#its this studio called untamed creations | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noir0neko · 4 years ago

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Crime and Creation | m

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 15.5k

Summary: The Crow Club. One of the University of Ketterdam’s secret societies aimed at recruiting the finest students who want a taste of more than just lectures. Meet Kaz, the founder and president, whose self-made millions come from his dealings on Wall Street. Nina, a girl who is aching for more than the fortune and husband her family has laid out for her. Inej, whose observant nature and ability to be invisible makes her the perfect spy. Jesper, a childhood friend of Kaz’s who can’t resist getting into a little trouble joined by his boyfriend, Wylan, son of the University dean. And Cataleya, an Upper West side journalism major who has a special way with words. When Kaz finds out the Crow Club’s dealings have been infiltrated by an unknown rival, his crew enlists the help of outsiders to ruin reputations, throw lavish parties, and do what the New York City Crows do best: heist. Until something goes very wrong.

Characters: Cataleya (OC), Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Alina Starkov, Zoya Nazyalensky, Nikolai Lantsov, Aleksander Morosova and honorable Leoni mention.

Warnings: Death. Highly detailed emotion and inner thoughts that have memories of parental abuse and self harm, nothing very detailed. Mentions of murder, drugs, and illegal activity. General debauchery and scheming. Some romance, mostly implied, light kissing, fondling, and the use of expletives.

A/N: You do not need to have read any of the books in this world to understand this fic! I spent so much time and poured my heart and soul into this story and the development of my original character and building these characters into a new, modern world. Please read it and give me your thoughts! This piece was written for the @grishaversebigbang. Also, check out the art work made for my fic by these amazing artists: @corpsecro, @nantosuelta-art, @discountscoobygang, @lady-ekatherina-de-mika and @mikanviola! It is such an honor to be a part of something like this and I had so much fun! I encourage anyone and everyone to read the Six of Crows/Shadow and Bone series by Leigh Bardugo! It’ll be on Netflix soon!

I used to love cats.

Until one showed up dead on my window sill.

I’m still not sure how it got there. Perhaps it climbed the fire escape and lept from the metal railing onto the ledge. But once the animal had the orange pollen and poisonous petals of the lilies sticking out of my window in its mouth, it was only a matter of time before it died. I had the good sense to keep my crying quiet, at eleven years old, so that my father would not stumble in to yell or push the cat hundreds of feet to the street below. I did not know he was already gone. That I was alone.

I hid the orange tabby in my backpack and went to bury her in the backyard garden the next chance I got.

But when I used my small children’s shovel to dig into the earth, soft from the recent rain, it wasn’t what I went to bury that changed my life. But what was already buried there. And right then, with my cheeks stained with tears and hands shaking with anger, I swore to never stop hunting. To never stop chasing the people who ruined me.

That was one promise I kept.

I haven’t kept many others.

Sitting in the foyer with the rest of the Crows, wind coming in from the autumn afternoon and the scent of freshly made waffles mixing with dusty books, I don’t know if I can keep this one either. Kaz looks at me pointedly, waiting for me to answer. I glance at all of them, Nina, Inej, Jesper, and Wylan. It is rare that anyone outright refuses Kaz on anything, especially not with his position or to risk the weight of his disapproval. Nina once told Kaz to go to Hell and she paid for it with two weeks of silence and banishment from the Crow Library until she relented to do her assignment.

Jesper clears his throat, trying to relieve the awkward vibe getting thicker with each passing moment of silence. I can’t help but allow a small smile to reach my lips, grateful for him trying to save me from the tension that I could slice with a knife. Swallowing and meeting Kaz’s dark eyes, I sigh.

“Fine,” I relent. “I’m in.”

The strain dissolves from the space and the other Crows break into smiles and start to chatter. Relaxing back in my chair, I watch Inej spring up and take her place next to Kaz, her lithe frame complimenting his perfectly. Kaz moves around his large oak desk, gaze fixated on something in the distance. Definitely scheming face. Best to wait it out until he speaks first.

The Crow Library is lit with the afternoon sunlight, warming the leather of our chairs and illuminating the dust gathering along the rows of books. Shelves line the walls beneath the window, behind Kaz’s study area, and underneath the stairwell, which leads to an upstairs reading room and parlor area. Nobody has bothered to read any of the books, weathered and dusted with age, but they lend the room an air of sophistication and a homey comforting smell. Kaz’s desk is littered with papers, the dark wood barely visible beneath the jumble of stock investment deals, new heists, and class assignments waiting to be done. On the front face of the desk, a large crow is carved into the surface, black and red paint covering the indentations in the wood.

