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boogiewrites · 4 years ago

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Never Break the Chain

Part 1 of 5

Characters: Javier Peña x OFC

Summary: The story follows the moments in their relationship in which things change, carrying the story of their romance from being young and in love in Texas at age 18 to the modern Narcos timeline. We follow Esme on her rise to being a top thief and Javier Peña's rise in the ranks. We see how their paths inevitably intersect in Columbia and how they handle coming face to face after a faked death and decades apart. It's dramatic, it's a cop loving a criminal and them being torn between their ways of life and their love. There's a happy ending among the angst.

Warnings/Tags: Argument, Heartbreak, Young love, faked death.

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

The air was as still and silent as a hot Texas summer night could be. The buzz of the insects and the rustle and call of the nocturnal animals felt familiar to Esme and were a white noise that made her feel she was home. The moon was high and bright, illuminating the rushing and recently risen river below her. Summer storms had made their way through, a brief break to the smothering heat and filling the formerly waning river bed. It made for a great day on these rare summer occurrences, floating about lazily and working on her tan, drinks were plentiful between friends and you could let any stress you had floated down the river after you left. As she gripped the old iron railing of the backroad bridge, feeling the failing paint flaking under her anxious hands, she knew those golden days of youth and summer were falling behind her now. The river would take her trouble away tonight, but in the morning a whole new set would emerge in their place. Even so, this is what she wanted, deep down she knew the conversation she was about to have wasn’t going to be one with a happy ending, and she’d prepared for that. Still, until she heard the words from his lips herself, that last bit of naivete she had left would hope against hope that this night wouldn’t end in tears.

Her upbringing with a single mother, no stability that she could recall, and inheriting her mother’s reputation, only doing what she had to make a living, she knew there were no happy endings. Being a striking Latin woman, hell, a woman at all was enough to teach her the authorities in place were corrupt and broken. She’d been born a criminal they’d said. It was first said the moment she opened her eyes. “Look at this little one, a thief.” her father had said. “Esmeralda we’ll call her, as she’s already stolen emeralds for her eyes.” Her father hadn’t come from a line of fortune-tellers that she was aware of, but he’d unknowingly planted the seed that would grow to become her destiny. One filled with heartbreaking choices and world view shattering experiences she would be told she was strong for overcoming. She didn’t think anyone needed to be applauded for being strong. It came from being broken and filling the gaps with something that couldn’t be torn apart again. Her so-called strength was just the glaringly apparent failures of the power structures in place. And she knew the only way to get ahead, to move from outside their oppressive shadow was to beat them at their own game.

The boy on his way to convince her to not follow her dreams didn’t know that yet. He had his delusions and she wasn’t sure she had the heart to take them away from him. Things wouldn’t always work out, he wasn’t going to save anyone, let alone her. But if you asked her, she didn’t need saving.

The hiss of drying raining on the asphalt under the tires of his muscle car didn’t help distract him from where he was headed. Every rendezvous with her up to this point had been nothing but a flip in his stomach and tension in his balls. Where yearning and excitement once lay there was only dread and uncertainty. He was young, he was full of confidence and despite the chronic bad attitude and bloody knuckles, he kept he still thought he could make her stay. He wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t. She loved him she’d said. That meant something to an 18-year-old boy still deep in his first love and soon to be last heartbreak. The flashes of running from the cops, late nights spent in the back seat of his car, some laying together next to the dashboard light with the radio creating a soundtrack to their youth unknowingly. He gulps, recalling the way she looked at him when they were alone. They were all burned into his mind and they would be there for many years to come. He couldn’t help but remember the first time he saw her, walking into an abandoned house the local kids used for parties. They held the same beer in their hands, locked eyes that held the hunger of teenage lust. Her in cut-offs and a bikini top, deep brown from the summer sun, bouncy black hair in waves falling down her shoulders and framing a heart-shaped face with eyes greener than he’d ever seen.

They were both attractive and rebellious, it took nothing to make them like each other. They were quick to go to bed, and he was quick to fall with for her independent nature, and his desire to protect her quickly fell in behind. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d met, and he thought it was a compliment. But as the lust faded, love grew in its place, seeing what hardships she faced and trying his damnedest to save her from them. He rode in on his steel horse and swept her away despite her insistence she didn’t need it. But when he spoke softly and touched her the same in the sweat-soaked leather seats, naked and vulnerable by both clothes and emotions, she couldn’t help but cry and let him hold her, both sharing their fears. Their biggest in their lives at that time was simply losing the other.

The familiar sound of his car didn’t help ease the knot in her stomach like it used to. She sighed deeply, letting the headlights fall upon her as he pulled up the bridge. No one ever said chasing your dreams would be easy.

“Hey sweetheart.” his smooth voice, soft only for her, flooded her ears as they closed the space between them instinctively. Her heart ached as he wrapped his scabbed hands around her waist, one rough palm to her cheek as if he were assuring he had her full attention.

“Hola, Javi.” she whispers against his lips. He does as he has before, pretending things are fine for as long as he can. Talking sweet and pushing back her hair, kisses to her temples like he always did when she was emotional. It was inevitable his lips would find their way through the small talk to her neck. And they did. “You know you can’t fuck your way out of this conversation.” she smiles, taking her hands to direct his face to look at hers.

“Worth a shot..” he nods with his signature cockiness she no longer found annoying but endearing. A dangerous feeling indeed.

He looks her over, hands gentle but firm as he ran them over her arms and sides, mapping her out in movements that would drive him to drink later on.

“I know your answer, mi Amor, I see it in your eyes. Just say it so we can move on.”

“Don’t make me Esme.” it wasn’t begging but there was a desperation to his furrowed brow as he looked down and finally met her eyes. “I told you what I have to do. I can’t stay here. I can’t be this girl anymore.”

“I don’t wanna lose you, baby, please.” There was the begging. The desperation was in those almost black-brown eyes as they glassed over, the lump in his throat growing by the second.

“You cannot go be part of a system that wants to enslave me. We can’t be together in this world, Javi. You KNOW this. You can’t be the cop and I the criminal. No way works. One of us ends up in jail...or worse.”

“You’re talkin' like you wanna kill me now all the sudden.”

“Never.” she holds his face with a veil of anger in her eyes. “I love you, Javier. I always will. But you are a weakness. You are the only man that knows me. The only man that could best me. And that is because I love you. I have to be who I am, I am a criminal and you are going to go off and be a part of what wants to keep oppressing people like me? Just because we are trying to get ahead? To make a life for ourselves because your government has failed its people? We can’t be together if you do this.”

“You don’t have to go off and do all this crazy shit, Esme. You’ve been reading too many books, baby, you don’t have to go off and steal and con. You could stay here. With me. Where you belong.”

“And do WHAT exactly? You want me to...work in an office? Be a cashier at the grocery store for the rest of my life? You want me miserable? That’s selfish and you know it. I’m not something you get to control, I’m not keeping myself small for you no matter how much I may love you. That’s a fate worse than death for a woman like me.”

“Not any part of you wants that? A simple life? With a good man? Have a few kids...a house. Just...be happy?”

“You are not stupid Javi, stop asking stupid questions. You know me better than anyone and you know that is not me. I will grow bored and loathsome, I would end up hating you and my choices and we would end up hating each other. I would rather us be in love in our memories than hate you in reality.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do. Because I see it every day. In the women that glare at me when I walk down the street. The jealousy...they look down on me saying I am trash but it’s because they wish they had what I have. Drive, ambition, fucking OPTIONS. Those women are trapped by their decisions and I will be too if I stay.”

“You think staying with me is being trapped?”

“It is not you, Javi. It is what you will become. I love this..this Javier right now. But you be indoctrinated. You’ll change into someone else and I am not willing to change for you. I’m sorry.”

“I knew I shouldn't've let you hang out with those damn hippies…”

“This is all me Javi. This is no one else. You are the one being fed lies of being a good guy among the bad, that you can save everyone. It’s a lie. I do not want to tell you this because I know it’s your dream to help but mi Amor ...it is not real.”

“And I don’t think your dream is real! I think it’s a lot of horse shit.”

She stands in silence looking at him, his hands on his hips defensively. “Then we agree.” she nods. “Goodbye, Javi. I love you. Always.” she begins to turn and knows before she feels his hand around her arm that it would happen.

“Don't leave Esme you’re the only good thing I got.” he shakes her by the shoulders.

“And if you don’t think I feel the same you’re mistaken.” she almost spits out. “I do not WANT to leave. But to become what I must I have to. And I’m sorry it has to be this way. But it does.”

“If you leave I’ll find you. You know I will. I’m not gonna let you go. I can’t.” he chokes out.

“I know.” she sighs. “Which is why I must take such a drastic measure. To me... staying is a fate worse than death. I know you would find me.” she chuckles and he looks at her with wet confused eyes. “You are my weakness, Javier. You are the only man I know that could ever find me. Ever best me at my own game. And you will not stop looking for me.”

“I never would.” he whispers.

“Which is why I'm so sorry. So.... so sorry mi Amor.” she begins to cry and kisses him, pressing against him hard, his back hitting up against his car and a muffled struggle to embrace one another ensues.

There’s a swift movement and click. Javi’s head jerks to look down, arm tugging against the cuffs she’d just slipped on him and through his vehicle door. “I’m sorry Javi. I am.” she says as his anger grows.

“ESME?!” he barks. “Let me GO! Are you fuckin’ CRAZY?”

“Maybe.” she sighs and walks a few paces away, to the railing of the bridge, looking down at the water. ‘There is only one way you will let me go Javi. I cannot have you being my weakness, or my capture, or my pursuer. I would spend my life looking over my shoulder.”

“What the FUCK are you talking about?!” his voice breaks, a shout scaring the animals in the brush nearby.

She stands on the railing, wind through her hair and a feeling of true freedom being just outside her grasp. She hears him struggling behind her, the desperate grunts and whimpers, his words and shouts join the shite noise of the water as she closes her eyes. She turns only her head to meet his wild eyes one last time, a snapshot in her mind to carry with her into her new life. “I love you, Javier Pena. Never doubt that. I’ll see you in the next life.”

And with that, she was gone. Over the railing as Javi screamed until he was hoarse, his wrist fractures and bruised from the force of trying to free himself. It would break him, and he would be born into a new life. Just like her.

She knew it was drastic, but the only way she would be able to escape not only his love of her but of hers for him. He had to think she was dead.

@likedovesinthewnd @jaegeeeeer @biharryjames @ladamari68 @past-romantic @weliketomoveit

#Javier Pena #Pedro Pascal #javier pena x reader #Javier Pena Fanfic #javier pena fic

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nico2kclassics · 4 years ago

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From Cicero to Savio to Shapiro

When I first came to Tulane, I was pretty surprised by what campus discourse looked and felt like. In high school, I watched Vice documentaries and Youtube videos displaying “the left” having supposedly gone “too far” with their censorship of speech -- videos of student protestors shutting down “offensive” conservative speakers such as Ben Shapiro, or berating their school administrators into compliance with the so-called “cancel culture” and other supposed abandonments of facts and logic. I was always dubious of these criticisms of campus culture, which sounded more like diagnoses of a widespread cultural sickness across America, but I nonetheless expected some repression of conservative views at any University. Tulane -- perhaps by virtue of it being in the south, or maybe of its demographics, or maybe simply of its large business school -- did not seem to suffer from the cultural epidemic taking hold of the American college campus. My peers openly supported conservative and neoliberal views, and I think I’m the only one of my Tulane friends who voted for Bernie in the primaries. “He’s a self-described socialist,” one of my roommates said and laughed. I couldn’t help but think about that moment when I read Nat Hentoff’s article “There Is an Increasingly Pronounced Pattern of Hostility Toward Free Speech on American College Campuses.” Today, I know students across the country at major colleges and universities, and it seems that the “hostility,” if there ever was any, lies elsewhere. I applaud students everywhere holding their university administrations and their peers accountable, and truly believe that “public mass shaming” is a bogeyman for those who seek to rid academia of any critical thought. Maybe Tulane is unique, but I think it’s more likely that progressives are simply not as hostile as they’ve been made out to be.

I grew up in San Francisco, just across the bridge from UC Berkeley, and down the street from Golden Gate Park, where students and hippies promoted countercultural “New Left” movements in decades past. I’ve spent a lot of time in Berkeley as a teenager, and came to base a lot of my political viewpoints around the leaders of the Free Speech Movement, whose political accomplishments have amounted to the “Free Speech Movement Café” on Cal’s campus. A great feat of collective action indeed. Jokes aside, I was inspired this fall by a famous Mario Savio speech at Sproul Hall, which is now known as one of the premiere skateboarding spots on campus. I was excited to see the speech cited in Colin Barker’s essay at the beginning of chapter one. In a less famous section of the speech, not cited by Barker, Savio explains (half-jokingly) that the FSM students on campus are actually some of the most conservative, because they intend to return the University to its original conception -- a place for academia, for discourse, and for openness towards ideas that challenge one’s own -- as opposed to the machine it had become to prepare students for industry or business or government work. This original conception, I might add, resembles the classical academic and philosophical institutions, upon which, I might dare to say, all of western academia is founded.

We ask for free speech, they give us a cafe. We ask for a Lyceum, we get a B-School. What did we expect?

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sebastianshaw · 4 years ago

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And I’m sure Snowbird getting a happy ending had nothing to do with her being a blonde white woman and Haven being a dark skinned woc

I don’t think it was THE reason, but I would not rule it out as a contributing factor.

The major reason is that Snowbird is a hero and a major character, whereas Haven was an extremely minor character and a villain. So it’s pretty standard in that regard for Snowbird to get a happy ending, and Haven not to. Especially considering that, while Snowbird was not a character that “belonged” to anyone in particuliar, Haven was the creation of DeMatteis and when he left the book, so did she. That’s why her story just ENDS so abruptly after her confrontation with Charles, even though it seems like it should just be getting starting---her creator took off, and the new writer wasn’t interested in her.

She pops back up in the annual a year or two later to die, and I strongly suspect this was due to readers writing in and asking what happened to her; I can’t confirm this for fact, but TV Tropes claimed that fans actually refused to root against her because she was so sympathetic and benevolent, so I imagine a lot of them wanted to know where she went and this was to get them to shut up.

(It kind of reminds me of when this webcomic writer wrote a character he meant as despicable and twisted, and she was, but she was also way more deep and interesting than the 2D mouthpieces the protagonists were, so fans kept asking when she’d come back. He got so fed up he drew her dying in a gross and humiliating way. So yeah, if people were indeed asking “what happened to Haven and her evil possessed fetus?” and writing her dying in the mud giving birth while a goddess victim-blames her was the response...yeah. Again I cannot be for sure this is what happened, it’s just a GUESS.)

But yeah the big reason is Snowbird is a heroine and important, Haven was a flash-in-the-pan villain that only one writer wanted to write and had to be gotten out of the way when someone new came in. Nothing deeper than that. But the WAY that Haven’s story played out, especially compared to Snowbird’s...that’s got a lot of sexism and quite potentially racism there, yeah. So um, let’s get into that. Under a cut for length because I doubt people following a Shaw blog for Shaw want to see a bunch of non-Shaw rambling.

Haven’s story, as I have written about MANY times on her blog, is REALLY UNCOMFY in its sexism, racism, and xenophobia. Let me say, I do not think DeMatteis intended this. He writes Haven as a very kind, well-intentioned person even at her worst, and I happen to know he has a genuine real-life interest in Indian spirituality, which I think is definitely what inspired her. Unfortunately, these good intentions didn’t stop Unfortunate Implications galore: - Our first Indian/Hindu/Zoroastrian character is not only a villain, her “evil” philosophy is taken directly from real-world Hindu beliefs - She is opposed by a team comprised ENTIRELY of white people who work for the US government who scoff at those beliefs and refer to them as “New Age” (aka a white hippie movement that appropriated a lot of actual Hindu ideas but certainly did not invent it!) - The US government says she’s a terrorist. Polaris raises doubts, because Haven’s actions at that point have been nothing but benevolent (she saved Polaris) whereas the same government making these accusations has been malevolent (the people trying to kill/capture Polaris were US agents, despite Polaris working for the government, who attacked her because she had the same energy signal as Magneto) When they go to see Haven in person, she’s preaching peace between humans and mutants. Havok opens fire on her---so basically, a law enforcement officer shooting without warning at an unarmed WOC who isn’t doing anything threatening and they don’t even know has superpowers yet--and Haven has to hit the deck. Despite her own great power that we later learn she has, she never retaliates. But we find out that yes, actually, everything the government said about her is true, she’s leading a terrorist death-cult, and so it’s a-okay that our white government cop FIRED A FUCKING PLASMA BURST AT HER WHEN SHE WAS JUST STANDING THERE. The moral of her story is seriously “this brown woman with a funny religion is a terrorist because the government said so, no matter how nice and gentle she seems, and thus any excessive force against her was definitely justified even if we didn’t know that at the time” like it’s CHILLING. - Haven herself actually has very questionable agency in all this. She’s actually been pregnant for twenty years; her unborn child is permanently in the first trimester and possessed by the powerful demon known as The Adversary (which doesn’t make sense timeline-wise, but I have no doubt this thing can time travel, its entire point is to fuck the rules of universal order) We don’t know exactly how much it can influence her or perhaps even control her, but we do know it’s been talking in her head from 20 years and came on at a time she was REALLY messed up and vulnerable, and manipulated her at the least. I personally think it probably was controlling or influencing her at a very deep subtle level, but that’s just my interpretation. At the least though, again, talking in her head for 20 years, that’s the supernatural equivalent of schizophrenia and we wouldn’t blame her for THAT, right? - Oh, and about it appearing when she was at her lowest, most vulnerable point? Know why she was at her lowest, most vulnerable point just when she happened to be pregnant? Haven’s story is she was born extremely rich but was so passionate about using her privilege to help the poor that she ran away from her parents---philanthropists themselves, but who wanted to protect her from the outside world too---to go work directly in the streets, bathing lepers and cradling dying babies. She got her name “Haven” because she used her wealth to renovate a children’s hospital of the same name, I’m serious. She was literally a fucking SAINT. And then she fell in love with a man, and he used her, knocked her up, and ran off. She was DEEPLY ashamed and berated herself not only for her loss of “purity” but also for being “selfish” and forgetting the children. This is...so sad, and so DEEPLY entrenched in how women, ESPECIALLY women of color in a colonized culture, are considered “selfish” and “evil” if they don’t utterly sacrifice themselves 24/7 to care for others and dare have wants/needs of their own. So she fell into this deep despair and that’s when her fetus starts talking to her and filling her head with twisted lies that preyed on both her devout spirituality and her desire to help others.

