten-bag of weed and six black-market Russian amphetamine tablets like his 'cache' in that bus stop in Southwark."

"I don't know what you expected from a bus stop to begin with, unless you thought he dug a hole and buried a year's worth of tins of mushy peas and tomato soup under it."

"You know what?  Let's bet.  We're not going to find anything we need, like antibiotics or any kind of useful medication, or even anything useful.  At best it'll be a packet of Smarties and a biro."

"Stakes?"

"If I'm wrong then you can have first pick of whatever there might be."

"And if you're right?"

"We follow John and Mary," she said simply.  It was an old argument that came up more these days; winter had set in and the Zed were less active, but food was becoming scarce for everyone left in the city; they only managed to eat because of Wiggin's paranoia and Sherlock's people skills (oh God the irony there).

"Because Edinburgh—where we have no Wiggins, no network, and no practical knowledge of the geography—would be so much safer."

He was still angry with John and Mary six months on.

"We wouldn't stay in Edinburgh. We'd go find land in the country and there would be six of us to defend it, I mean, assuming Harry is alive and they found her, and we could farm.  There are probably some livestock animals left, and seeds out there somewhere, and barring that, we could—I dunno, hunt swans and forage in hedgerows.  We have a better chance out there than we do here, long term."

Sherlock huffed a breath; he knew she was right. "Let's just find the cache first, shall we?  We can talk about it later.  Go, I'll cover you."

She flipped down the visor on her helmet and ran for the reference section.  Sherlock followed at a bit of a distance, scimitar drawn, enough to give them both ample fighting room should they need it.  There were two Zed somewhere in the vast room by the sound of it, but they hadn't found them yet. They made it to the reference section without incident, which was good; they need to find the cache and get out because they were losing light fast.  Sherlock had a bolthole a few streets over; they needed to make it there before nightfall.

"Where did he say it was?"

"He didn't."

"Wonderful."

"We're lucky he was coherent enough to remember which borough it was," Sherlock pointed out.

They started searching, pulling out sections of books and looking behind them, looking for anything taped to the undersides of the shelves; she hoped like hell it wasn't a fool's errand.  Wiggins hadn't been the most with-it before he'd got bit and they'd taken his arm, and now...  He wasn't healing well because there was never enough food, never enough medicine, never enough anything and his brain—well.  They never knew if they'd get back to Baker Street to find another mindless zombie in the flat, either from self-administered poison or the sudden onset of gangrene.

She didn't want to think about it.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly, too loud for a library and too loud for an enclosed space with an unknown number of Zed in the building.

"Shh!"

"What books did people stop using years ago?"

"Riddles, Sherlock."

He made a face and went for a section of shelves, ran his fingers along the spines until he found what he was looking for and pulled out the book.  "Encyclopdias," he said, opening the book with a flourish to reveal a pharmacy-sized bottle of tablets snug in a custom cut-out section.  

The feeling of relief was almost palpable; they had at least one thing to use or trade now.  Sherlock pulled out another encyclopedia and flipped it open, giggling when he saw what was inside.  He held up a packet of Smarties.  

"These are mine," he said, grinning.

*

"We're going to freeze to death," she said, teeth chattering.  It had to be close to zero outside as a cold, heavy rain fell on the roof of the covered market, dripping through one of the broken panels to land in a puddle near the shop Sherlock had chosen to hole up in for the night, since the bolthole had been compromised.  At least the rain kept the Zed outside, drawn by the noise.  All the shops had long been picked over for anything remotely useful and all the perishable food no one wanted rotted down to black, slimy piles; they'd been lucky enough to find a bin of cheap carpets in one of the shops that sold this and that, so at least they weren't sleeping directly on the floor.  Almost a luxury, these days, when they were away from home.

"More likely one of us, probably you since you're smaller, will freeze to death and bite the other. Either way, we'll probably both die," Sherlock said, pulling one of the larger carpets over the both of them like a blanket.  A lot of things had changed since the world ended, but at least they'd both maintained a sense of humour, black as it was.

"Wish we could have found some pillows."

"Pillows are overrated," Sherlock mumbled, shuffling himself into a more comfortable position.

"You say that now, but tomorrow..."

"May never come, so there's no point thinking about it," he said, finally giving up on trying to find a position that wouldn't leave him stiff and sore come the morning and curling around her for warmth.

"I'm so glad one of us is still an optimist," she said, turning into him and settling in his arms, taking what comfort she could when she could.  It only took the end of the world to get this close to him.

*

"Fire!"  She let go of Sherlock's waist and tapped his shoulder.  "Fire!  Fire!"

He couldn't hear her with the helmet on, but he must have looked where she was pointing to the smoke billowing in the sky.  He cut the throttle on the motorbike and pulled to the kerb (old habits).