Inej puts a tender hand on Kaz’s forearm, her lips moving quickly and silently, as if whispering to him. Inej has her hair down today, an unusual occurrence from her braided coil, and the dark strands spill like silky oil over her shoulders and her waist. She must have come from the studio, sweat still gleaming on her brow and black leotard disappearing beneath dark navy leggings. Her lithe frame seems to be floating, always so modest and reserved, yet her brown eyes are intuitive and unrelenting as she studies Kaz. She has been with him since the founding of the Crow Club, never missing a beat between helping him, chastising him, watching out for him, and caring for herself all the same. It’s no wonder she’s been able to double major in both Global History and Ballet, two completely different worlds, but complimenting each other perfectly for Inej.

And Kaz. What an interesting man he’s proven to be.

Business major. Self made millionaire. First student to be admitted into the University of Ketterdam - UOK for short, without a full high school education. A man full of mysteries.

Jesper moves to perch himself on the arm of Wylan’s chair and adjusts his Queen shirt, the old black leather groaning under his weight. Jesper says something quietly to his boyfriend before running a hand through Wylan’s curly red hair and kissing his pale pert nose. Jesper has his hair buzzed short to his scalp, dark arms lean with muscle and legs long, his jeans riding up at the ankles to reveal bright yellow socks and black high tops. Wylan releases a wide smile, looking up at Jesper with untamed admiration. Wylan has on a pair of pressed dark wash jeans, his collared shirt maroon red with small white dots, accentuating his bright hair and pale skin.

It just reminds me of blood.

They are quite a pair. Wylan, being the son of the University dean and Jesper, one of the most intelligent and talented students in the Economics department. He is studying Game Theory, an extremely intense and complicated subject full of strategy, confidence, and risk: coincidentally Jesper’s three favorite words.

Wylan, much to his father’s chagrin, is an Art History student with a hidden passion for chemistry and physics. I often find him gazing at the long since forgotten portraits on the walls of the Crow Library upstairs, reminiscing of a different time, of discovery and excitement. Of different people with different secrets. Wylan usually seems lost in thought, often internally reflecting rather than being outwardly vocal like the rest of the Crows. He is another mystery, especially because of the tenuous relationship he has with his father.

Jesper’s brown skin glimmers in the sun, inclining his eyebrows in mischief before taking a toffee from the bowl next to him and flinging it across Wylan’s chair to Nina.

Her tongue flicks out as it hits her arm, thick lips smirking before unwrapping the plastic wrapper and popping the candy in her mouth. Nina is one of the only Crows who was forced into attending the University of Ketterdam. Her parents, with her father being an extremely rich and powerful Russian politician and her mother, an aristocratic woman supposedly descending from ancient Russian royalty, had been raising Nina to marry a high ranking Scandinavian commander since she was eleven. The marriage was supposed to secure better relations between the two nations, as well as provide Nina with a life of security, wealth, and status for her and her children. All her parents want for her.

In true Nina fashion, this is unacceptable.

Her family said the marriage could wait if she wanted to go to school and get a degree, which may better serve her husband and their families prestige in the future. Seeing no other viable option, especially because she did not want to marry a “white haired barbarian” as she called her husband-to-be, she enrolled in a prestigious university as far away from Russia as she could get. Despite her parents beliefs that she is a culinary student - “because a good wife knows how to cook”, according to her parents, Nina has been studying Performing Arts and Theatre. A perfect major to fit her personality and her beauty, with her tall, curvy frame and piercing green eyes. Today, she is wearing an olive bodysuit, the neck low cutting and her legs hugged by a pair of black flare jeans. Casual and entrancing. Her style seems to change depending on her mood, from modest foreigner to vivacious party girl to preppy student. New each day.

“We will need others,” Kaz mumbles to Inej, furrowing his dark eyebrows in thought.

I have only been with the Crows for a few months, but I already know how unusual that is. Kaz rarely asks for help, especially from those outside of the Crow Club. But whatever he has planned seems to be a lot more serious than the other jobs, more personal than merely ousting insider trading, or infiltrating various museums and mansions, or spying on the Upper East and West Side elite to gain intel and use it to our advantage.

Each of us has a unique purpose to Kaz. His investments. And while it has been easier to see where the others’ talents fit in, I am still baffled by my own. I adjust the sleeves of my lavender shirt, the ruffled material smooth on my shoulders.