There is no more sympathetic villain setup POSSIBLE, you’d think Haven would be a SHOE-IN for a redemption arc or at least being saved from her own “child”, but she gets neither. She dies alone in the mud, having only now realized as the birth is coming just what it is she’s about the bring into the world. Roma, the Omniversal Guardian Goddess and eternal foe of the Adversary, appears to watch. Haven begs her, not to save her own life but to stop the Adversary from the terrible things it’s going to do to the world. To her last breath, her concern is others. And Roma tells her “I would weep for you, but you brought this on yourself.” So basically, Haven, who is the most wonderful person in the world and who VERY much fits expected gender roles (gentle, maternal, loving, non-violent even when attacked, long hair, pink and purple flowing clothes, literally SPARKLES) has sex ONE TIME and she’s punished for it in the worst fucking way while the guy who impregnated her gets off scott-free. It’s just...it’s the worst narrative, in terms of sexism AND racism AND just in general. That’s not even getting into, say, the really uncomfy way her meeting with Xavier is handled, eesh. Compare, Snowbird. She’s actually far LESS the “perfect” woman than Haven is, she’s very cold and aloof and she even contemplates LETTING HER SON DIE so that her ties with mortality will be severed and she can join her divine family in paradise. But she had that son within the confines of MARRIAGE to a mortal man, and she only got married after her duties were done, unlike Haven on both counts. And her loss, and the loss of her child, are deeply mourned by those around her, she has a very dignified and beautiful funeral with Snow White style glass coffins, and we see the spirits of herself, her husband, and her child all ascend to the Inua paradise together, the gods having decided to let them in even though mortals have never been allowed before. She gets divine exception, Haven gets divine condemnation. She gets a beautiful funeral surrounded by loved ones, Haven’s corpse is probably still rotting in the jungle and her brother likely still has no idea what happened to her. To be clear I in no way resent Snowbird for her better treatment in a similiar story, I like Snowbird, but it is very disparate in how differently these seemingly similar situations---possessed baby and such---were handled, and the specific ways in which Haven’s were handled so badly ARE very much the product of bigotry that Snowbird didn’t suffer in part due to her being a white or white-coded character (in addition to being, again, a heroine and a major character, which helped her a lot too) Also, is it just me or is Marvel like...weird around childbirth/babies/motherhood and mixing that with demons/evil spirits/possession? Because in that same vein we’ve also got Madelyne Pryor and Wanda Maximoff who also go through demonic possession that’s related in some way to being mothers of babies. That’s a very strange pattern to have and something’s going on there. As a note, it bugs me that Snowbird’s human disguise as “Anne McKenzie” is a BLONDE WHITE WOMAN. Like, yes, her human father was white, but her mother Nelvanna is one of the Inua, the ancient gods of Canada from LONG before white people showed up and WHO LOOK LIKE FIRST NATIONS PEOPLE, Snowbird herself is constantly emphasized as a child of these lands, she is literally magically BOUND to these lands and can’t leave them without weakening and dying, she was raised by an indigenous shaman, and she can only turn into animals that are INDIGENOUS to Canada. She is very unsubtly the embodiment of pre-colonial Canada, so it’s just...asinine to me her human form is that of a colonizer. I get they probably didn’t think further than “let’s give her human form blonde hair so it’s recognizably her” but like, that’s the problem, they didn’t THINK. Also I feel like her being mixed would really thematically fit her, since a strong part of her story was struggling between her divine and human heritage and being forced to try to “pick a side” which is something I’ve heard (I’m white) that a lot of irl mixed people deal with. It just would make more SENSE.

#out of shirt #snowbird #haven #radha dastoor

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maryqueenofmurder · 5 years ago

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Bdoublo100 x Keralis

“-I think it would be a pretty good story if Bdubs fell somewhere else with water, and Keralis hadn’t been released from area 77. Bdubs finds out that Keralis has been captured in some wacky way, and launches a one man mission to rescue him/joins th hippies. Possibly both.” -me

Speak and ye shall receive.

------------------------------------------------------------

Bdoubleo100 fell. Again.

But this time, he didn’t just hit the ground and go splat. Instead, he landed in water. Bubbles explodes around him as he sunk deeper. The salty water stung his eyes, which he opened out of surprise. Bdubs clamped his mouth shut, and swam desperately for the surface.

He popped up, taking huge, gasping breaths. That was not an experience he was interested in repeating. Which meant he’d have to find land. Luckily, he’d landed in a rather deep river. Full of... bamboo? Bdubs quit treading water, and splashed over to the other end of the river. He climbed up the bank, with limbs that felt like lead, they were so heavy.

Bdubs paused at the top. He stood in awe in front of the shopping district. Of course, he didn’t know what it was. Simply that it was full of amazing buildings. Was that the Statue of Liberty?

Bdubs must have stood there, soaking wet and dripping on the ground, for a couple of minutes. He didn’t get too cold though, the sun shone down. It made him feel sleepy. It was getting colder, though. He was really tired after the whole falling and dying over and over thing. His eyes started to flutter shut, and he swayed slightly.

Then Bdubs eyes snapped open. He had heard the sound of rockets. He whipped around to see whoever was flying -some guy in a red sweater- make a hard turn in his direction. Bdubs closed his eyes and braced for impact, hoping it wouldn’t kill him or injure him too badly. Red sweater man stopped just a few feet from were he was standing. He could hear that much.

“Who are you?!” Bdubs opened his eyes. Red sweater man seemed pretty upset, and was practically seething.

“I’m Bdoubleo100! But you can call me Bdubs.” Bdubs told him, wondering why he was so mad.

“Well, why are you here? Are you a new hermit? Why didn’t anyone tell me this was happening?” Red sweater man seemed calmer. But more irritated.

“I don’t think they knew I was coming. I didn’t.” Bdubs answered truthfully.

“Ugh. This is just like Keralis. Why are random people showing up? Probably aliens. I can give you the rundown.” Red sweater man continued to talk about how the hermits were family and stuff, but Bdubs basically tuned him out after Keralis. He might’ve mentioned aliens as well.

Bdubs had a crush on Keralis, but they got separated before he could confess. He thought he’d been over it, but clearly not. Besides, Keralis was a good friend of his, he’d like to see him. Maybe they could do something together.

“Did you say Keralis?” Bdubs interrupted the guy.

“Uh, yeah, do you know him?” Red sweater guy tilted his head.

“We’re pretty good friends. Can you take me to him?” Red sweater guy seemed to deflate when he said it.

“No. He’s stuck in Area 77. We overheard Doc talking about it. That’s why I’m so upset. You can’t just kidnap people, Doc! We keep telling everybody what’s up, but nobody will listen. They think we’re overreacting!” Red sweater man seemed to be getting worked up.

“Area 77?! Doc kidnapped Keralis?! Aliens?!” Bdubs said frantically.

“Area 77 is what basically amounts to a government facility. They keep anything out of the ordinary in there. Apparently Keralis came out of a portal, and they made him build something to prove he was the real Keralis.” Red sweater man informed him.

“So, he’s NOT the real Keralis then?” Now Bdubs was confused.

“Oh no, he was, but they decided to keep him anyway. Probably because he was still an anomaly. Maybe the aliens told them to do it.” Red sweater man said.

“Aliens.” Now Bdubs wasn’t even sure the guy wasn’t messing with him.

“Apparently, yeah. Ren overheard them talking about it.” Now red sweater man was mentioning more people.

“And no-one is doing ANYTHING about this.” Bdubs was concerned.

“Nah. They stole my time machine and kidnapped villager Grian as well, so I don’t know why nobody cares! It’s just us hippies trying to save them.” So red sweater guy had some investment in this whole thing as well.

“So the hippies are people who are against Area 77. Like a protest?” Bdubs inquired. “Who are the hippies?”

“At the moment it’s just me, Ren, and Impulse. We do more than protest against Area 77, but you’d need to join us to find out.” Red sweater man winked.

“I might take you up on that offer.” Bdubs winked back, and turned around. He... had absolutely no idea where to go. He turned to face the guy again.

“Where do I go now?” Bdubs asked.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t just let you go.” Bdubs’s heartbeat picked up.

“What?” He asked nervously.

“If the Area 77 guys Doc and Scar find you they’ll lock you up too.” Red sweater man answered confidently. Bdubs hadn’t thought of that. He’d need to hide.

“So. Why don’t you come with me, and I can make you a hippie? There’s plenty of room nearby, and you can work with us underground.” Red sweater man said charismatically.

“I don’t know...” Bdubs answered. He barely knew who the hippies were.

“You can help us rescue Keralis.” There was a gleam in his eyes. Most would call it mischevious, but it wasn’t. It was determination.

“Okay.” Bdubs took him up on his offer immediately. If he was going to get Keralis, he’d need some help.

---------------------------Line Break Brought to You By Bubbles------------------------

“Ren, Impulse, this is Bdoubleo100.” Grian pointed at each while he introduced Bdubs. He’d called an emergency hippie meeting.

“And you brought him here why? What we’re doing is top secret. Then again, you hired me after a five minute interview. But the stakes have been raised.” Impulse seemed wary.

“Don’t be so hard on Grian, Impulse. I’m more concerned as to why we weren’t informed there was a new hermit, and if we can trust him.” Ren said cheerily. Impulse nodded, though his gaze didn’t change from where it fell on Bdubs. But Bdubs was too distracted to notice.

“Grian?” He turned to look at red sw- Grian. He never did tell me his name, did he? Ren turned to Grian, and raised an eyebrow. Grian looked rather sheepish.

“I may have forgotten to introduce myself. And he’s like Keralis, so Xisuma didn’t know he was getting on. I brought him here because we need to hide him so Doc and Scar can’t imprison him. Also, he knew Keralis, so he wants to be a hippie and help us break into Area 77.” Grian started off bashfully, but ended the same determined tone that had graced him earlier.

“So where do we hide him then? The hole? It can’t be ANYWHERE Doc or Scar could find him, so we can’t have him build an R.V..” Impulse’s question was directed to Grian. Then he spun over to Bdubs and started interrogating him.

“If you’re fine with an underground base you can dig a hole connected to ours, and you can stripmine down there. We can get you most of what else you need. With proper lighting you could start a tree farm, and pretty much any other kind of farm.” Impulse had been getting more excited with everything he said, and frankly Bdubs was eager to hear what else he would say.

“We’ll show you around the place. We usually meet up every night that there’s more than one of us here together to bond around the campfire. Doc’d be suspicious if we stopped right away, so we can meet you down in the hole two times a week to start. The second visit will be our weekly hippie meeting, where we talk about our progress on the whole Area 77 raid.” Impulse finished his ramble. Ren, Grian, and Bdubs all nodded in agreement.

“So will you show me this hole you keep talking about?” Bdubs questioned.

A childish smile grew on Grian’s face. They walked from where they were standing by the campfire to Ren’s R.V.. They all filed in, with Bdubs last. Grian stood on top of the toilet. Bdubs shot him a questioning glance.

Grian, gleefully, shouted, “Flush me, boys!” his smile growing ever wider.

Ren hit the button on the side of the toilet, and the toilet... disappeared. No, that wasn’t right, it got pulled into the wall of the R.V.. Grian fell down a tunnel underneath the toilet. The toilet then returned to its proper place.

Bdubs snorted. Impulse gestured towards the toilet. “Your turn. May I have the honor of flushing you, Bdoubleo100?” Impulse asked grandly. Bdubs nodded in return. Impulse hit the button, and Bdubs fell down, landing in water.

Deja Vu. Bdubs had fallen into water earlier, and now his clothes were wet again. He stepped into a giant hole. The floor, walls, and ceiling was all dirt. The ground was covered in grass, though.

“Wow.” He stood there for a moment, stunned.

“Alright, follow me.” Grian announced making the come-here gesture. Ren and Impulse walked up behind Bdubs, Ren having been flushed by Impulse who then flushed himself afterwards.

“Here is the tunnel. I’m digging it under Area 77, and when it’s far enough, we’ll break in.” Grian broke some dirt, revealing a long, long tunnel.

“You can dig your hole over there.” Grian patched up the hidden entrance, and gestures at the far side of the hole.

“We’ll fetch you stuff to start you off, like saplings. If you need anything from the surface world, we go on trips at the end of every week to get supplies. It happens after each hippie meeting.” Grian handed him some wood, a bed, and a book to write necessary supplies on. Bdubs thanked him, and started to brainstorm as to what to do.

---------------------------Line Break Brought to You By Area 77------------------------

The days passed quickly since then.

Bdubs mined and started farms and built. He’d gotten diamond armor and tools. But what he did most of all was dig. The tunnel to Area 77 was lengthening fast. It was already under the main hangar. The next step would take a couple of days, but would be worth it.

The hippies would excavate several other tunnels, branching out from the main one. This would allow for easy access to several different areas. They would split up, Ren, Impulse, and Grian going to hangar 4. Or wherever Grian’s time machine was. They’d rescue villager Grian, and steal the time machine back.

Bdubs would head to Keralis’s cell. He’d free him without setting off the alarm. In case someone noticed Keralis dying over and over, he’d wait until Grian and the others had left in the time machine.

Finally, it was time.

All the countdowns had run out, and the R.V.s had all launched and flew. The hippies all met up in the hole. Grian handed Bdubs a player head and a specific set of clothes. Bdubs changed into them, and they all started down the main tunnel.

Once they reached the end of the main tunnel, they split up. Grian, Ren, and Impulse went down the tunnel that lead to the front hangar. That’s where Keralis’s main base was. Or at least, the place he spent the largest amount of time, and where he slept.

Bdubs counted the blocks as he walked. He couldn’t get distracted, lest he mess this up. And if he failed, if he got caught... There wouldn’t be any second chances. Not for him. Bdubs stopped. He’d reached the right block.

He broke the top block, which was eye level to him. Then he crouched down and peered up, through the hole where the newly broken block used to be. The gamble had paid off. The camera in the hallway was right above his head and was aimed at the far wall for the moment.

This put Bdubs in the camera’s blind spot. He took a deep, inaudible breath. Then he slipped the player head over his own. Doc’s player head, to be exact. He was also wearing a set of clothes that looked like Doc’s. Grian had made sure they fit Bdubs perfectly.

Though it wouldn’t hold up to close examination, hopefully no-one would realize he wasn’t Doc until it was too late. It would also allow him to pass observers. Impulse had taught him how to mimic Doc’s body language. Bdubs was passable at it, at best. Ren had tried to teach him how to talk like Doc, but he just sounded unintelligible and German.

Bdubs walked deeper into the tunnel, and started blocking it off. That way, if Doc or Scar broke the wall to see were he came from, they’d just see dirt and stone. Hopefully, that would keep them from digging too deep.

If they found the tunnel, they could suss out that it was the hippies who did it. It would lead them right to the big hole. And possibly to Bdubs’s base, as well. They would find him, and Keralis as well, assuming Bdubs succeeded in rescuing him. Then again, if he failed to save Keralis, then he probably already got caught.

The camera turned. Bdubs walked into the hallway. He patched the wall behind him up seamlessly. He fiddled with his clothes slightly, then strode into the view of another camera.

Bdubs walked down the hallway with purposeful strides. Inside, however, he was a nervous wreck. It didn’t help that he was going to see Keralis again.

Bdubs slowed his steps, which had stared getting frantic. He tried to calm down He took even breathes. Then he arrived at the main hangar.

Bdubs walked over to the ice, the only way to see the inside of Keralis’s cell. There was a house inside. It was beautiful, and modern style. He shook himself out of his stupor, and tapped on the ice. Keralis was probably sleeping, it was three in the morning after all. Bdubs rapped his knuckles on the ice. He knocked louder.