"It's not home, is it?" she asked after pulling off her helmet.

Sherlock watched the sky for a moment, calculating.  "No, closer.  Westminster probably, no farther than Mayfair.  Might need to take a different route back.  Stay alert."

As if she needed to be told.

*

They stopped again just before crossing Vauxhall Bridge.  Sherlock counted out a dozen Clonazepam into a sandwich bag; she hoped it would be enough to get them a few litres of petrol.  Prices kept going up.

Same as it ever was.

Sherlock squinted at the smoke from the fire, blacker now, thicker.  "It's Buckingham Palace," he said.  

She shared a look with him; it was more than losing just another thing from before.  It felt like England had well and truly fallen, even if the Palace had been devoid of life for months.  They'd been past the gates a few times; dead guards and staff, snipers and MPs (all evacuated to the Palace just before the barricades across Westminster Bridge failed) roamed aimlessly, shuffling toward the fence as they were drawn to the noise of the motorbike and dispersing again sometime after they were gone.

Someone must have been desperate enough to walk into a contained hoard, or angry enough.  She hoped there wasn't a new gang to deal with; they never lasted long, nothing lasted these days, but it was always trouble when some bully who was lucky enough to make it this far fancied himself the next Genghis Khan by right of Darwinism.

*

Some people just want to watch the world burn, she thought.  And some people felt like they had to, to bear witness.  She wasn't sure which she was, now, some days.

Going into the heart of the inferno was insane, especially loaded down with enough trade goods to keep them in food and petrol for the next six months, but they were upwind and it was breezy enough to carry the smoke away, over the Palace Gardens, over Belgravia.

"Subtle," Sherlock murmured, looking the double-decker bus that had smashed through the gates.  He drank from his water bottle, passed it to her.

A small group—fifteen or so clumped into a loose herd—stumbled toward the bus from The Mall, drawn by the fire.  They didn't bother taking cover, they were far enough away not to be noticed if they kept quiet, kept still.

Another Zed staggered through the gate, away from the flames; she was covered in blood and gore, but her clothing seemed intact and she wasn't missing any limbs or dragging her guts along behind her.  Recently turned, then.  Didn't see a lot of that any longer.  Inevitable, though.  One day that would be Molly herself, one day that would be Sherlock.  

The rogue Zed serpentined her way through the herd; had it spotted them?  Something was odd about it, Zed didn't act like that.  They travelled in straight lines, faster when they spotted prey, didn't avoid collisions with each other.

"Of course," Sherlock breathed.

She looked up at him.

"The blood, it's camouflage. Probably the scent.  Clever," he said quietly, a note of admiration in his voice.

Jealousy, sharp and sudden and utterly ridiculous, spiked her heart.  Silly, really, but it was the first she'd heard him talk about another person without a trace of disdain in months.  

They remained silent as the woman made her way closer and the Zed filtered through the gate.  When it was safe enough, she stood straight and walked normally.  There was something about her, something predatory, that made Molly's hand twitch for her axe.  She stopped herself; don't show aggression, it makes you look scared, don't let them see fear, don't let them see weakness.

"Remember, remember," the woman sing-songed.  "Do you know what today is?"

Oh wonderful, another nutter.  Molly saw Sherlock's stance shift from alert to on-guard.

"Bonfire night," he said. Probably a guess; they tried to keep track of days, but there really wasn't much point to it now.

"Silly to burn Westminster, when they all came here," she said.  Her voice was light and hollow, somehow innocent while being devoid of any emotion at all.  "Why burn one effigy when I can burn seven hundred?"

Wow, Molly thought.  She had the feeling this woman wasn't just another one of the crackpot roaches like Wiggins who managed to survive even without their wits intact; there was something about her that made Molly want to run.

"So I take it you're not from the neighbourhood, since you're obviously not worried about the fire spreading," Sherlock said, his tone friendly, casual.  "Nice trick with the blood, by the way.  How did you figure that out?"

"A cannibal suggested it.  He's dead now.  He wasn't as clever as he thought he was."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He wasn't.  Nobody was; they'd all used up their capacity for sympathy and empathy was too precious a resource to waste on the dead.

"Why?  It was a game.  He lost.  I cheated.  He should have been cleverer."

"Ah," Sherlock said shortly, shifting away from Molly to draw the woman's attention to himself. He was preparing for a fight.    

Something exploded inside the Palace, the ground shaking enough to throw Molly off balance.

Sherlock's arm shot out to steady her. "We need to go," he said.  He turned to the woman.  "Will you be alright?"

"Nothing can hurt the East Wind," she said, her face blank.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a split second before he put his helmet on and swung his leg over the bike.