I had known the Crow Club existed before I set foot on campus. As a journalism major, secrets have always intrigued me. Not just the secrets. The challenge of uncovering them, of working from the inside to reveal some of the deepest and darkest parts of humanity. I had always heard whispers of the club amongst the Upper West side elite, whispers about Kaz Brekker and his Crows. Always watching. Always ready to catch you red-handed. But I didn’t even need to go out of my way to find the Crow Club.

Kaz found me first. Called me an asset. He and Inej invited me to join starting the summer before my second term. I have surprised myself by warming up to the rest of the Crows so quickly, even the ones who aren’t active members and are just extra recruits for Kaz to call if he needs them. We all mean something here, we all have a purpose, more than what the world is trying to force upon us.

A family. Especially since most of ours are broken or nonexistent.

After a few minutes of waiting, Kaz snaps to attention and we follow suit, like trained soldiers, eager for him to share whatever small slice of his plan that he decides to. His crisp suit is pure black, a small crow brooch pinned to his lapel. The shaved hair on the side of his head is beginning to grow out, the top slicked back with a deep, oaky smelling gel. He always looks like he is dressed for a business meeting, even when it’s just us. Inej always muses that there is an irony to it, but how, I don’t know. I suppose everything is business to Kaz.

“Okay,” he begins, voice gruff and deep. “This is what we’ll do.”

----

Nina and I weave our way through the busy streets, blessing the cool wind as it kisses our faces in the dying summer heat. Her hair is down, the sun illuminating the many shades of brown running through the waves and her dress is high on her thighs, the red cotton fabric hugging the curves of her waist. Being in America has done wonders for Nina, brightened her complexion, improved her spirit, and turned her from a wafer-thin girl to a full-bodied, thick thighed woman. Everywhere she goes, people stare. She is otherworldly, like a saint on Earth.

“Where did Kaz send us this time?” Nina complains, sucking the dripping strawberry ice cream from her fingers before chucking the cone into a nearby trash.

“He didn’t,” I grin, dodging a guy with suspicious looking flyers on the sidewalk. “He gave us his card and very vague instructions to find a wardrobe for the event.”

Nina’s eyes sparkle, cleaning off the rest of her fingers before she entwines her elbow in mine. New York City seems to breathe with our every step, the wind moving, the heat unfurling, and the trees swaying. Taxis and cars whiz by on the avenue, the honking of horns and the laughter of tourists crossing into Central Park filling the air. Everything about New York is alive, even the concrete holds stories it’s waiting to tell.

“Then let’s go down Fifth,” Nina begins, mischief in her tone. “I know a few places.”

“I bet you do,” I flash her a smile, crossing the street so we walk parallel to the park.

We trek down the street, stopping into a macaron shop in the Plaza Hotel to get a bright blue bag full of sweets for us to eat on our journey. Nina and I are bouncing on our heels, excited to have a day to ourselves, away from the Crow Club and the University and being responsible for buying dresses for not only ourselves, but for Inej, Alina, and Zoya, as well.

Kaz had three extra students brought in for this assignment, all a part of the secret network of Crows that don’t sit in regular meetings. First is Alina, who has an international reputation for rebuilding schools and orphanages across the world since she was thirteen, and who has been a Crow since her first step onto campus. She transferred here as a graduate student from some extremely prestigious school in California to complete her PhD and teaching credentials. Every time I have seen Alina, she has been so kind and so helpful, always eager to teach, serve, and build in any way she can. It’s beyond me why she wants to be a part of these operations. Maybe every good girl has a naughty streak.

Zoya, on the other hand, seems like the opposite of Alina. A close friend, confidant, and suspected girlfriend, of another one of Kaz’s network of Crows, Zoya is an overly intelligent, intimidating, and obscenely beautiful law student. Her hair is always smooth, a jet black slate against her back and her eyes are always piercing, judging and observing in their ice blue. Her skin always looks perfectly tanned, a deep brown that makes the pink of her lips more enticing. Her grades are pristine, her ability to argue is unparalleled, and if there were ever a force to be reckoned with, it is her. It’s a lot more obvious to understand why she agreed to join the Crows, for the prestige, the knowledge, the power. But truly puzzling, is her relationship with Nikolai.