Keralis stumbled out of the house, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Keralis spotted Bdubs and sighed, clearly not recognizing him. Bdubs took a piece of paper out of his pocket. It said:

Hey Keralis,

I’m pretending to be Doc. When it’s the right time, I’ll give you a bunch of ender pearls. You’ll pearl into the ice wall and eventually glitch through. I’ll take you somewhere that Area 77 can’t find us. Get rid of the paper.

Bdubs put the paper into the dispenser and hit the lever. The paper dispensed in Keralis’s cell. Keralis picked it up dazedly, and read it. He paused. Then read it over again, and shot Bdubs a glance. Read the paper again. Really scrutinized Bdubs.

Bdubs fidgeted nervously and looked away, feeling flustered with the full weight of Keralis’s gaze on him. Bdubs looked back at Keralis. Keralis nodded slowly, and put the paper back in the dispenser, and gestured towards it. Bdubs took the paper out of the dispenser, folded it up, and put it back in his pocket.

---------------------------Line Break Brought to You By Spies------------------------

Bdubs’s communicator crackled slightly. “We’re about to use the time machine.” Grian’s voice whispered over the comms.

“In position.” Bdubs whispered back.

Bdubs waited a couple of seconds. Then he walked over to the dispenser and inserted several stacks of ender pearls. Then flicked the lever a couple of times. Keralis picked them up, and pearled into the ice wall.

A huge amount of failures later, and many deaths, Keralis was out.

Bdubs grabbed Keralis’s upper arm gently, and led him to the hallway. The camera was still pointing in the same direction. Bdubs broke the two blocks in the camera’s blindspot, and the dirt behind him.

Bdubs stepped into the hole, pulling Keralis with him. Bdubs blocked up the hole in Area 77′s wall. He broke more dirt, filling the hole behind him and Keralis as they walked side by side. When they got to the end of the dirt blockade and into the tunnel Keralis turned to Bdubs.

“Okay, it’s nice that you broke me out, but who are you?” Keralis asked distrustfully. In response Bdubs took off his mask. Keralis’s eyes darted back and forth, his mouth falling open. He mouths Bdubs’s name, and then-

Keralis pulled his face away from Bdubs. Then he shot him a shy smile. Bdubs grabbed Keralis’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Together they walked down the tunnel, back to the hole.

Their story isn’t over, far from it in fact. Doc will discover that the time machine and Keralis are gone in a couple of hours. Bdubs and Keralis will have to hide, have to learn to avoid detection, become ghost in so many different ways.

But right now, at this moment? Bdubs and Keralis walk down the tunnel hand in hand, humming contentedly. And they are happy.

The end.

#hermitcraft #hermitship #bdoubleo100 #keralis #keralis x bdoubleo100 #bdoubleo100 x keralis #bdubs x keralis #keralis x bdubs #grian #goodtimeswithscar #ren #rendog #impulse #impulsesv #area 77 #hippies #hippie arc #area 77 arc #long post

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chiseler · 4 years ago

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"¡Viva Puerto Rico libre!”

Lolita Lebrón

Amid all the righteous shrieking and arm-flapping that accompanied the coverage of the January 6th storming of the U.S. Capitol by a mob of yahoos and half-wits, commentator after commentator proclaimed such an assault on the sanctity of The People’s House was unprecedented, at least since the torching of the Capitol building during the War of 1812. If your limiting the parameters to “A mob of yahoos and half-wits spurred on by clumsy bald-faced lies and ridiculous conspiracy theories stormed the Capitol building, convinced they’d be able to overturn the results of a presidential election by making a terrible mess,” then yes, sure, I can’t think of a comparable example in our history. If, however, these commentators are speaking in more general terms about violent, politically-motivated attacks inside the American International Pictures logo, then I’m afraid, yet again, a brief history lesson is in order. Let’s work our way backwards from January 6th.

In a strange and eerie precedent, if on a smaller scale, on the afternoon of July 24th, 1998, Russell E. Weston Jr. stormed through the Capitol’s document door, an entrance generally reserved for elected officials and their staffs. According to interviews after the fact, Weston was a paranoid schizophrenic off his meds who was convinced America was about to be besieged both by a strange new disease and an army of cannibals, and wanted our nation’s leaders to know about it.

Jacob Chestnut, Jr.

When Weston zipped through the metal detector just inside the entrance, the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver he was carrying set off the alarm. After Capitol police officer Jacob Chestnut, Jr. asked him to kindly back up and go through the machine again, Westin drew his revolver and shot Chestnut in the head, killing him. He then took off down the hall, ducking into what turned out to be a suite of offices occupied by senior Republican congressmen. At that particular moment, it was also occupied by plainclothes special agent John Gibson, who’d drawn security detail that day. Weston promptly shot Gibson as well, but before he died, Gibson returned fire, shooting Weston four times. Weston survived, and is presently still being held in an institute for the criminally insane.

Fifteen years earlier, on November 7th, 1983, members of a third-rate radical group calling themselves The Armed Resistance Unit (ARU) planted a bomb on the second floor of the Senate Wing. When it went off around midnight, no one was hurt, but the blast did cause an estimated $250,000 in damage. A communique released by the ARU said the bombing was in response to American military action in Grenada and Lebanon. Thirteen years before that, on March 1st, 1971, The Weathermen, in what would soon be recognized as their standard m.o., planted a bomb in one of the Capitol’s many bathrooms. Again it was timed to go off in the middle of the night. No one was hurt, but the next day a few people were inconvenienced. In taking credit for the bombing, The Weathermen claimed it was in response to the continued U.S. bombing of Laos. Or maybe just Laotian bathrooms—amid all the hippie lingo and Marxist doggerel, it was hard to tell.

But those were all small potatoes, tepid attacks waged by crazy people driven by delusional fantasies and supposed revolutionary groups who had no clear idea what a real revolution entailed. But exactly seventeen years before the Weathermen, in essence, flushed an M-80 down a congressional toilet and called it a mighty blow against U.S. imperialism, it was a different story, which may explain why it’s so forgotten today.

In order to fully understand the events of March 1st, 1954, we need to step back a ways, to the end of the Spanish-American War.

As part of the 1898 Treaty of Paris, which brought the war to its end, Spain handed control of Puerto Rico over to the U.S.. There was just one problem with this. A year earlier, in the 1897 Carta de Autonomía, Spain had already granted Puerto Rico independence from colonial rule, meaning come the end of their scuffle with the States, Spain was no longer in any position to be handing Puerto Rico over to anyone.

Well, everyone seemed to overlook this little technicality, and Puerto Rico became an American commonwealth.

In 1950, Congress passed the Puerto Rico Federal Relations Act, which declared the U.S. would continue to provide security for Puerto Rico and handle any international treaties that might involve them. At the same time, the people of Puerto Rico would be free to elect their own government, so long as the U.S. approved of their choices. While Puerto Ricans would be considered U.S. citizens, they would not be allowed to vote for president, nor would they have any representatives in Congress.

This did not sit especially well with the Puerto Rican Nationalist Party, which had been pushing for Puerto Rican sovereignty since its formation in 1922.

The ruling (and U.S.-backed) People’s Democratic Party, however, gave the passage of the Congressional act a big thumb’s up. In response, the Nationalists, still calling for the recognition of the 1897 Carta de Autonomía, launched a sloppy and bloody revolt in cities across Puerto Rico. The uprising was quickly squashed with a little help from the PDP’s friends to the North, who provided both manpower and military hardware.

Two Puerto Rican nationals living in New York at the time, Griselio Torresola and Oscar Collazo, had a better idea. Down in Washington, with the White House undergoing renovations, Harry Truman had taken up temporary residence in Blair House, the presidential guest house. He was a sitting duck, they figured. Freedom-loving people around the world may have been able to ignore a little three-day skirmish in their homeland, but they wouldn’t be able to ignore the assassination of a U.S. president.

The pair armed themselves and took a train down to Washington. Once they arrived at Blair House, apparently convinced they’d simply be able to kick in the front door and shoot Truman, Torresola and Collazo were surprised to find the place guarded by dozens of secret service agents, city cops, and White House security officers. In the brief gun battle that ensued, Torresola was killed, as was one of the cops. Collazo was taken into custody and later sentenced to death. Two years later in 1952, Truman commuted his sentence to life in prison.

Also in 1952, gleaning that the natives were getting restless, Truman decided it might be wise to appease them by offering a simple vote on the matter. So later that year, the people of Puerto Rico, given the chance to put a free and open democracy into action, went to the polls, where they were freely and openly allowed to choose between the kind of limited autonomy they presently experienced, or complete U.S. control. The fact that “independence” was not among the choices offered was lost on nobody, especially the Nationalists, who for the most part skipped the vote. Those who did vote overwhelmingly chose to stick with limited autonomy.

A radical wing of the Nationalist Party, enraged by the scam of a so-called referendum, began hatching a plan to call attention to the struggles of the Puerto Rican independence movement.

Initially, the four-person team—Lolita Lebrón, Andrés Figueroa Cordero, Rafael Cancel Miranda and Irvin Flores Rodríguez—decided to launch a series of violent attacks around Washington, coinciding with the opening of the Interamerican Conference in Caracas on March first, 1954. As the date approached, however, Lolita Lebrón, self-appointed leader of the group, decided splitting up to try and hit several targets at once around Washington was maybe not the wisest move. They’d get better results if they concentrated their efforts on a single target—namely the U.S. Congress.

So on the morning of March 1st, like Torresola and Collazo before them, Lebrón met the other three at Grand Central Station. Armed with semiautomatic pistols, they boarded a train for Washington. Upon arriving, they marched straight to the Capitol building and found themselves seats at the back of one of the visitors galleries overlooking the House floor.

Down on the floor, Congress was debating whether or not to continue allowing Mexican immigrants to work as migrant laborers on American soil. Upon Lebrón’s signal, a cry of "¡Viva Puerto Rico libre!,” the four stood, unfurled a Puerto Rican flag, pulled their guns and began firing.

After she was arrested, Lebrón insisted she’d only fired hers at the ceiling, saying, "I did not come to kill anyone, I came to die for Puerto Rico.” The other three, however, apparently hadn’t been paying attention during the planning sessions, and began shooting at Congress members. Cordero’s gun jammed, but Miranda more than picked up the slack, firing an estimated 30 rounds into the panicking Congressmen below. Three Democrats and two Republicans were struck, one seriously, but all five survived. All four Nationalists were arrested at the scene.

In June, after a 12-day trial in federal court on attempted murder and weapons charges, the four were found guilty, though Lebrón was found guilty of the lesser charge of assault with a deadly weapon. Although the prosecution had been pushing for the death penalty given the crime involved an attack on the very heart of American democracy, the judge instead handed down consecutive prison terms, fifty years for Lebrón and seventy-five years each for the other three.

In October, they were brought back to court to face further federal conspiracy charges. They were found guilty once again, and the judge tacked another six years onto their sentences. The four were then split up and sent to four different federal prisons.

Two decades after the attack on Congress, the next generation of radical Puerto Rican nationals calling themselves FALN, still fighting for Puerto Rican sovereignty, began a bombing campaign across the U.S.. It’s estimated they detonated over 130 bombs in New York, Chicago, San Francisco and other major cities, most notably the 1975 lunch time bombing of the historic Fraunces Tavern in the Financial District, which killed four Wall Street types.

In 1978, as the bloody, decade-long FALN bombing campaign rolled on, Figueroa Cordero was released from prison after serving 23 years of his 81-year sentence. The next year, then-President Jimmy Carter commuted the sentences of the other three. Some say it was part of a prisoner exchange deal to secure the release of several CIA agents imprisoned in Cuba, while others believe it may have been a direct response to the FALN, who, among other things, had been demanding the release of their revolutionary forbears.

Today, the Puerto Rican Nationalist attack on Congress and the FALN’s deadly decade-long bombing spree remain mostly forgotten. Meanwhile the bumbling rich-kid antics of The Weathermen and the merely bubbling antics of the Symbionese Liberation Army remain firmly entrenched in the American consciousness. The reasons for this are fairly simple and merely part of a long pattern. Groups like The Weathermen and the SLA may not have had any clear plans, may not have been driven by any personal injustices, and may not have accomplished much save for the kidnapping of one rich white girl, but they had great p.r.. They were (mostly) white, they were photogenic, and they didn’t really bother anyone. The four Puerto Rican Nationalists, the FALN and other forgotten groups like the Black Liberation Army were motivated by personal injustices. Their anger was justified, they did some real damage, and that made them a dangerous threat to those in power. They were also, y’know, a bunch of dirty Hispanics and Blacks, so better to just bury the issue. Who cares?

by Jim Knipfel

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melon-wing · 5 years ago

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It is you (Grian x Ren)

The Hippie Camp was a peaceful place, quiet and laid back. Sure, they were fighting a corrupt government agency, but most of their time was spend just hanging out. Grian had become quite comfortable around the other two Hippies. He loved spending time taking a break from all the building and tunnel digging,

He liked evenings the most. He’d be all covered in dirt, Impulse’s face was powdered with redstone dust and Ren would try and fail to wipe the dye off of his hands. They’d just sit around the campfire, talking about everything and nothing at all. And sure, he’d known Impulse and Ren before all this started, but being in this together they had started to develop a really deep bond.

Grian looked up at the giant RV he had just finished building. It was quite impressive. He let out a tiny giggle, thinking of the looks on Doc and Scar’s faces. It would be so freaking amazing.

As he stretched out the pain in his neck made him aware of how long he had been working on this monstrosity. He really needed a break at the campfire, before he started digging… maybe take a little nap to get his energy back. Yeah, that was a great idea.

He yawned, rounding the corner of the RV and froze. There, at the campfire sat Ren, dirty shirt discarded next to him, his sunglasses up in his hair. The sun reflecting of the sweat on his bare chest. Grian had to swallow as his eyes traced all the lines of the body in front of him. He felt the heat rushing to his face, his heart rate picking up.

What was wrong with him?

Why did he react like that?

Before Ren could notice him in this state he went back into the direction he came from. He needed a distraction. Now! Or a cold bath. Or both. Maybe he could work some more on the outside of his base… Plant some corals on the ocean floor. Yeah, that sounded good. He’d dig the tunnel another time. He didn’t have to do it today. He’d work far away from Ren and forget about whatever just happened. And tomorrow everything would be fine again. Tomorrow he’d stop thinking about the way Ren’s chest had looked. Tomorrow he’d hopefully be able to look him into the eyes again.

When Grian arrived at the Hippie Camp again the next day, he realised that he couldn’t. He’d just landed, his elytra folding its wings against his back, when his eyes landed on Ren, who had just stepped out of his RV.

Ren, who looked at him and smiled so brightly, he could probably light a room with his smile alone.

Grian really tried to keep eye contact, but one glance at his friend’s now covered chest was all it took for him to lose his composure. He just hoped Ren wouldn’t notice how flustered he was…

“Grian! My man! I missed you yesterday? Were you back at your base?”

Grian only nodded, not trusting his voice yet. Impulse who was sitting at the campfire gave him a weird look, his eyebrows raised. Damn, was he so obvious? He cleared his throat and forced a smile.

“Sorry about yesterday. Important Sahara business. It came up suddenly. But I’m all yours tonight.”

“Nice. I like that!” Ren said with a smirk, making Grian realise too late that what he had said sounded really ambiguous.

Damn… He begged his heart to calm down. This was getting ridiculous.

“I’ll start digging”, he blurted out hastily. Any excuse to get away and think of something that wasn’t Ren.

An hour later, shovel in hand, covered in dirt and sweat Grian already felt better. He had needed this. The quiet monotonous work helped him sort out his thoughts.

So what if he found Ren attractive? That meant nothing at all. He was a handsome guy after all. Most Hermits would agree with him on that. His reaction wouldn’t have been any different if it had been Impulse or Scar sitting there half naked.

“Everything’s okay...”, he muttered to himself, taking out his pickaxe to break some of the stone in his way. “I just need to get a clear head and not think of him that way… Nobody will notice”

“Well you are doing a piss poor job at not being noticed. I’d recommend not talking to yourself.”

Grian dropped his pickaxe in shock and jerked his head around, to see Impulse casually leaning on the wall of his tunnel.

“I’d also recommend not looking at Ren like you are mentally undressing him. Dead giveaway.”

“It’s not like that. I didn’t… did I?”, Grian mumbled, still half in shock and embarrassed.

“Oh, you so did, you idiot. I don’t know what changed since yesterday, but congratulation, you’ve got the hots for our fellow Hippie brother.”

Grian shook his head in denial. He didn’t like Ren that way. He’d never looked at him like that before.

“Oh, come on… You want to pretend you’re straight?”

“’m not...”

“What?”

“I’m not straight, okay? But Ren… There’s no way. He’s just a friend. So what if he looks really good? There’s no way in hell I like him like that.”

Impulse smirked.

“Well you know, I never talked about any feelings being involved. But now that you said that… maybe you need to re-evaluate what you are feeling.”

Grian felt a blush creeping onto his face. He already hated the way this conversation was going.

“I saw him half naked once! There is no way I’d fall in love from a glance at his chest.”

Grian picked up his tools again and turned around to keep digging. There was a sigh behind him and steps receding. He was just starting to relax, thinking he had peace again, when Impulse spoke up.

“You know… A naked chest probably won’t make you fall in love… But spending each and every day for a month with each other might have made you fall this fucking hard. So get your head out of your arse and confess.”