Nikolai, or Nik, as I like to call him, is one of the best - and funniest, Crows. Clever, self-deprecating, friendly, handsome, the list goes on. His blonde hair is a shaggy mop of artsy goodness, his skin is creamy, his style completely unmatched and his wealth bottomless. Nik and Kaz are always butting heads; most of the time it’s the only comedic relief the Crow Club has when they’re together. Nik met Zoya during undergrad, in a political science course, where apparently their discussions were lively enough to earn them A’s and lengthy enough to last entire class sessions. Nik has one of those family names that are revered in every elite social circle, making him an obvious addition for Kaz’s team and from what I have gleaned from Nik, he decided to join the Crows to give him something interesting to do besides follow in his father’s footsteps. I wish I wanted to be a Crow out of boredom.

“God,” Nina groans, shoving her phone back into her five thousand dollar purse. “If I get one more message from my parents asking if I’ve heard from that white-haired, rule-following, stick-up-his-ass, Scandinavian inbred, I am going to drown my phone in the Hudson River.”

“Wow,” I clap for her, avoiding the incredulous gapes of tourists at her language. “So many adjectives and I don’t even think you’ve ever said his name.”

A man opens up the glass doors to Bergdorf Goodman’s, where cool air and white marble greet us. Immediately, we drift to the dress racks, combing through all of the latest trends.

“Matthias,” she almost growls. “His letters are so proper, telling me that he has heard of my exemplary womanly skills from my parents. That he would delight to see my drawings and sewing and hear me play the piano. It’s ridiculous. I don’t do any of those things by choice.”

I stifle a laugh. “He seems very… traditional.”

“Seems?” She throws her hands up, shoving a silk dress back onto the rack with too much force. “He is the definition of the word! And worst of all, he’s attractive! He has snow white hair and is built like one of those huge wrestler guys that people watch on TV.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because his complete lack of competence makes him a barbarian! A man who thinks the perfect wife is silent and docile. He’s going to have another thing coming when I show up.”

“He comes from old money in an old country,” I begin, wondering whether I need to tread lightly. “Don’t you think he’s just taught to think that way?”

She sighs, holding up a stunning evergreen gown against her figure. “I know he is. That’s what’s even worse. I know that everyone where he is from has been taught those values. So even if he came to love me, to understand me, no one on the outside would. His station, his reputation, his fortune, all of it is dependent on how I perform. How I reflect him.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” I muse, holding out another red silk dress for her.

“Money isn’t fair.”

I blink, surprised at her words. Money is just an object. It has no preference, no deference, no opinions. But I guess the idea of money is more important and tangible than the paper itself. Money has value and expectations beyond the faces staring back at you from the press. It expects manners, it breeds tradition and hierarchy and perfect wives who aren’t allowed to make any. I wonder if Nina will end up bending to those wills, to the one’s she has been raised to. America is such a different place, but I guess money everywhere is the same. It controls you.

“This.”

I turn around, face breaking out into a huge smile at the dress Nina is holding. It is a deep purple, with sheer shoulder sleeves and a deep plunging neckline covered in diamond flowers. The waist is cinched, belted by more glittering gems, before it falls and flows in layers of purple silk and satin to the floor, flowers and vines curling around the skirt. Nina’s hair and eyes and skin would look angelic in the dress. I nod fervently, unable to cap my smile as she waves over an employee to open the dressing room.

While in the dressing rooms, Nina and I talk through the divider.

“Where was Wylan off to earlier?” I ask, taking off my clothes and folding them neatly on the small leather bench. “He never really seems to be around these days.”

“Yeah,” Nina says, with a grunt. “He’s been trying to rekindle his relationship with his father, studying a lot. You know, the usual dysfunctional family stuff.”

I laugh. “My family wasn’t dysfunctional in that way.”

“I would say you were lucky,” Nina begins and I can hear her zipper up as mine does. “But I know you weren’t.”

At the same time, we step out of the dressing room, identical smiles breaking open our faces before we clasp our hands together and squeal with happiness. The dresses look perfect, we look perfect, everything looks perfect.

And now we just have to find dresses for Alina and Zoya.

With these price tags, Kaz is going to regret lending us his credit card.

----

“Something Kaz Brekker doesn’t know how to do,” I tease a few days later,“drive.”

He shoots me a healthy side glare, uncurling his fingers from around the steering wheel. The sun is shining through the left side of the car, illuminating his high cheeks and arched brow bones with dazzling light. If Kaz weren’t so… him, I’m confident he would have made an amazing Calvin Klein model. Especially because his lips are always relaxed in a bit of a natural pout and his resting stance is so relaxed, yet also confident. He is striking.