Grian stood there still frozen in place long after the sound of Impulse’s steps had faded into the distance. He took a few minutes until he was able to think straight again.

Damn that guy! What did Impulse know about his feelings? Nothing!

He’d keep going. He’d just ignore the awkwardness between them until it was gone. There were not feelings involved. None at all. They were just fellow Hippie-friends.

When evening came Grian had finally cleared his head again. He sat down across from Ren at the campfire and was finally able to look him into the eyes and smile a little.

He pointedly ignored Impulse snorting next to him.

They just started talking and everything was back to normal. So what if he sometimes still feel a little flutter in hi stomach. That would fade as well with time.

“Oh guys… I’ve got to show you something”, Ren exclaimed after a while, leaving for a moment to go into his RV, returning with a guitar in his hands. “I build this myself. I thought with the campfire and everything a little music would fit right in.”

Impulse laughed and leaned back.

“Well let’s hear it. Can you even play that thing?”

Ren looked at him and mock offense and began softly strumming a melody on the strings.

Grian smiled and hummed along quietly, recognizing the song from somewhere. But then Ren started singing and Grian stopped, mouth slightly agape.

“There is something that I see in the way you look at me...”

He always knew Ren had a nice voice… but his singing. His singing sounded angelic. Grian felt like he was under a spell, not able to look away from the man in front of him as the song went on. He hung onto every word. It was a lovely song and the melody was nice.

“Could it be this is where I belong?” Ren looked up from the guitar, smiled at him, his eyes shining and winked at him. “It is you I have loved all along.”

Grian’s heart started hammering in his chest. It was only a song, right? That wink was just a joke for sure. Ren would never say something like that to him. And Grian? He...

Was he in love with Ren?

How could you not know if you were in love with somebody. Surely he’d know that, wouldn’t he? Romance novels had taught him that being in love would be so clear. You’d know as soon as it happened. You’d always be happy when you saw the other person, your heart would beat like crazy, you’d constantly blush and… Oh…

“I think I’m in love with you...”

It was only when the music stopped and Impulse next to him started to giggle that Grian realised he had said it out loud!

His eyes widened in shock, hands flying up to cover his face in shame.

“Grian…?”

Grian shook his head

“Look at me, man...”

Grian lowered his hands a little and peeked over his fingertips at Ren. Ren, whose cheeks were tinted red and who was grinning from ear to ear, like a little boy on his birthday.

“I love you too.”

#hermitship #Gren #Oh God I rushed writing this #I didn't know it was hermits hip day #Oh and by the way #My asks should be open now to everyone #So ask me random questions if you want too #I'll try to answer everything :)#🍉 stories

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hihoneyimdead · 4 years ago

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a dissection of anime nathaniel hawthorne in relation to the scarlet letter

In Which I’m Bored and Want to Talk About Anime Nathaniel Hawthorne and Why He’s More Interesting Than the Fandom Wants to Admit, and Also About Arthur Dimmesdale And Shit

This is going to be long. Fuck.

(spoilers through the manga, which i have not read all the way through, so take everything i say with a grain of salt. same goes for the scarlet letter, which i haven’t read in nearly four years. ripperoni bro)

Above is the topic of today’s procrastination, Anime Nathaniel Hawthorne from Bungo Stray Dogs. He is a member of an American organization called the Guild, he’s a preacher, and he has a superpower/ability called The Scarlet Letter that allows him to manipulate his own blood into scripture that can either harm or defend via spears and shit and then shields and shit.

He’s also a simp for Anime Margaret Mitchell, but I’ll be getting into that in a moment.

Anyway, here’s a better picture of our lovely reverend, this time with his ability:

Funny, right? But that’s what I’m gonna talk about today simply because I’m bored and I should be writing but I’m currently not and I really have a soft spot for this bitch of a preacher. Hawthorne here has a lot more to his character than a lot of people give him credit for, which makes sense because he is a relatively-minor character and all he’s been doing recently is getting cucked by Anime Fyodor Dostoevsky, and while he may currently be Comrade Assassin, he’s still a complex character if you look past what our favorite Russian pimp has been up to.

So a bit more about Hawthorne before I crack open my copy of his most famous book:

He is a preacher, not a priest, as shown by his choice in clothing. Priests don’t wear that, take it from a former Catholic. His clothes resemble the robes worn by classic Puritan preachers (such as the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, but we’ll get to him in a minute.) Whether that was on purpose or not I don’t know, but I’m aiming for a yes because Margaret Mitchell, his partner, wears a Southern belle-style outfit that Scarlett O’Hara (the main character of Mitchell’s most famous work, Gone With the Wind) wears, and John Steinbeck wears clothes reminiscent of Tom Joad (the main character of Steinbeck’s most famous work, The Grapes of Wrath.) It’s kind of a thing with the Guild. Edgar Allan Poe wears clothes that a goth around the time of Poe’s life would’ve worn. Same goes for Louisa May Alcott, Mark Twain, and H. P. Lovecraft. Meanwhile characters such as Lucy Maud Montgomery, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Herman Melville wear clothes that their characters (Anne from Anne of Green Gables, Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby, and whoever the fuck was in Moby Dick, respectively.) Hawthorne fits in with that last set of characters, which is funny considering the real life Hawthorne’s works.

In reality, Nathaniel Hawthorne was an American author in the early-to-mid-1800s who wrote many short stories, novels, and poems and shit, usually Romantic in nature. He started off, though, as a big member of the Transcendentalist movement. Transcendentalism, if you don’t know, is kind of like the 1800s equivalent of hippies. They were pretty anti-government and anti-religion, usually specifically anti-Christianity. These institutions corrupted the basis of mankind. Hawthorne himself helped form a utopian commune up in New England (it didn’t last long, don’t worry.) As he grew older, he grew out of that kind of writing and lifestyle and into the works we know him for today, such as his most famous novel, The Scarlet Letter. It, like many of his other works, contains allusions to religion and exists as a sort of criticism on it.

The Scarlet Letter is set in the middle of the 1600s in Puritan New England. The Puritans were known for being Super Christian. They did not pass the vibe check. The main character is Hester Prynne, a young woman convicted of adultery with an unknown father. After being “released” from prison after the birth of her daughter, Pearl, Hester is allowed to move around outside of prison. But to signify her “evilness”, she must have a red letter ‘A’ on the front of her dress at all times (the eponymous and extremely metaphoric scarlet letter.) Besides Hester and Peal, main characters include Roger Chillingsworth, a doctor and Hester’s ex-husband from England who has vowed to track down the father and have him punished as well, and the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, who is sick All of the Time For No Apparent reason. By the end of the novel it’s revealed that Dimmesdale’s illness is actually a manifestation of his guilt because he was Pearl’s father despite him being a reverend and all and Hester being an unmarried woman. He ends up dying in the end after professing his guilt and showing the town the red letter ‘A’ that God supposedly engraved upon the skin on his chest.

So let’s start here with a brief summary of Dimmesdale’s actions in the book as recalled by someone who hasn’t read it in four years but who is looking at the Wikipedia article right now.

We first meet him when he and another minister, John Wilson, question Hester as to who the father of her child was. She doesn’t answer. The next time we see him in person is when Hester goes to the governor to ask if she can keep Pearl. She pleads with Dimmesdale and Wilson (who is there too for some reason), and he manages to persuade the governor to let her keep her child. At some point soon after, his health really begins to decline, and Chillingsworth moves in as a physician. Chillingsworth discovers a weird symbol of guilt on Dimmesdale’s chest while the poor guy sleeps after suspecting that the preacher’s illness is a manifestation of an unknown guilt. Dimmesdale, filled with guilt, goes to the town square in the middle of the night one day and screams his guilt to the heavens, but he can’t make himself do it during the day. Hester, shocked by the poor guy’s whole deal, decides to break her vow of silence. She calls Dimmesdale outside of town and tells him that they’re going to move to Europe together and start a new life with Pearl. He agrees and seems reinvigorated. They go back to town, and all’s fine until he gives a really good sermon on Election Day. After that, he professes his guilt and dies in Hester’s arms. People there claim to see a “stigma” in the shape of a letter ‘A’ on his chest, though others say there’s nothing there.

Dimmesdale is a man consumed by his guilt. He physically and mentally declines because of his guilt and his unwillingness to expose himself for the sinner he really is, though, through it all, he supports Hester and Pearl as best he can considering his station as the town minister. He’s supposed to be the beacon of mortality, the person everyone should look up to and respect and learn from. And here he is, an adulterer, and a liar. And when he finally grows past his guilt and decides to let it out in favor of leaving and starting life anew, he dies, consumed, supposedly, by the wrath of God. He “falls” as a sinner, struck down by the very flames of Hell themselves. Or, more likely, a regular heart attack. He died of shock, poor guy.

Compare that to Anime Nathaniel Hawthorne. He starts out as a member of a secret association who, according to its leader, Fitzgerald, doesn’t do good, but does what needs to be done. That’s probably why Hawthorne joined it in the first place. While his main goal has always been eradicating sinners from the face of the Earth, he probably started out as a regular old minister. Eradicating doesn’t always mean killing, and this is shown as he only attacks those who threaten his work, his partner (wink), and himself. This changes after the woman he loves throws herself in the way of an attack and nearly gets herself killed saving him. In canon, she’s still in a coma. In canon, he gave himself completely into sin because of his guilt and love for her. And that’s where the similarities between Hawthorne and Dimmesdale really start.

Let’s start with the obvious guilt complex. This goes along with what I believe Dostoevsky’s ability, Crime and Punishment, does. I believe it feeds off of an individual’s guilt, manipulating it and their mind in the process. We see this with Karma, a young man Dostoevsky kills. Karma, in his last moments, goes through all he went wrong with in his life (you know, or as much as a manga page or two can have) and dies knowing that he’ll never achieve his dream. That’s a more extreme example, I think, and not one I should really be using as evidence for anything considering it’s the only example of this really happening. Every other person that Dostoevsky kills with his ability just drops dead without the audience seeing into their thoughts. He’s got an insta-kill ability, but my theory builds off the idea that he can control living or dying. Hawthorne came to Dostoevsky to work for Dostoevsky’s organization, the Rats in the House of the Dead, in exchange for Mitchell getting “revived”. He might look cool on the outside, but he left the Guild, his friends, because Mitchell got hurt. He loves her, and he says as much in the manga (the anime didn’t say so, but left it unsaid and obvious to those looking.) The next time we see Hawthorne, he’s a mindless assassin who really only remembers Mitchell from his past, and the assassin who nearly killed her. His guilt twisted him into someone completely different from how he was before, even looking physically leaner and as different a brief appearance in a manga and anime can make someone look. He’s even lost his glasses, and any normal look in his eye. It’s kinda like the main character of Crime and Punishment from what I can tell, but I also haven’t read that book so take what I say on that with a gain of salt.) He’s consumed by his guilt (thanks, Fyodor.) Guilt is a big part of his character (as much of a character as he has currently, anyway.) The same can be said for Dimmesdale, who, as I’ve said before was consumed by his own guilt and sin until his death.

I hope that Hawthorne doesn’t end up as dead as Dimmesdale did when he reunites with his supposed love interest (love interests aren’t really a thing in this series, which makes Hawthorne and Mitchell even more interesting to me.) I hope he gets a happy ending, but... that probably won’t happen unless Dostoevsky dies, which seems like an end-game thing to me. He’s a bad dude with slight plot armor.

Anyway, past the guilt, their relationship with the respective women in their lives is another important and interesting parallel. Dimmesdale, even through Hester’s punishment, more or less treats her as he would’ve before Pearl. I believe that he did truly love her in his own pitiful way, though not as much as he loved his relationship with God, as seen by his continued guilt and shit. But it’s important to note that he seemed to admit his own love for Hester by agreeing to run away to Europe with her, and he did so in little ways throughout the story by helping her keep Pearl and by really just giving her a lighter sentence than a lot of women would’ve gotten. Puritan ministers were up there with government officials in the law (look at the witch trials, for example), so he would’ve definitely had input on her punishment. Most women would’ve been stoned or banished from the town or colony. Hester, notably, was let off relatively easy with just the emblem and the vague banishment to living in a house outside of town alone with her daughter. Hawthorne’s partner was Margaret Mitchell, and from the very beginning until the assassin skewered them, the two of them argued. Honestly, they bickered a lot like an old married couple. It was kinda cute in a weird way. Neither of them would obviously admit their feelings for each other. Both are proud people, Mitchell coming from a disgraced rich family and Hawthorne being a man of God. But his concern for her becomes evident the moment she gets stabbed clean through and impaled a dozen feet above the ground. That’s when he really gets on the offensive, and when she’s destroyed (image below), he calls her by her first name for the first, and only, time, looking completely destroyed (image also below.) He nearly manages to kill the assassin. And when he wakes up and sees that she isn’t going to wake up, he leaves those he cares about to fix his mistake of letting her get this hurt.

When we see Hawthorne next, he is willing to do anything to redeem himself for his mistake. When we meet him as an assassin for the first time, in the manga he says something along the lines of “I, for the revival of the one I love, will fulfill the contract of death”. Which is... not normal, I’ll admit. Poor guy. In the anime, he says something different that I don’t remember, but that was similar if not slightly different (again, the anime isn’t as explicit with their relationship as the manga.) Meanwhile she’s in a coma and is likely not to be revived by those Hawthorne pledged his allegiance to, but those he left behind.

The two ministers here follow generally the same path of sin. They start out as the badass ministers they really are, men of God. Then, one way or another, they fall deeper and deeper into sin as they go. For Dimmesdale, that was boning Hester Prynne and hiding it from the town and corrupting himself with his guilt. For Hawthorne, that was ‘allowing’ his partner to ‘die’ and surrendering himself to a higher power to try and get her back, losing himself in the process. In the end, both men are shells of their former selves. Dimmesdale dies sick. Hawthorne is a brainwashed assassin. Dimmesdale’s higher power, God, is ultimately what killed him, and his devotion is what really did him in. Hawthorne is probably gonna die or get otherwise written out, I have a feeling (several villains in this show have, just look at Pushkin and Mark Twain and even Mitchell herself.) If he is, it’ll be Dostoevsky or one of his weird Russian friends doing him in or taking him out of the picture. He’ll likely never see Mitchell again and he will die due to his newfound devotion to a “god” who is willing to punish him for going to far.

And guys, Hawthorne’s ability is literally the titular scarlet letter. What else can I say?

Honestly, I’m not sure what this post was, only that I killed a good three hours writing it and that it gave me yet again a newfound appreciation for something I used to hate. It was Anime Hawthorne, but before that it was IRL Hawthorne and The Scarlet Letter. Thank you American public school system.

#i refuse to tag this but yeah.#this isn't going in the main tag #i mostly wrote this bc a couple folks on the discord wanted to see it #i've gotten a real appreciation for anime hawthorne recently so yeah #he's still a villain but he's more complex than some people make him out to be #i guess #i wanna do more of these with other unlikable characers #next is steinbeck... which would mean i have to actually read the grapes of wrath ew #or watch it ew

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bananaairplane · 4 years ago

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A Bad Idea Is a Great Idea

Sometimes you commit to an idea that you know is terrible— objectively so— because you feel in your gut that, if not a good idea, it is the right idea. This was how the plan to camp in my Toyota Camry came into being. No sooner did it occur to me that I could fold down the backseats and spread a sleeping bag over the flat space that extended from the trunk to just behind the front console, than I knew I must do it.  

My camping exploit would be the centerpiece of a drive along the Pacific coast from San Francisco to San Diego. Day 1 would take me through Santa Cruz, Monterey, and Carmel, and into the heart of Big Sur. In the final episode of Mad Men, the enigmatic anti-hero Don Draper has an epiphany at a yoga commune in Big Sur. He wanders in with a few belongings in a paper bag and slowly succumbs to the beauty of the place. Why are all my aesthetic imperatives 1960s-era men? There is a debonair carelessness in their attitude when faced with challenging circumstances: the cigarette dangling from the driver’s lips in the Italian Job as he handles switchbacks at high speeds; Don Draper’s disdain for luggage. There is obviously a whole scaffolding of privileges that allows these men to drift along, so confident in the benevolence of the universe. There is a certain depravity in thinking, the world’s going to end, let’s have a cocktail. Such confidence is called something else when adopted by others, and is punished brutally. But there’s another side, one that takes in the inevitable ugliness of the world, the myriad ways it falls short of what it could or should be, and says, let my life be a piece of art hewn out of the stone of reality.  

No, I don’t have any camping gear. In San Francisco my brother, sharing the vision, loaned me a sleeping bag and— presciently, expertly— a ski hat. A hardware store in a shopping plaza in Carmel, California yielded a camping chair. It was clearly meant to be: I asked the clerk if they had any folding chairs and he started to describe some patio furniture. “I’m looking for more of a camping chair,” I clarified. He disappeared briefly and then reemerged. “You know,” he said, “I have this one chair that I was holding in the back for a customer who called in, but that was several weeks ago. I was just about to put it back out on the floor.” Kermit green, in a bag with a little strap, it was kismet. The man at the campground, the kind of hardened hippie worn smooth by Bug Sur sunsets and weed, seemed bemused at my endeavor: One person, one night. “Are you going to sleep in your rig?” he asked as he typed my license plate into the computer. Later, when I reemerged from the forest asking to use the microwave, he peered into my takeout container and asked, “where did you score this?” It was cumin lamb and I made it in San Francisco, then packed it up in the cooler bag from the Goodwill in Oregon that has been a linchpin of this road trip. He commented politely that it smelled good. I took my lukewarm noodles and a pack of firewood back into the warren of campsites.  