And he doesn’t belong to me. Nor do I think he ever will.

Despite their claims and attempts to put distance between their relationship, it has become common knowledge in the Crow Club that Kaz and Inej are a package deal. And it doesn’t take a trained Journalism major to read between those lines. It is blindingly obvious in the subtle ways she touches him, the way his gaze softens when he looks at her. She is the ice to his fire, and when needed, he is the same for her. A complimentary pair in every way, even if it seems unlikely on the surface.

“Okay,” I begin, gesturing to the automatic gears between us. I explain what each of the letters stand for, instructing him to move the clutch into reverse and slowly ease up on the brake. With a bit of a jerk, Kaz obeys, turning the wheel to back us out of the spot in the empty parking lot. It had taken a bit of a road trip to find this place outside of the city. I had driven Kaz and myself into New Jersey, where the early morning dawn had just begun to crest, giving our driving lessons an advantage. Kaz had immediately, and somewhat reluctantly, urged me to teach him, claiming we would need it for this assignment. Inej had pushed him along with the conversation, rolling her eyes at how his own pride blocked up his request.

“Now go back into drive,” I say, lurching forward when he does and pushes his foot down too forcefully on the gas pedal. He turns in circles around the empty lot, taking care to avoid the lamp posts. On every straight away, Kaz seems to hit the gas with a little more force, graceful turns giving way to concussion-inducing races. It seems he has the turning part down, but the lurching and jerking of the car would get him pulled over quickly.

And although Kaz will no doubt be having a new fake I.D. made by one of our extra Crows, the risk of involving a police officer is not one any of us want to take.

“Slow down there, Nascar.” I laugh.

He eases up, taking his time to get used to the ebb and flow of the vehicle. Where he got the car is beyond me, but I am also beyond questioning Kaz’s ability to secure random and often, complicated, objects for our heists. He has become my biggest puzzle, my biggest mystery to solve. And if it hasn’t been one hell of an adventure trying to figure him out. Observing him and listening and learning his subtle tells when he is angry or pleased or scheming. Lately, though, it feels as if the obsession for uncovering his truths have blossomed into something else, something that makes my heart race a little faster and my palms sweat. Something I haven’t been able to control. And how I hate not being in control.

“Turn out onto the street,” I instruct, forcing myself to speak and get out of my own head.

He obliges, the car absorbing the bumps in the curb as Kaz makes a graceful right turn. His black gloves glide smoothly along the steering wheel, the sleeve of his shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his pale wrist. My mind begins to wander again, to whether or not Inej has touched them, if she has held his wrists down as she gracefully slid on top of him. I wonder if she has kissed him, if he whispers her secrets to her like some sort of sexy spy pillow talk.

“Cataleya,” Kaz is saying, the four syllables of my name like chimes from his mouth.

“Sorry,” I shake my head, swallowing and casting him a glance. “What?”

“Where are we going?” He repeats, monotone and bored.

His driving has already gotten smoother, his feet steady on the brake and gas as I tell him to pull onto the dirt on the side of the two-lane road and turn around. There are still no cars out here at this hour, an Amtrak just beginning its morning route on a station in the distance. I can see the outline of the city beyond the valley, half blocked by trees and tall grass. The skyscrapers are haloed by the rising sun, like a safe haven calling me back home.

“Who taught you to drive?” Kaz says, his raspy voice surprisingly light.

“A friend I had growing up,” I reply, surprised.

“That’s a nice friend,” he comments, voice taking on an edge I don’t understand.

I snort. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have any family to do it.”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel ever so slightly and if I weren’t observant I probably would have missed it. The way he tenses up. The way his jaw clenches and the car begins to move a bit faster as his foot locks onto the gas. “Me either.”

“I found my mother dead.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. Kaz’s gaze shifts a bit, but he keeps his focus on the road as I continue. “I went to bury a dead cat in my mother’s old garden. We never touched it, my father never tended to it, or let me, after he said she left us. But when I went out to the garden and began to dig, I lost track of time, I dug far deeper than I intended. My father wasn’t home, I wanted to be there, in that garden, and away from him if he came home, for as long as possible. I didn’t realize how far I had dug until,” I swallow, inhaling and turning to Kaz. “Until a hand began to form beneath the dirt, and then an arm, and I saw the wedding ring, the bruises, the blue of her dress…”

Kaz’s lips part, the only admission of emotion he gives.