Wilderness is a relative term— an unknown, unmapped place, standing in opposition to settled places, to familiarity. For me, the West Coast is already a land of wilderness. It feels bigger, and the forests larger, nearer, pressing in around. Mountains, gorges, tall trees all press around the settled places, which do not seem to have won as definitively as they have on the East Coast. Even the mountains of New England roll gently and are dotted with fragile steeples. On Highway 1 at Mendocino, I saw a rugged cross standing up out of the hillside— I used to see similar crosses in Haute Savoie, in Eastern France, where they are a symbol of the maquis, scrublands that took on symbolic meaning during World War II as a place of refuge for the French Resistance. The crosses were used as landmarks by Resistance fighters, who fled to the maquis and then organized themselves there. The maquis is a good metaphor for my wilderness— a place to hide out from occupying forces, but also the place to mount a new offensive. A place outside the scope of government. Government here is another metaphor— I’m no prepper, outside of a couple of gallons of water in my trunk leftover from the threat of wildfires. Government is the forces of domestication and embourgeoisement. The government of expectations and inertia. The virus has created its own kind of maquis or wilderness, effacing our landmarks of daily life and throwing us into unfamiliar terrain. Suspending the normal flow of life and its authorities: the office, holidays, sociability. It’s a cloud bank blotting out our lodestars. Astrolabe lies useless on the map table. It’s a time of feeling in the dark. I’ve been consulting my gut to figure out where to go and what to do next. What does my gut know? It whispers, drive on. Leave behind the oasis, familiarity.

And so I sat in the dark in my camping chair, beside a blazing fire. Some kind of highway construction project was underway on Route 1, so the supreme stillness of the woods was cut by the whining rumble of large machinery doing something laborious. I sipped red wine. The brightness of the fire rendered the darkness all around me more complete. I felt like I had slipped into the space in between time. The group at the adjacent campsite was speaking Japanese, and the patter of unfamiliar words and occasional laughter tucked in around me. The sound of the machinery faded slowly as it rumbled on down the road. I turned the logs and fanned them as the fire died down.  

My brother had suggested that I test out my sleeping arrangements before leaving San Francisco, an idea that I dismissed out of hand. My plan was flawless, testing it was pointless. When I folded down the backseat in the dark, though, I immediately discovered that it did not lie flat. Scrambling in and plunging my bottom half into the trunk, I found that the angle of the seat rendered the opening to the trunk too narrow— it clamped uncomfortably around my hips. I would be sleeping in the backseat. This was, of course, why I didn’t test my plan out earlier: Learning this in San Francisco might have deterred me from realizing my vision. I unfolded the mattress pad I absurdly brought from the East Coast, that didn’t fit the mattress I ended up finding on Craigslist in Oregon. My yoga mat unfurled on top of it, and then the sleeping bag. All night long, when I opened my eyes, I saw the trunks of Redwood trees silhouetted in the dark through the surround of window glass and the pane of the sun roof.

 In the morning I packed up quickly, pumped some free campsite coffee into a hot mug, and drove to a turnout overlooking the sea. I set up my camping chair in the gravel near the edge of the cliff and sprinkled Cheerios into the empty container from my cumin lamb. There was a plastic knife in the car somewhere but I used my spoon to slice chunks of banana over the cereal. Setting the container on the trunk, I poured out milk as the occasional sports car or camper van whooshed past. The waves crashed rhythmically below and a band of mist smudged out the line between sea and sky. The brown hillsides glowed gold in the morning sunlight. The whole world stretched out around me.

#camping #carcamp #road trip #writing #my writing #travel #adventure

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hutchhitched · 5 years ago

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The Vintage Joshifer Series: End of Love—Chapter 19

End of Love by hutchhitched

A kazillion years ago, I started posting this story. I never intended for it to drag on this long in between updates, but life happens and so does writer’s block. I know there’s little readership in the Joshifer fandom anymore, but I needed to finish it. If you’re still around to read it, thank you. If you want to dive in, I’d appreciate it. You definitely don’t have to be a Joshifer fan to read it since Josh and Jen’s characters are historical actors and not versions of their modern selves.

Historical events in this chapter include the following:

Richard Nixon won the presidential election of 1968. He triumphed over Vice President Humphrey and third party candidate George Wallace, who famously defended segregation at the University of Alabama earlier in the decade. Nixon won by appealing to the Silent Majority, those who believed the radicalism of the 1960s had gone too far. During his presidency he worked to build a national Republican Party after it all but disappeared during the Great Depression during the 1930s. Nixon called this the Southern Strategy (downplaying civil rights by rejecting the GOP’s original stance of the anti-slavery party in 1860, when Lincoln won the election).

After winning the election, Nixon did stop further troop deployments to Vietnam and reduced the numbers already there. Instead, he instituted a bombing campaign of the Vietnam and neighboring Laos and Cambodia. This was called Vietnamization.

Chicago, Illinois, November 1968

“Hutch, what’s good?”

“Andre, my man. It’s been too long.” Josh clapped his friend on the back and welcomed him into headquarters. Volunteers buzzed around them, and Josh reminded himself that spending time with a good friend in from out of town for a day was just as important as working to support the Democratic candidate for president—even though Josh was almost positive his party was going to lose the election.

Nothing had been the same since Bobby died. The Kennedy magic was gone. Instead of the former Attorney General being the nominee, the current VP who was tainted by LBJ’s Americanization strategy in Vietnam would likely lose to Nixon. If that happened, and it almost certainly would, he knew the positive changes in civil rights and economic equality would disappear with when the GOP took power. It was beyond comprehension, but election day loomed in two days. Two days until the world fell apart.

“Let’s grab lunch,” Andre suggested. When Josh hesitated, he offered, “My treat.”

Reluctantly, Josh agreed, and they headed down the street to a local diner he and his friends had frequented during the campaign season. He settled into the booth and stared across the table at his friend. It had been too long. Since that night with the two girls. Before he admitted how much he cared about Jennifer. When he hadn’t sold out.

“Fucking Nixon,” his friend swore, and Josh grinned. Leave it to Andre to put everything in the bluntest format possible.

“What the fuck is ‘the silent majority’ anyway?” Josh asked with a roll of his eyes. “Too fucking scared to speak up for what’s right? Racist a majority of the time?”

Josh was sick to death of Nixon’s campaign strategy—catering to what he termed the “Silent Majority,” a group the Republican candidate insisted comprised the bulk of American society and were sick of the protests in the country. Nixon argued conservatives who were okay with the status quo were the majority in the nation and only radicals demanded change from the government in treatment of women and minorities. It wasn’t true, but a lot of people bought it. Josh just assumed that meant most people were god damned stupid.

No matter how hard he and other activists worked to right wrongs and get real democracy to win out against conservative assholes, they were met with GOP rhetoric that villainized the very people he’d marched with, who’d sat next to him in jail, who burned their draft cards along with him in unheard protests against American presence in Vietnam.

Of course, the New Left had grown more radical, pushed for more change and faster, dropped out, doped up, and raged against Johnson’s administration. The problem was he and the other activists had worked and fought and hoped for real change, and the administration and rest of the nation was dragging its collective feet. Josh’s question was why hadn’t more people sought to right the wrongs he and so many of this friends saw as glaring inequalities that only weakened the state of the nation rather than strengthening it. It was time. It was past time, and he was getting really antsy.

“So, how have you been? Really?” Andre asked. “The last time I saw you, you were hightailing it out of bed with two women in New Haven and coming here to get your girl. Seems like different priorities.”

Josh shook his head and tried to work his mind around his friend’s words. He’d been feeling unsettled for a long while, but the conflict between him and Jennifer had been growing since the protests in August and her trip to Atlantic City to cover the pageant. He’d considered leaving while she was gone, but he couldn’t quite make himself slink away like a coward. He still had work to do in Chicago, and he loved his…whatever she was to him. They’d been living together for months, but he hated labels. She hadn’t pushed, and he’d been grateful for her willingness to let it go.

But this election would change everything. He knew it, and he also knew he was biding his time.

“I don’t know, man. It’s such a bad scene right now. Since Bobby and King and ’Nam and everything, this country’s a bomb.”

“But you’re a good cat, Josh. You’re making things better.”

Josh laughed and smiled ruefully. “Am I? It seems to me I’m getting laid a lot by a doll who works for the man instead of the people.”

“Do you love her?”

“I…” Josh paused and swallowed hard. He did. That wasn’t in question but admitting it was another thing completely. “She’s fab. She is.”

“But?”

“I should be doing more,” he admitted. “I don’t know what, but I keep feeling like I should bug out and work somewhere else. Or dropout all together. Go live with the beautiful people and leave everything behind. Get high and blitzed and commune with nature.”

Andre took a bite of his burger and shrugged. “Sounds like heaven to me, man, but I don’t think you’d be happy that way. You’re going steady, right?”

“I’m not sure—”

“Hutch. Man. You’ve been shacked up with her for months. You’re not sleeping with anyone else. Tune in. You’re together, and you’ve been head over heels for her since college. Wake up,” Andre said, exasperated.

Josh sat silently for several minutes as he processed the information. No one had forced him to face what was happening until now, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Jen left him the night of his graduation. Maybe he’d never really forgiven her for that. Perhaps that’s why escaping was always in the back of his mind, to punish her for hurting him so much. Or, it was also possible that he really wasn’t comfortable in such a position. He’d always been restless, always been someone who pushed the boundaries, and falling in love with Jennifer, who came from privilege and affluence, didn’t seem like it fit. None of this was fair to her, but that didn’t change how he felt.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“Then be up front with her once you figure it out. You both deserve that.”

“After the election,” Josh breathed. “After Tuesday.”

“By then we’ll know if the world’s ending or not.”

“Right on.”

****

The world ended. Josh sat on the couch in Jen’s apartment as the sun set and the room darkened around him. He’d chosen to watch by himself, unsure how he’d feel when Nixon and Spiro Agnew were declared winners and all the gains over the past eight years would be overturned in a matter of time. Jen was at work, covering local reaction to the election results, and he’d intentionally not watched with his activist friends. Hippies were either remarkably anti-political or flying high, and he needed to be lucid and engaged for this.

Election results rolled in one after another, and none of it was good for the Democrats. Texas went blue, but the West went red. Big time. George Wallace stole the South for the Dixiecrats, who couldn’t reconcile themselves to JFK or LBJ’s Democratic party of Civil Rights but weren’t on board with the GOP either. A hundred years prior, Republicans were the party of Lincoln and “freed” the slaves.

“People are fucking stupid,” Josh spat into the emptiness. “Racist fucks. God bless Texas for sticking it out.”

One by one the states reported, and his hope for the future of his country sunk lower with each call for Nixon. At least there was hope for a pullout in Vietnam. That was big, but would that be enough to make up for what would happen domestically? If Johnson had been able to focus on his Great Society instead of getting caught up in Southeast Asia, things could have been so different.

“Fuck the Cold War. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

When Nixon got 270 votes, Josh lit up a joint and took a long, hard drag. He stared at the TV, the electoral map, the celebration in California at Nixon’s headquarters, the concession speech by Humphrey. His muscles relaxed, his mind wandered, and he turned off the part of him that cared. He started drinking next, and he was blitzed by the time Jen returned. She looked at him, her face a mask of concern mixed with a hint of fear, and he knew she dreaded what he already knew he’d have to do soon. He couldn’t stay. He just couldn’t. He already couldn’t breathe, and the election wasn’t even official yet.

Jennifer curled up on his lap, and he let her undress him. He couldn’t move. His limbs weighed a million pounds apiece, and he couldn’t feel anything except despair. She kissed him, and he responded, but he didn’t feel anything.

“Josh?”

He heard his name, but she was a million miles away from him. Her voice was barely audible, and her face swam in his vision. He wanted to leave, to getaway, to run. He must have vocalized his desperation because Jen raised her hand so he could see her palm. Four sugar cubes lay there, and he breathed a prayer of thanks as he put one on his tongue.

Josh had tripped before, but none of the other acid he’d taken had given him quite the same effect. The apartment bent and sparkled as the drug spread through his system. Jen’s eyes shone beams of sunlight, and he swore rainbows spilled out of her mouth and ears. He tried to swallow them, his mouth against hers, his fingers wrapped in liquid gold that flowed from her temples and past her shoulders. He was warm and flying and soaring above the earth, and he felt nothing except his skin against hers.

Every nerve ending was on fire, and her fingers against his chest created bright purple sparks that exploded into golden stars. She straddled him and rocked against him, and he idly wondered why. His lap was warm and damp. His mouth swallowed the diamonds on her chest, hard and cutting against his tongue. Jen’s head fell back, and he realized the diamonds were tits. He bit down hard on her nipple, and she screamed. It sounded like a folk song, a call for peace and justice.

She grew louder, and he sang with her. Her name fell from his lips, a litany of what was right with the world and everything that was dreadfully wrong. He needed her, and he had to escape. Tears streamed down his face and they glistened from her eyelashes. He palmed her ass and counted the contractions as she milked his cock. They were fucking, he realized. It felt like he was flying, but instead, he was shoving her onto the floor, bending her in half, and rutting against her.

The floor underneath him shook and exploded into fiery heat. A vice gripped his cock. A melody of praise. Flashing lights. Unicorns flew by his head. His dad walked toward him, out of his wheelchair. His grandfather waved hi, even though he’d died several years ago. Josh wondered if he was going crazy, but he didn’t really care.

Josh sat up, and Jen lay in a heap on the floor. His right hand jacked his dick mindlessly. It was wet and sticky, just like the puddle beneath his girlfriend. That’s what she was, he admitted. It was easier in his altered state, easier to accept the truth that they were together. She was radiant, skin glowing, as she watched his hand get faster and faster.

When she spoke, it was in a foreign language. Urdu, maybe, or ancient Greek. Whatever it was made complete sense to him.

“Jerk it, baby.”

She reached over and took his cock from him, and he realized he was the one talking, not her.

“I don’t know Urdu,” he slurred.

“I do,” she said before swallowing him.

Her cheeks hallowed out, and he fucked her mouth hard. He was crying, and she joined him as he thrust down her throat.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, although he was still inside her. He should have asked if he was hurting her because he hadn’t stopped. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go.

He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to.

His body split in two. Part of him drifted up to the ceiling and danced there on happy feet. The other sank into the floor in a puddle of melted wax. Streaks of cream-colored icing decorated Jen’s face, and he leaned over to lick her cheek clean. It wasn’t sweet enough. Needed more sugar.

They had two more cubes. One on his tongue. One on hers. They stumbled to the bedroom. He flew around the room, his wings flapping, circling and swooping and riding the currents. He landed on the bed. The lights went out. She was on top. She was on his face. He was in her mouth. Waterfalls. Waves. Giggles and jokes and mapping body parts with tongues and fingers and marking each other with bands of dried moisture.

Hours and minutes and seconds and days and decades and centuries passed. No time passed at all, and then a curtain pulled behind his eyes, and he slept.

****

The next morning dawned with a throbbing headache, aching limbs, and a broken heart. He opened his eyes, and he instantly regretted losing control so badly the night before. Their bed was destroyed. The sheets were filthy, striped with evidence of multiple orgasms. The room stunk like sex and piss. His mouth tasted as if something had died inside, and he wanted to murder someone when he saw Jen curled into herself.

Josh hadn’t been in control of himself last night, and he was scared to death he’d hurt her. She didn’t warrant that. She deserved better than him. She should be lavished with only the best. He’d always been less than he wanted for her.

He vowed to do better.

****

On Inauguration Day, he wasn’t doing better. January 20 came and went, and Josh had spiraled into a mess. High every day, he’d fallen into a cycle of depression and spent more days on his friend’s couches than doing anything even remotely productive. He was twenty-five and hated what he’d become. He had a brief moment of clarity on New Year’s Eve when he was convinced 1969 would be a good year, but then Nixon took office.

The new president catered to racist southerners and turned a blind eye to FBI stings targeting the Black Panthers. Riots broke out, more men came home in body bags, and women raged. Jen stayed busy at work, while he tuned out. He avoided his family and Jackson’s. He barely talked to Jen. He was a mess, and he knew it.

A few weeks after the inauguration, Nixon announced a reduction of American troops in Vietnam, and his younger brother called him from Stanford where he was enrolled in his first year of grad school.

“The son of a bitch did it,” his brother said when Josh answered the phone.

Josh blinked rapidly and attempted to ground himself. He was high, as usual, and he found he needed to concentrate inordinately hard to understand what the words his brother spoke meant.

“Did what?” he garbled and slid down the wall to sit on the kitchen floor.

“Nixon. He’s pulling us out of ’Nam. We’re safe.”

“Safe?” he asked. “Safe from what?”

“What’s wrong with you, man? Are you tripping?”

“Not today,” Josh sighed and grinned dopily at the wall. “Maybe tomorrow. Definitely was yesterday.”

Connor grunted in frustration and snarled into the phone, “Have you been paying attention to what’s happening? We’re not going to Vietnam. No more new troops. A pullback of boots on the ground. They’re calling it Vietnamization.”

“Yay, America…” Josh drawled and waved his finger in the air in celebration.

“Come to Cali, man. I’ll help you get straight.”

“Why bother?” Josh asked. “It’s all going to hell anyway.”

“Just come,” his brother insisted. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but you’re not the big brother I know. You wanted to save the world, not wallow.”

“We lost. As soon as Bobby died, it was over.”

“If you’re not here in four days, I’m coming to get you,” Connor threatened. “Mom and Dad don’t need to know about this, but I’ll tell them if I have to.”

“Don’t tell them,” Josh entreated. “Dad can’t take the stress. I’ll be there.”

“Four days.”

Josh replaced the receiver and looked around the apartment. There were so many good things about his relationship with Jennifer. He’d loved her for a very long time, but he wasn’t where he needed to be—physically or mentally. He wasn’t an undergrad anymore, and he wasn’t doing anything to help the world. He was dragging her down, and the last thing he wanted to do was make life worse for her. Whether or not he liked it, Nixon was the president for the foreseeable future. Josh needed a change of scenery, and his kid brother was a genius. If anyone could help him get back on track, it was Connor.

With a breaking heart, he entered the bedroom, grabbed a rucksack and started packing. He shoved his clothes into the bag but was careful to leave some of his things that Jen loved to wear when they were alone in their apartment. He grabbed a few books—his dog-eared copies of The Catcher in the Rye, Howl, and On the Road—and his toothbrush. He shuffled through a stack of papers and found his draft card, which he shoved in his front pocket. Once he got to Palo Alto, he and Connor could burn them together in celebration. When he had everything he needed, he grabbed a pencil and a notepad and wrote Jen a note.

Dear Jen,

I know you’ve been expecting this for a while, but I didn’t mean to leave while you were at work. I know I have to, though, or I won’t be able to walk away. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Berkeley, but I was too stubborn and terrified to admit it. You’ve always had the same fire as me, even if it’s been directed somewhere else than mine. I’ve lost myself. I’ve got to find the spark again. You deserve that. You’ve always been better than me. You shouldn’t settle for someone broken. Right now, I am. When I’m fixed, I’ll let you know. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that. You’ve been the best part of me for a very long time. I’m so sorry.

Always, Josh

He was crying by the time he finished writing. He’d put this off for so long because he wasn’t strong enough to leave, but Connor’s phone call had woken something in him he hadn’t been able to find for ages. He’d call her in a few months—once he had himself together again. He wouldn’t leave her without any word, the way she had with him. He wondered for a second if he was punishing her because of what she’d done, but leaving her was much more of a penalty for him than it was for her.

He swiped at the note he wrote her, and the tear that had fallen smeared his name. He was already fading in this place. All that was left was to walk out the door.

Just as he turned to go, he noticed a picture of her peeking out from the corner of her desk. Her long hair was down and falling over her shoulders in blonde waves. She wore a white, high-collared lace dress that made her look like an angel. He tucked the image in his wallet and grabbed his bag before slipping through the door and locking it.

He was to the bus station within ten minutes and halfway across the state before she found the note. He was almost to California before she stopped crying.

#joshifer #joshifer fanfiction #fyeah-joshifer #joshiferrecs #the vintage joshifer series #joshifersource #end of love #1960s #jhutchdirectory

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freehawaii · 5 years ago

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KUMU PAUL NEVES - PEACEFUL WARRIOR & AMBASSADOR OF ALOHA

Ke Ola -March/April 2020 - By Marcia Timboy

Kumu Hula Paul Neves is a familiar and esteemed presence to many on Hawai`i Island: a cultural practitioner, community organizer, vocal proponent of Native Hawaiian rights and sovereignty, and a high chief in the Royal Order of Kamehameha I. He has created hālau hula communities on a foundation of aloha with the intent of making a difference in the world, through the practice of Hawaiian cultural arts and values.

Paul was born in San Francisco, California on September 27, 1953, the 13th child of Manuel “Red” Neves and Agnes Kaina Kea. His father, Red, was from Kīlauea, Kaua`i. Paul’s grandparents, Joao Neves and Maria Rodrigues-De Pao, migrated from Madeira, Portugal to Kaua`i as plantation laborers in 1907. Red moved to O`ahu for better employment opportunities soon after high school. He eventually found work with the federal government.

“Papa was a civil service crane operator at Pearl Harbor, in charge of putting fresh water on the battleships. He narrowly escaped death during the bombing of Pearl Harbor on Sunday, December 7, 1941.”

Paul’s mother, Agnes Kea from Palama, O`ahu, was one of 14 children (as was Red). Her father, John Kea Mano was born in Kalaupapa, Molok`‘i. Agnes’ great-grandfather, Mano, originally from Wailua, Kaua‘i, was diagnosed with Hansen’s disease and sent to Kalaupapa leper colony in 1888.

Mano and a Lahaina woman, Nellie Nahiole`a, who also contracted the disease, started a family. Agnes Kea’s grandfather, born in 1892 in Kalaupapa, did not have leprosy. “My maternal great-grandparents’ signatures can be found on the ku‘e document, protesting the annexation of Hawai`i.”

After a quick courtship of two months, Red Neves and Agnes Kea were married in the Honolulu neighborhood of Kalihi in 1933. “My parents began their family in 1934. The war years were challenging for many kama`āina families. My dad did not like martial law in Hawai`i,” recalls Paul. Following WWII, his dad assisted in the cleanup after the Hilo tsunami of 1946. When his civil service job relocated to the West Coast, the family relocated as well.

Growing up Hawaiian on the Mainland

Kumu Paul was born in San Francisco, but he was brought up in the Hawaiian/kama`āina way. The Neves `ohana (family) bought a house and several lots in Bernal Heights in San Francisco, creating a Hawaiian-style homestead. “Dad raised pigs, cattle, goats, chickens, and we had an orchard and vegetable gardens. My folks tried to duplicate old Papakōlea [Hawaiian homestead lands in Honolulu] right above the City,” Paul remembers fondly.

During the 1950s through 1960s, the family was part of an intimate San Francisco community of Hawai`i transplants, hosting entertainers from “home” with backyard kanikapila (music jams) and island-style home cooking. Many of the Fairmont Hotel’s Tonga Room entertainers, and other touring Hawaiian musicians from ocean liners, would find their way up to the “Hawaiian homestead” of Bernal Heights. His mother, always so graciously generous in an innately Hawaiian way, shared whatever the family had.

“Poor is when you don’t know who you are,” Agnes Kea Neves told young Paul and his siblings, and she made sure they knew who they were, grounded in where they came from, Hawai`i.

His parents visited Hawai`i at least once a year on the Lurline or Mariposa ocean liners, to visit family and friends and transport Hawai‘i food and other supplies back to their adopted home.

The turbulent 1960s—with the Vietnam War, racial discord, and social upheaval—brought life-changing challenges to the Hawaiian family. Compelled to move back to Hawai`i after more than two decades away, the family settled in Kailua, O`ahu in 1968.

“They never forgot who they were or where they came from. My dad never considered himself haole,” says Paul, although his dad was Portuguese—of European descent.

Wandering, to Return

Young Paul graduated from Kailua High School in 1971, and left the islands in 1973 to seek adventure and opportunity. He and a friend headed down the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Mexico.

“We hung out there [Mexico] for around six months, living like hippies!” After driving back to Northern California, he explored living in several cities while working for Air California from 1974–1984, moving from Oakland to San Diego in 1975, and from San Diego to Las Vegas in 1979.

Moving to Las Vegas was a pivotal point in strengthening his cultural identity. He began studying renowned Kumu Hula No`eau Winona “Nona” Desha-Beamer, and kumu `ūniki (given status of kumu hula) from Aunty Nona in 1968. Subsequently, `ūniki was from Kumu Kaho`onei in 1999, after 20 years of study.

Since moving to Hilo in 1984, Kumu Paul has been active and involved in spiritual, cultural, and political issues facing Native Hawaiians. In 1986, he was a founding member of Ka Lahui Hawai`i, a sovereignty initiative. He also served the Catholic community for 21 years as a pastoral associate until 2004. He has given workshops in the Cook Islands, across the US continent, Puerto Rico, Europe, at the United Nations, the World Council of Churches, the United Nations Human Rights Commission in Geneva, Switzerland, and has participated as an official observer for the Royal Order of Kamehameha I in regards to the Hawaiian Kingdom at World Court in The Hague, Netherlands.

Kumu Paul established Hālau Ha‘a Kea o Akala in 1998; Hālau Ha‘a Kea o Kinohi in 2004, jointly based in Hilo, San Francisco, and Kyoto, Japan; and Hālau Ha‘a Kea o Mokihana in Washington, DC. He has judged and participated in hula competitions in Hawai‘i and Japan, including Hilo’s own Merrie Monarch Festival. “Hula people are ambassadors of aloha,” Paul proudly states.

When his parents moved to Hawai`i Island from O`ahu in 1989, Kumu Paul was already an integral member of the Hawaiian cultural community and aware of its concerns—one being the overdevelopment of “crown lands” on Mauna Kea. He asked his mother, Agnes Kea, about lineal ties to Mauna Kea, because of the family name.

“She said there is protection from Mauna a Kea, that it brings about balance. ‘Weʻre Kea people—unblemished.

The mountain without blemish. Itʻs so holy, youʻre not supposed to go up there and if you do go there, itʻs for something really important. You walk very softly; you leave no footprints.ʻ Thatʻs how she explained it.”

Kumu Paul believes he returned home to Hawai‘i for a higher purpose. “We were given a special place to live with God. That’s why the whole world comes here. We cannot replace what it is.”

Kāhea—The Call

On April 10, 2009, Kumu Paul attended the momentous 50th wedding anniversary of Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko of Japan. He had developed a rapport with the royal family when, as a member of the Royal Order of Kamehameha I, he escorted Princess Sayako to the top of Mauna Kea in 1998 to visit Subaru Observatory. They met with the late well-known astronomer, Dr. Norio Kaifu, then the Subaru project’s director.

During a lunch meeting a few years later, Kumu Paul and his mentor, Genesis LeeLoy, candidly expressed their concern on further development atop Mauna Kea to Dr. Kaifu. “Please do not build more after Subaru,” they implored Dr. Kaifu. Kumu Paul believes that conversation was the reason no observatories have been built on Mauna Kea since 1998. Kumu Paul honored the astronomer’s integrity when he was invited to speak at Dr. Kaifu’s memorial in Tokyo in September 2019 by sharing the story of the lunch meeting to hundreds of dignitaries and scientists. “Dr. Kaifu [an architect of the TMT] didn’t say where to build the Thirty Meter Telescope [TMT]…Would you put it on Mount Fuji?”

The proposal of building the TMT has awakened an activist movement for many Hawaiians and their supporters worldwide.

Kumu Paul believes that Mauna Kea has called out “she that protects, now needs protecting.” He and the Royal Order of Kamehameha I, have heeded the kāhea (call), by establishing an ahu (altar) and a pu`uhonua (place of refuge) at the base of Mauna Kea. They have stood in vigilance since July 13, 2019 to protect Mauna Kea from further development and will do so “until the last aloha ‘āina,” Paul declares.

“The spirit of Mauna Kea is calling upon the Hawaiian people to realign their spiritual past, present, and future. Hawaiians have the kuleana, the privilege, and responsibility to share ‘kapu aloha’ with the world.” Paul believes that the true physical sign of this is: first light at Kumukahi, Puna, aligns with the Naha stone to Mauna Kea’s summit and consequently up the island chain to Mokumanamana in the northwest Hawaiian Islands.

Kumu Paul reflects, “We are all here for a reason. In my vision, Hawai`i is the new Geneva. This is where people come to learn peace. The Mauna Kea movement is firmly grounded in the concept of ‘kapu alohaʻ—to conduct oneself in pono [righteous] and sacred behavior, and many who visit the mauna are touched to practice peace. One must be silent when approaching Mauna Kea, listen to what she has to say, as she is bringing balance and alignment for all of us here.”

#paul neves #we are mauna kea #protect mauna kea #aloha aina #ku kiai mauna #free hawaii #hawaiian kingdom #aole tmt #tmt shutdown

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hollowcrovvn · 5 years ago

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The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (part 6)

Pairing: Connor x female!reader

Rating: T

Summary: January 2039. The aftermath of the revolution continues to shake the city of Detroit. Androids are living in government provided communities while efforts are being made to integrate them into society. You are a grad-student volunteering with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit (DCRU), working to help with relief efforts. Set within the backdrop of the slowing growing Android Rights Movement, Connor, newly deviant, is trying to understand what it means to be alive while many others like him seek equality and justice.

Chapter Summary: Valentine's day is approaching, which also means that date and "Temple Bar" scribbled on the Alpha Site file is also near approaching. What better way to spend a holiday than a late night steak out?

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (ao3)

Tagged: @shaydeevee33 @easy-and-steady @goldie516 @house-arya

You headed home from the DCRU offices after doing a quick round around the housing site. There was more surprise than anything at seeing you about, with most having fled to the safety of the Cadillac Place offices. Seeing the damage now in the fading sunlight it… it felt somehow even more surreal. Guards waited at a good distance as you stepped carefully over ashen wood and stained bits of metal, kicking one aside with the toe of your shoe. They had hydro washed the grounds, removing the blood and thirium. You’d been informed many of the androids in the adjacent modular had opted to move into ones further towards the center of the complex. You couldn’t blame them.

You hardly heard North’s approach, the young woman lingering a bit off to the side, but gesturing to you with a wave.

You walked quickly, saying before you even got close, “What’s wrong? Is it Simon?”

North shook her head, she looked tired, “He’s fine.”

That was a relief, but it still struck you suddenly how strange it was for her to be out here.

“I’m checking in. People are scared. I heard you opted out of the barbed fence line?”

“Yeah it— felt a bit much."

“I… appreciate that. It’s hard to keep our people from feeling this isn’t just another camp. A lot of them have the scars from those days, even if you can’t see them.”

It dawned on you by the way North crossed her arms and just her general demeanor that she wasn’t just talking about the others.

“I actually am also here to talk to you.” North began, “Look. I’m not good at this. I asked Josh just to give me your contact information, but he wouldn’t and when I asked Markus he threw my own line back at me.”

North bit her lip, pushing back a strand of hair the wind had blown into her face.

“Of course you can have it.” You said, recognizing that it was taken a lot for North to humble herself in this. You knew a lot of that had nothing to do with you, but you couldn’t say that you had appreciated her hostility either.

“Could you be just a little mad? Angry I understand. This— whatever it is, it makes me feel like the biggest asshole.”

You laughed, “Can’t help you. I’m not mad, just glad I was able to do what I said I was. I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do if I couldn’t get Cyberlife on board. Or how you all would react.”

“Probably not good.” North said with a sigh, swinging her arms out. She didn’t like to sit still and that reminded you of another android, “Markus told me, “She’s trying.”. End of conversation. I was so pissed off because why aren’t more trying? The human public will argue in their forums and wear their little “I support Droid Rights” badges but do any of them actually help?”

“Public opinion counts.” You said, “And it got me here. Right?”

“Small blessings.” North said, smiling faintly.

“Sometimes its hard to forget how it was. Did you see the marches?”

You nodded.

“We knew what we were getting into. We knew we might die, but still… standing there while the people around you fall. Staring down the barrels of so much… not even hate just— indifference.” North rubbed a hand over her lips, scowling as she dropped her hands to her waist.

“If it sounds like I’m making excuses, I probably am.” North said, “What I should say is that I’m sorry for our introduction. I’d like to work with you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, big and beaming. North caught sight of it and scoffed, but there was genuine humor in her eyes.

“Is that an okay?!” She said and turned to find you had offered her your hand. After a moment, she took it, giving a soft shake. When she took her hand back she rubbed her temple slightly.

“Okay… give me just a minute.” It took her longer to connect to your phone. You wondered why, but didn’t pry. You accepted the WR400 message.

“I’ll keep you updated on Simon. When he wakes up, I wanted to know if you would like to be there.” North said and you couldn’t help but be shocked.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on him and Markus. I… can tell they must be close.”

“We all are.” North said, nodding.

“Yeah, I got that impression from Josh. All four of you went through so much together… it must be nice to have such close friends.”

North smiled softly to herself, as if to say you have no idea.

“Security is still high. I’ll walk you out. Until someone takes responsibility for this attack, we don’t know whether you people are targets too.”

That was a good point and you were more than happy to have the company of someone not in SWAT gear.

---

By the time you got home, ill-advised latte in your hand, it was already dark and bitterly cold. The sun went down so early in the winter, sapping the energy from your limbs though it was hardly yet nine o clock. The lobby of the apartment was mostly empty, with some people still around in the lower rec room areas. You noticed the security guard gave you a knowing smile and a faint nod. It was odd, but you gave a pleasant enough smile and “good evening” before disappearing up the elevator to your floor.

When you got to your door, you fumbled with your key card and then all but stumbled through the threshold, dropping your things and tossing the keycard into the bowl on a nearby stand reserved for that very purpose and setting your drink down too. You shut the door behind you, shucking off your shoes and quickly making work of the front of your blouse and itching to get to the clasp of your bra.

You made it about half way into the room before you turned and had to muffle a scream into your hands as Connor stood in your kitchen. How you managed to put that into the back of your mind you didn’t know, but it hit you without a beat that of course he was here, you’d invited him.

He looked genuinely concerned and genuinely amazing as usual, having traded off his suit and tie for jeans and a dark navy sweater. He had the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and was in the process of dispensing what smelled like some heavenly lo mein into one of your bowls.

“Sorry! Uh. Startled me.” You said, following the trail of his eyes and looking down and seeing the top of your very own, very lace frilled pink bra. You wrapped your shirt closed around yourself.

You stared at one another, a prolonged deer in headlights moment on your part until he said cheerfully,

“I ordered Chinese for you.”

Your stomach growled its approval.

“Awesome. Lemme just uh— go change. In the bedroom.”

“If you’d like.” He said, innocent as can be. You laughed, high and way too nervous, slipping off into your room to scream into a pillow for a hot second.

When you came back, comfortable in fleece bottoms and a faded Tigers t-shirt, Connor had clearly taken pains to adjust your sitting area while you were gone. There were pillows, clearly taken from your linen closet and more blankets for extra comfort. The delicious smelling lo mein was waiting on the glass coffee table, with other boxes of rice and chicken also present. And of course there was Connor, looking up at you as you came into the room with an expectant smile. God, if he had a tail you were pretty certain it would be wagging.

“You didn’t have to do this, Connor.” You said, shifting a pillow aside to take a place beside him, feeling a bit awkward to eat in front of him when he didn’t.

“There is popcorn too, if you’d like. But I thought something of substance would be better first.” Connor said, which seemed rather reasonable and all, but it still made you feel rather bashful. You picked up the bowl, happy to see a fork instead of the wooden chopsticks and stirred the noodles around the utensil.

“Okay— you didn’t have to, but I’m not gonna lie. Super glad you did.” You said. Connor looked pleased, bring his leg to rest up on the sofa as he turned towards you, arm over the back.

“Hank recommended I do something “casual”. I had planned to download a program on recipes, but he said that might come across as “too much”.

“Hank’s right. You don’t need to cook for me or do anything at all really.” You said, shaking your head with a sort of affectionate exasperation, “I like just having you around.”

“To talk about Machiavelli.” Connor added, “And films?”

“Yeah, about that. Given your text I imagine you probably have finished The Prince?”

Connor nodded.

“So! Tell me. What are your thoughts? Hit me with it, hippy.”

“His insights into human nature are primarily negative. He sees people as existing to serve the interests of the powerful through a constant balance of violence and benevolence. The masses are sheep, to be controlled.”

That was a very basic understanding, one that any search engine could produce, but something in Connor’s expression told you there was more.

“That’s what a lotta people say, but what did you think? You did quote it, so I wondered if you agreed with him on his conclusions.”

Connor made a face, a very clear indicator he did not.

“I think… that focusing only on the ends, on removing empathy and ideas in favor of blind efficiency, to be without feeling— it’s easy, but it’s inhumane. There are things he discusses which I find interesting but ultimately my feelings are very….” He drew off, fingers curling a bit into the fabric at the back of our sofa.

“Polarizing?” You finished, knowing full well the roller coaster it probably took him on.

“Yes. If I had read it “before" I probably would have agreed with him.” Connor said, “I don’t anymore. Realizing that was— emotional? I think that is the correct description.”

“Maybe that’s why Hank recommended it to you. To show you how far you’ve come.” You said, not knowing for sure, but finding that perhaps the old man had a plan all along.

“It made me look for the more insights on social order and governing bodies. Like Leviathan.”

You lit up, nodding while chewing through a bite of lo mein.

“That’s a good one!” You said, swallowing, “Social contracts.”

“Yes. The natural and artificial man…” Connor seemed to be relaxing as much as you, but still carefully selecting his words.

“I also read Nietzsche.”

“Of course you did.” You said, unable to keep yourself from laughing. If you had a quarter for every philosophy major who came out of 101 with a hard-on for Nietzsche you could pay for your next two years of grad school.

“You do not like him?”

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” You quoted, then clarified, “I like him just fine. People use existentialism and nihilism to justify being garbage people. I believe we should persevere through the chaotic mess of our lives rather than give into it.”

You speared a piece of chicken with your fork.

“Try being an optimist in a den of college age philosophy majors. It’s exhausting. Like yeah. People suck. We are floating on a blue dot through space and are inconsequential in the whole of existence. Awesome. Pass me the rice.”

Connor did so with a laugh. You took the container, brushing his hand faintly as you did and finding yourself very aware of that tiny detail.

“I envy your dedication to simplicity.” Connor said and you were not sure if he was teasing you or not.

“Like I said. Leave the rich man to his game. Give me my next meal.”

You chewed up some noodles for emphasis.

“And I don’t eat.” Connor added, “So I’ll aspire to higher thinking for both of us.”

“100 percent okay with that arrangement. You be smart and I’ll be full.”

“And frustratingly gorgeous.”

Ugh. God damn security really saved it like that in the log? That explained a lot.

“D-don’t act like that’s brand new information Mister “Do-You-Find-Me-Aesthetically-Pleasing?”. You said it yourself you were built to be pretty.”

Connor conceded it seemed, nodding with a frown.

“You want to watch the rest of the movie?” You said, the display flashing up on queue at your words. Connor perked.

“Yes please.”

The monitor began the film right where it left off, capturing his rapt attention. He was sitting in a way that you could so easily just slip a bit closer and rest into that soft sweater, put your head on his shoulder and just die of complete bliss. You flicked glances over at him as you had before, expecting his attention to be too focused to noticed— until you both looked at the same time, catching the other in the act of staring.

You immediately looked forward, but by the way your cheeks were burning you were pretty sure those beautiful brown eyes were still on you.

“Are you cold?” Connor asked.

“A little.” You said, playing into the charade. Connor knew full well the answer and if he hadn’t a quick scan would have told him.

“I am capable of increasing the warmth of my exterior to 110 degrees with little effort.”

The offer hung, unanswered in the air as you flipped noodles over and over around your fork. Finally, you shuffled over until his side was flush with yours. You didn’t lean on him, that seemed a bit too much, but you suddenly felt the faint aura of warmth and could not deny it was pleasant for multiple reasons.

Connor seemed nonchalant, eyes again fixed on the monitor as his LED ran yellow. You told yourself it was probably just the heating.

“—-...” he said, your name sounding somehow even better on his lips. You hummed, glancing at him.

“I like you.” He said. There was an air of expectation, pause. He was waiting for a response.

“I know, Connor. I like you too!” You said, reassuring but trying to mask the earnestness in which you felt those words. You did like him, you liked him a lot, but you didn’t even know where to begin unpacking those feelings in the swarm of everything that had been happening. You silently wished things were easier, that you could just go back to being a girl waiting in line behind a boy at a coffee shop.

Despite your attempt, somehow, it felt like it was the wrong answer still as Connor’s LED settled back to solid ice blue.

“I uh, I got something in my eLibrary during one of my many cab rides of the day.” You said, “It’s for you. I thought you might like it.”

Connor rose an eyebrow, looking uncertain, but his LED did flash twice as he downloaded the book.

“Modern Coin Magic by J.B. Bobo. 116 coin sleights and 236 coin tricks.” He said, slowly seeming to grow understanding as his smile turned into a grin.

“Much more fun to read than Hobbes. Call it a repayment for the Chinese.” You said, feeling yourself flush from the heat of him and your feeling suddenly a bit silly for getting it.

“Yes, but I thought you were going to have me unsync from your devices?”

“As long as you don’t go snooping through my phone logs, I don’t mind it. It’s kinda nice, like you’re always—“

You stopped, realizing how the words would have sounded.

“With you?” He finished, quiet.

“Um yeah. With everything going on, it’s nice to know I got a DPD detective who could find my body.” You said, meaning it to be a joke.

Connor tensed a bit at that, arm curling slightly closer towards you, but still not touching. You didn’t even notice, sitting up to set down your empty bowl and then gently falling back.

The night fell away, bits and pieces fading in and out. You remembered your cheek against something rough, denim— you turned your face in and found plush softness and a gentle touch soothing through your hair, across your cheek and even tracing over the shell of your ear. You fidgeted, swatting the tickling away.

When you woke up the next morning, you were tucked in on the couch, the smell of coffee strong and welcome as you slowly woke more and more. The front door clicked and Connor was gone.

---

Friday was quickly approaching. 2/14. While most were waiting in anticipation of Valentine's Day, you had actually pretty much forgotten about the entire thing and waited with a different kind of anticipation.

You wished you had more time to focus on Connor and the feeling that something was hiding, unsaid and accumulating beneath... but there was so much else to do. You waited in the lobby of Wayne State’s medical center, flipping through maps on how to reach Temple Bar and the feed of upcoming events. Per their calendar, there was nothing, they were even closed on Valentine's day, which was an oddity in itself... but you didn’t think that note in the DPD file Hank had was jotted down for nothing.

After the stunt you had pulled with Cyberlife, you were informed that the main director was taking over via off-sight coms as they didn’t want to work with an intern. You were back to square one, but with your major supervisor in the hospital room down the hall, no one really was in a position to scold you for missing time in the office. A nurse came to get you,

“She’s awake and said she’d like to see you. She’s a bit groggy still, so try to keep conversations light-hearted… if possible.” The nurse advised, leading you to the door.

You stepped in, noting this was the first time you’d seen Miranda with her hair down. She had burns, dressed and tended to, but were more severe than your own. She was healing, the miracle of modern medicine ten fold in the last twenty years courteously of Cyberlife.

“Hey…” you said, slipping into the chair, “I brought you something.”

You made sure no nurses were around as you slipped out the closed thermos from your coat.

Miranda laughed, quiet and slightly pained.

“I knew… when you came in… you were a good fit.”

You set the thermos of London Fog on the table by her bed.

“I heard… my… promotion for you was… over ridden.” She said, words coming slowly, exhausted.

“It was good for the short time. I think I did what you would have wanted.”

“Security?”

“Higher.”

“Androids?”

“Taken care of.”

Miranda closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Idealism… works in small bursts.” She breathed out, “You seemed… adequately idealistic.”

“The CyberLife representative said something similar. Said you uh— knew when to pretend to believe.”

“I’m a government… employee. Of course… I do.”

It was disappointing to hear that from someone whom you idealized, but right now everything about Miranda was human, from the dark circles under her eyes, her unkempt hair and the magnitude of wires and cables plugged into the machines around her running from her arms.

“I was… going… to wait. But… I have an opening. I want.. to give you the job.”

“What kind of job?” You asked.

“Assistant… Division Planner. Alpha site.”

“Miranda…” you said, “Can you even do that?”

“I may be… here… but I am still the Division Planner for the alpha, beta and gamma sites. I’m responsible for hiring… and I’m hiring.”

She curled her fingers, trying to pick up a tablet on her bed. You picked it up, seeing the names of the two other intern volunteers who had started with you from the beginning signed as the assistants to beta and gamma sites. Another blank line was there, for Alpha.

“Director approved. Sign and you got it. But I can understand… if after everything… you say no.”

You took out your stylus and wrote your name.

“Bombs away.” You said and Miranda groaned, despite the smile on her face.

“Keep that sense of humor. You’ll need it.”

You left the hospital and got a cab back to the Cyberlife facility where they were treating the androids, sending out a quick message to Josh to let him know to expect you.

You also sent a quick one to Connor.

[from: --

You got time today to come by and meet the group? Markus said you were more than welcome. ]

You were surprised by the long delay. Normally Connor responded so quickly when you messaged, but right now it looked like it hadn’t even been opened immediately as per usual.

The cab was halfway out to the old GM factory when the message came through.

[from: Connor

Unfortunately, I do not. There are some cases we are working on. I will not be able to "hang out" until Saturday evening. I am not avoiding the situation, in case you were thinking so. ]

Well you weren't but now that he said it you were a bit curious. You were surprised by how disappointed you were at the news. He'd become such an invaluable addition to your post-work relaxation time the past few days you were not looking forward to going home to an empty apartment-- which was new to you. Throughout college and high school you'd never seemed to have the time to spend on romantic relationships. Not that this was romantic, you reminded yourself silently, just uh- close. Close was a better word.

[from: ---

I won't say I'm not bummed, but I understand work life. Plus, it gives me time to do some grad-student stuff. ]

[from: Connor

Please do check in from time to time. I will back-read. ]

Oh you would, permission not even needed.

Thursday seemed to drag on and on. Between setting up your new office at the Cadillac Place and then arguing for over an hour with security because you wanted to move back to the on-site facility you barely limped your way through the afternoon. It was weird to be your own "boss", but you turned out to be more hands on than the other planners had expected, going over blueprints with them and listening in to drafting meetings. You knew the material, which was also new to them and had no problems expressing your opinions on where best to branch the housing units out.

For a temporary installation, you were thinking considerably far ahead, but it was nearly impossible to be an urban planner without being also a futurist. What if it took longer to refurbish abandoned and discarded homes along the city outskirts? What if the government backed out or required down payments and now you all were left waiting for androids to achieve the right to work? There were thousands of tiny outcomes, branching off infinitely and you had to be ready to make sure there was a place for these people to live.

After work, your attention shifted to the paper you were hoping to submit to the Wayne State academic journal which was right now just a detailed hypothesis on how to prepare for a "white flight" type scenario from encroaching in areas where androids would begin to live. History made it a likely outcome, but learning from that same history was also a possibility.

When it was finally time to sleep, a mixture of anticipation and some missing factor kept you tossing and turning. Finally, giving in, you turned on the lights in the living room and set a film playing on low volume. Curled back up into bed, you could almost trick yourself into thinking Connor was just in the other room.

The next morning you called off, prepared to claim soreness or other illness, despite your rapidly healing burns and bruises from the explosion, but it turned out as the assistant director, all you had to do was ping a server of your absence and the people were notified. No questions asked. For now at least.

Connor had been quiet, but not even ten minutes after your call in you got a message.

[from: Connor

Are you feeling alright? ]

[from: ---

What did I say about my phone logs? ]

[from: Connor

Stay out of them. ]

[from: ---

Uh huh. Get back to work, mister. I'm fine. Just wanted a day to myself. ]

[from: Connor

It is a good idea. You've hardly had much time to recuperate. Hank asked if you "passed along his message"? ]

[from: ---

Tell him I did, but I don't expect it to be followed. ]

[from: Connor

He said it was "worth a shot". I can not tell you of what has been happening with the case, but there have been some... irregularities. ]

[from: ---

Like? ]

[from: Connor

Let's just we are dealing with cross-contamination. ]

That was code enough for "Jericho's investigation is crossing our investigation".

[from: Connor

I will be in some long briefings the remainder of the day and evening. I will respond to any messages tomorrow. Have a good day off, ---. ]

Clearly you weren't the only one who didn't pay attention to holidays.

You booted up your tablet, checking for the tenth time the route to the Temple Bar. You breathed in, held and then let it out. Was this really even a good idea? But another thought butted in, whispering faintly, Never was anything great achieved without danger.

Yeah? Well, nothing was more dangerous than conscientious stupidity, so it looked like you were about to do Machiavelli proud and make Dr. King shake his damn head.

----

Temple Bar had once upon a time been a diner, the outside tiled with olive green panels and dotted with cubed glass windows. It was a dive, like if you pulled up a definition of "dive-bar" in Webster's dictionary you were pretty sure scrolling through the associated images that this place, with it's peeling paint and it's condemned-and-abandoned-chic would show right up. The words Temple Bar weren't even on a sign, but stenciled above its double doors in bright red paint.

The sun had begun to fade off, leaving the sky a pale canvas of dark purples and light pinks just barely visible behind the buildings. Inside the bar looked like the lights were on, but the doors did not move when you pushed on them. Thinking maybe you'd catch a glimpse around back, you turned the corner around the grey building next door and noted a door being ushered by two guys in street clothes. Typically there would be nothing really strange about them hanging out smoking cigarettes around the corner from a bar, if you didn't know that the bar's doors were closed. They were distracted, talking to another guy who'd come up to them so you hurried back behind the corner, listening.

One man at the door spoke, "Anything interesting happenin'?"

And the approaching man replied, "Oh, right uh-- yeah. Saw a pink elephant."

"Relax bud, you did fine." the questioning man said and you heard the sound of the door open, the dull roar of conversation and music and then all went silent again as the door shut.

You took a deep breath, waited a good ten minutes in torturous limbo-- and turned the corner. You smiled, having decided to use the best camouflage a girl could use, red lipstick and a low cut shirt.

They looked at you with grins, taking drags off their cigarettes.

"You all dolled up for your Valentine, sweetheart?" the taller one asked, "Or you out looking for one?"

"Maybe I already found one" you said, cautious behind that smile. The man laughed and then used it for his lead.

"You see anything else interesting lately? Besides my gorgeous mug."

"Oh yeah. A pink elephant." you said, flashing a smile you hoped was sultry and not just ridiculous.

"Awesome. Love it when we get us some female support." the man said, opening the latch and ushering you into the building.

"You have fun, little mama. I'll come buy you a drink later."

And the door closed.

The building was perhaps once a dry goods store, or other storage facility. There were permanent oil stains in the concrete floor that suggested maybe once it was a garage. Now though, it had been redone into a recreation space, with pool, standing tables and a slightly raised stage towards the front. There were maybe thirty to forty people present, leaving a lot of room to move around. When you came in directly to your left were two guys manning a table with pamphlets and other literature that all followed a very singular theme. Anti-Android. To your right was a guy with a scanner, which he promptly shined over you without explanation. There was a faint chime and he nodded.

"Human, clear."

Now you knew why this gathering had been noted in Hank's file and suddenly, with a rush of adrenaline, you became aware that this could very well be a meeting for the people who set a bomb off fifteen feet from your ass.

The words of Martin Luther King weren't going to save you now, so you flipped through the hand outs and smiled prettily and for the most part everyone seemed pleased a young lady was there. There were few of you, but those that you did see were mostly spoken for, hanging off the arms of other men and one, a rather tough looking woman.

"Mike will be addressing the congregation in about twenty, so get yourself a drink girl!" one guy said, happily handing you a free pin that showed a cartoon of an android without it's skin, X eyed and bleeding blue. Very charming. You made sure to drop it into an unaccompanied glass of beer on your way through. There was no mistake, you were out of your damn depth and now you were stuck here. Your nervousness must have read as feeling "out of place" because a blonde girl at the bar leaned over at your approach and smiled,

"First timer?"

"Yeah..." you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Everyone is super cool. Plus you don't have to worry about anyone crying over a robo joke." she laughed and you forced yourself to laugh with her.

"I'm Dani. You?"

Shit. Well. Go with the tried and true.

"Jane." you said, taking the hand offered to you.

"Hey! Get a special drink over here for my girl Plain Jane!" Dani said, and the man next to her laughed.

"Tom." he said, nodding and you nodded back.

"How long uh-- so how long have you guys been coming?"

Tom flashed up four fingers like he was in some gang flick.

"Four months! Even before the start. Got my girl here coming after all that mess back in November. Finally realized I had a point, didn't ya?"

Dani sighed, rolling her eyes playfully.

"You wanna meet some of the big guns?" Tom said, "I know a few of them. C'mon. Great bragging rights for a newbie!"

You barely had time to protest when Dani grabbed your arm and along with Tom, drug you over to a spot that was off to the side. There were sofas circled around each other and here there seemed to be only guys and none of them were drinking. They looked up at the interruption with an irritation you recognized, but that Tom in his buzzed state was oblivious to.

"Got some fresh meat! Everyone, this is Jane. Course you probably already know at least one of these ugly fuckers."

Of course? You looked at all the faces now staring at you and didn't recognize a single one. There was a good looking man sitting with his arms splayed out over the sofa's back, eyeing you with the same kind of calculated scan you'd' except from an android. It didn't take a grad student to know you were busted.

"I don't know her." came the first voice, followed by another and then the last. With that verdict, Tom suddenly had pulled back and was looking at you with a renewed confusion.

"Oh-- I thought... but wait..."

The guy you assumed was in charge stood up and made his way over to you. Everything in your limbs screamed run but you were paralyzed to the spot. Trapped between Dani and Tom.

"Thanks you two, go on back to the bar now."

The two left, still looking confused and Dani even shooting you a look of profound pity. The man in front of you however, had no such look, eyeing you with wicked coldness.

“How'd you get in? We recruit. That's how we keep out the riff raff and everyone here knows at least one of my boys right here. And if they don't know you, then you weren't invited.”

He reached up, drawing a hand through your hair.

"And we don't like party crashers around here."

Panic pulsed through your face, deafening your ears. When an arm suddenly slung heavily over your shoulders you gasped and jumped, only to be held tight but gently closer.

“Babe it’s just me. Got your beer.” This man you immediately recognized, even out of uniform, as the “Gavin” who taunted Connor in the DPD break room about his "ring". He passed you a beer, another in his hand that was around you, teasingly pressing it to your cheek. It was cold. You accepted the bottle, the eyes of the man questioning you now on Gavin.

“Neil, is she with you?” the man asked, no longer sounding as hostile, but more than a little annoyed.

“Yeah yeah. Sorry. I know the whole “no plus ones” but this is my girl. She was gonna kill me if I didn't do something for V-day tonight. Hey-- she's cool and she’s smart as fuck. Great addition to our group. Don’t know how I scored.” He said, turning fond eyes on you and clearly by the incline of his chin, was leaning in for a kiss. You played along, half closing your eyes as his lips pressed to yours warmly. You tasted no alcohol on his breath to speak of. It was quick, Gavin turning his face back up to the guys with a grin.

“It’s because you’re so cute.” You said, voice dry. It even got a laugh from one of there guys who had a minute ago been looking to bounce you.

“And my other extensive qualities.”

“Alright, alright. Jesus Christ, Neil we got rules for a reason. We just don’t want the wrong sorts getting in, but if this guy is tapping’ ya there is no way you’re made of plastic.”

You wrinkled your face in disgust, masking your actual disgust for his behavior with disgust at the notion.

“Silicone parts are made for toys.” You said, recalling some old 90's song lyric. They all seemed far too impressed with it.

“Should put that on one of our headers!” said one of the guys behind the leader.

“Yeah, speakin’ of talkin’ shop there was something I wanted to run by you Mike. Hey babe, why don’t you go mingle.” He let you go, directing you off with a swat to your ass. You tried to resist your bodies innate instinct to stiffen.

“Good, cause you and me are gonna re-discuss why we have the rules too." "Mike" said, but was still watching you with those cold eyes, "Don’t let that one have too long a leash now, Neil. Someone might snap her up.”

Even his smile was chilling.

You shook your head, rolling your eyes and smiling the way you’d seen girls in bars do to be “cool girls". As if Mike was just sooooo funny.

You slipped away trying to find a secluded place to keep watch of the people coming and going around, all getting drinks and chatting like it was a regular old Valentine's day bar night. After a couple of minutes, arms wrapped around your middle again and you could tell by the sleeves it was Gavin.

“Neil, huh?” You said quietly.

“What are you doing here?” Gavin said through gritted teeth, acting like he was grinning into your hair.

“I was in the area.” You said, feeling his jaw work against your temple in frustration.

“You are about to blow a sting is what you are doing. How’d you find out about this?”

Why lie?

“Saw the name and date in Hank’s file.”

Gavin swore quietly, but then whispered into your ear again like a good “sweet” boyfriend.

“Alright, gumshoe, you had your fun. Now get. This ain’t no place for a good robo-loving girl like you.”

You elbowed him, hitting your funny bone on his rib along the way. It wasn’t especially hard, but enough to make him hiss and the arm around your waist to become uncomfortably tight.

“Assaulting an officer? Tsk tsk.” Gavin said, flirty yet somehow still pissed off.

“Shut up. He’s about to talk next.”

Sure enough, “Mike” took up on the makeshift stage, a chorus of cheers ringing out.

"First things first. We all are extremely grateful to you boys who gave up your night of guaranteed sex to come out here tonight and rally for your rights."

Another roar.

"And we are extremely sorry for all you boys who gave up your night of beating your meat to porn to come out here tonight and rally for your rights!"

Ah. What a classy public speaker.

"For too long we've all been struggling under the heel of Cyberlife and their workforce. We've lost jobs, we've lost homes and now we've lost something more fundamental to human kind than can be expressed." he paused for effect, "We've lost justice."

There was another chorus of agreements.

"243 victims of violent deviant crimes. Two hundred and forty three. How many androids caught? Maybe half a dozen. And now? Zip. Nothing. All investigations suspended because the damn liberals are too busy giving them government aid!"

Mike gave time for the group to settle on that, outraged comments and cries of various disgusting prejudices, not all limited to androids.

"Raise your hand if you or a family member has been a victim of a deviant? Huh? C'mon, I'll make it easy." Mike said, and rose his hand, "Many know our good founder lost his brother, god rest his soul, who was murdered in cold blood by one of these skin job sluts and what did the DPD do? Let them get away."

He shook his head, putting on a show of seething.

"He wants justice. I want justice. Do you want justice?"

Another loud chorus.

"I said DO YOU WANT JUSTICE?"

The place exploded with noise and you were suddenly grateful for the steady pressure of Gavin's chest against your back. He whispered lowly,

"Now would be a good time to slip out..."

Gavin didn't give you a chance to respond, setting his hand on the back of your neck and using it to direct you out through the crowd. You reached back to slap his arm, but he refused to let go.

"Oh now wait wait-- hold on, is that Neil and his girl? Hold on."

You both froze, noting suddenly as the crowd dispersed around you.

"You see. Neil brought a lady friend tonight and either he is as dumb as he seems, or she done played him like a fiddle. Ladies and gents, I'd like to introduce you to the new assistant division planner of the traitors putting those androids up in homes like kings."

The next few seconds blurred, guys coming to grab Gavin and him putting up a fight to get off. Two of the guys from the front door roughly grabbed your upper arms and you felt the solid press of a gun against your side. Gavin took a few good hits before he too was pushed on the ground, a gun to his head.

"You see, little miss didn't think we backwater mongrels would have-- I don't know-- details on all DCRU's robo-loving libtards. But hey. Whaddya know. We do."

"Stop! He didn't know!" you yelled, desperation in your voice with knowing that you could at least maybe keep Gavin from getting mixed up in your mistake.

"If everyone would do us a huge favor and please, file on into the bar next door. We're gonna postpone our rally for a bit of house keeping."

There was genuinely some individuals, like Dani and Tom who didn't seem entirely okay with what was happening, but regardless, the crowd moved out, leaving you and Gavin alone in the empty warehouse with Mike and six of his men.

"I think this is the best contribution you've made to the cause so far, "Neil"." Mike said, jumping down from the stage and coming to lean over Gavin. "Head honcho and I were all a wonder how we'd deal with the new security... but shit, now we can just walk in. Blow those skin-jobs apart."

Gavin jerked, trying to get his arm free of one of the guys. Mike nodded and they let go, throwing Gavin down unto his hands and knees. In a second the three guys were on him, punching and kicking whatever they could reach. Gavin curled, defending his ribs and head, but otherwise took each blow.

"Brought me the perfect Valentine." he said and reached out towards you. You jerked your head away, trying to keep him from taking your neck in his hand and unable to pull back enough with how the two held you fast, digging the gun into your hip.

"Get rid of him. We take the girl to Twelve Oaks."

The door burst open, the body of one of the doormen flying through and falling, un-moving unto the floor.

"What the fu--" Mike's certain-to-be-eloquent statement was cut off.

The men turned their guns towards the door, firing on the first person that came through. It took a minute to register that that person was in fact the slumped form of the other guard in a headlock, which was dropped unceremoniously to the ground as the individual holding him reloaded and fired. The shots were clinical, perfect in their execution. One drop, two drops. Connor moved like a machine, quickly dodging behind the pool table to avoid a hail of bullets from those still standing. But these guys were not trained soldiers or cops, Connor just needed a few timed breaks in the fire and two more went down. Losing men fast, Mike booked it toward the back, the remaining guys following close behind. Connor seemed intent to chase after them, but halted his pursuit to trail his gun on the guy who still held you. The man wrapped his arm up around your throat, cutting off your breath as he staggered back, using you as a shield. He pointed his gun at Connor, but thinking better of it, instead pointed it at you.

There was nothing in his Connor's eyes, no recognition, no pity. The warm brown of his iris was engulfed in near black, his LED red.

"Back off, freak! I swear to god! I swear to god I will kill her!"

From the ground, Gavin moved, pulling out his own gun and drawing it on the man. Human eyes were drawn to movement, and this man was no different as he turned his attention towards Gavin, arm laxing.

"Down!" Connor yelled, and you ducked under the man's arm, slipping away and exposing a perfect line of fire to the man's chest which Connor immediately exploited.

One shot. The man's arm released you and you fell to the ground, clamoring away.

Two shots.

Three.

Four.

The shots kept coming as Connor unloaded into the man until at last your captor finally staggered back and fell to the ground. There were sounds of yelling coming from the bar, the issuing of commands and the door burst open to a few armored officers and Hank, wearing a vest.

"Area needs securing." Connor stated, cool and calm, "Please inform medical personnel. We have an officer down, five wounded POIs and two dead."

Your breathing was fast, too fast, it came in short gasps. Hank swore under his breath, holstering his own weapon as he dropped down to your side, his hands surprisingly gentle.

"Up ya go. C'mon." Hank said, helping in the endeavor as suddenly your legs seemed disconnected from your will for them to move. As soon as you were vertical, another officer came forward, opening his handcuffs. Hank rebuked him swiftly,

"Hey, hey. You wanna get slapped with a lawsuit? Put that shit away, I'll take her."

"Take me?" you managed, looking for Connor and finding he was following some other officers out the back way, on the trail of "Mike" and his two men. You wondered if they managed to stop them.

"Yeah, that's what happens when you get caught up in a damn cop raid." Hank said, helping you steady. You noted, to your horror, your shirt was covered in blood and your hands now too where you'd touched it. You made a sound in the back of your throat and Hank steadied you again.

"C'mon... c'mon, kid, let's get you out of here."

----

The interrogation room of the DPD was no strange place for you, but the handcuffs securing your wrists together at the front were. Your hair was pulled back as best you could manage and you were actively trying to ignore the fact there was blood drying and clumping the strands together in spots. You'd been given a DPD hoodie and some sweats, which you were more than happy to trade your blood covered clothes for.

The cold metal table felt nice on your temples as you lay with your head down on your arms, the faint clink of the handcuffs hitting together a repetitive sound you continued to produce, if only to distract you from the silence.

When the door opened, you heard the noise outside-- they did have a lot of people to process tonight. You lulled your head up a bit, noting Hank. You slunk up into a sitting position, movements slow and groggy.

"You warmin' up?" Hank asked and you nodded. You'd been in shock the medics said and now all you felt was tired.

"Good. Maybe you can tell me what the hell you were doing at that bar tonight then?" he said, voice curt, "If it isn't too much trouble."

"Where's Connor?" you said, looking towards the two way glass.

"The Detective had other duties to see to. Which leads me to my first and most important question." Hank sighed, "The guy he shot-- did he have a gun?"

"Yes." you said, remembering all too well the cold touch of it to your side. "He had it on me. He said he was going to kill me."

"So the detective was right to act in your defense?"

"I... appreciated it." you didn't know what else to say. When you thought of it, all you saw was the empty look in Connor's eyes, void except for the task at hand. He hadn't even spoken to you at all except to tell you when to put your head down.

"Good. Now let's start from the top. How'd you hear about the rally?"

"I didn't know it was a rally." you said, "I saw the bar name and the date on one of your notes when I was last here."

Hank frowned. You knew it would most likely get him reprimanded, but it was the truth.

"So you-- what? Just thought you'd impede a police investigation? Did you think we weren't going to have eyes on it?"

"I-- maybe. I just..."

"What? Cause Ms. ---, I gotta tell ya, it looks awfully damn suspicious that you, a DCRU volunteer, were found at a rally of the group that may have bombed your facility."

God, he was right. Why on earth had you ever thought this was a good idea? It was just this-- drive you'd felt since you saw Miranda laying in that bed. Saw Simon. The other androids... Markus looking so shattered and defeated that day as North tried to comfort him. You were helping but it wasn't enough.

"I wanted to see them." you said, "I needed to see them. So I would know if they were the ones who did this."

Hank sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and tipping his chair back.

"So you're telling me you were just out looking for some-- what? Closure?"

"Yeah. I guess." you said, pausing for a moment, "...I barely sleep. I live off coffee because I don't want to eat, if I even remember to do it. When I close my eyes all I see is that flash and I just-- I needed to know why."

"What you need, ---, is to talk to the damn therapist we referred you to when this happened."

You knew he was right. Connor had been keeping you together with his visits which were half obvious home checks. Your co-workers hadn't bat an eye at you taking the day off because you were the only one of those in the blast who hadn't yet. The others had not been back since.

"I just want to do what's right for them. I want to protect them."

Hank nodded and slowly reached over and unlocked the cuffs from your wrists.

"It's been made obvious by Detective Reed's impression and my own, that you were not there as a participant. I'm letting the obstruction go and your breaking our most convincing "extremist's" cover for two reasons." he held up his index and middle finger, ticking them off, "One. You are a victim of a violent crime, Ms. ---, whether you like it or not. Twice. And two... well. You know two."

Connor.

"I advice you take some time off work and get your head straight. You are doing good for these people, Ms. ---, just please leave the detecting to us because next time you play at Nancy Drew, the department will press charges." Hank stood up, gesturing that you should too.

"There was something." you said, "Something that didn't make sense that that guy Mike said."

Hank narrowed his eyes.

"He knew about my promotion. I'm assistant division planner now to the housing site that was bombed. He shouldn't know that. There's no way. It's not even been released, I only signed the paperwork a few days ago."

The gravity of that statement dawned on Hank, making his face twist with shock and then disgust.

"Jesus Christ...."

He had drawn the conclusion you had. Someone from within DRCU was providing these people with information.

#detroid become human #detroit become human fanfiction #detroit become human fanfic #dbh connor x reader #dbh connor x f!reader #the ostensive fumblings of being human

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