“The coroner said she had been dead for four months. Four months,” my voice broke, splintered on the fragments of my memories. “That she had been beaten and buried there. They couldn’t… couldn’t prove it was my father. He had money, lots of it. And he paid a lot of people to keep quiet.”

“Is that why you love journalism?” Kaz asks, slowing the car to ready his turn back into the empty lot. “Exposing them? Making them pay with more than their blood money and with plain blood?”

I inhale, lips curling back in more of a snarl than a smile. “Everyone I knew. Everyone I knew who was involved. I have made them pay. In some form.” I throw Kaz a true smile, a devilish gleam in my eyes. “Although I suppose you already know that. It’s why Inej noticed me in the first place.”

“One of the many reasons,” Kaz replies, words back to being clipped, tight.

With a smooth arc of the steering wheel, Kaz turns the car into the same spot as before, hitting a little too hard on the brake before coming to a stop. My hair moves in front of my face at the jolt, a blessed curtain separating me from him. I can feel him thinking, churning over my words, assessing me.

Kaz hardly seems fazed as I peek at him around my hair. His dark eyes are far away, his gloved hands slack on the wheel. I still myself, hearing the purr of the car engine, hearing Kaz’s breathing, shallow and uneven, as he goes into the place he so rarely dives. His eyes are almost glazed, like he’s been drinking, completely lost in his own thoughts. I know some of his story already. From Nina. From Jesper. From my research.

“Your brother,” I murmur, soft and low.

His hands tighten on the wheel until they are bone white, staring straight ahead at the tree lined landscape. “Jordie,” he pushes through his teeth. “His name was Jordie.”

My spine straightens. Kaz has never said anything about his brother, and has never allowed any of the Crows besides Inej into his life in this way. And I wonder how far he has even let her in. I swallow, questioning if I should press or let it be. I am just about to get out and switch places with him to take us back into the city, when he opens his mouth and to my bewilderment, continues to speak.

“My parents were mixed up in some bad stuff before we came here. We lived in the countryside, with a bit of land and no one around us for miles. My brother was older than me, only by four years, but enough to know how to keep me from looking where I shouldn’t. From keeping me happy and sheltered.” A muscle flickers in Kaz’s jaw, his pale skin going ashier with each word, “I didn’t know what was happening when they came. The thugs my parents had been hopping between towns, cities, and states to avoid for over a decade. Jordie took me, the remaining cash from the safe, that my father had stolen, and fled to New York City. He hoped we would be invisible among so many people.”

I don’t know I am holding my breath until I release it, low and shaky. Kaz is silent again, staring off, flexing and unflexing his fingers against the steering wheel, like a silent reminder that he is here.

“Are they alive?” I ask, voice so silent it’s almost nothing.

“I don’t know,” Kaz admits. “But we never heard from them. I’ve never heard. So I can only assume not. And I don’t think I would want to see them if they were.”

“And Jordie…?” I venture, terrified to hear more, but also terrified he’ll clam up. I am desperate for more. Desperate to know him.

“We weren’t safe here. They found us. Or, found Jordie. While I was gone.” Every single syllable from his lips are forced and painful, laced with self loathing and regret. Survivor's guilt. “I was supposed to be there, but Jordie had sent me away. On an errand down in Brooklyn. He knew we were trapped, and wanted me to live, if he couldn’t. If Jordie could convince them he was alone and I had been shipped somewhere else... ” He breathes in and out, slowly and deeply, focusing on some point in the distance. “They ruled it as a suicide. He had cut his own throat, only his DNA on the knife, only his blood… I don’t know if he did it before they came. Or if they staged it. The not knowing. The guessing. That’s what makes it worse.”

“So you look for control in other places.” I say. “In the market. In investment. In the Crows. I do the same thing.”

“The Crows stand for the same thing you do, Cataleya.” Kaz says, looking at me with an intense stare. “Exposure. We want things to be different. We want people to pay, truly pay, for what they have done. Instead of buying silence. Buying lies. We want the truth. Only the truth.”

His words pierce me, his black hair stark against his forehead, shaved sides longer than he normally keeps them. His eyebrows are set in a hard determined line, lips closed, and jaw locked in determination. I know he made those people pay, the ones who took his brother from him. I can see it on his face.

“How did you survive?” I begin, “without him?”

Kaz licked his lips and let out a low chuckle. “Our money was gone. But we knew some people. Kids we met on the street. They made me a fake to get into bars with; I was barely sixteen by that time, but I looked older. Rougher. I had a skill for counting cards and made a small fortune quickly by playing in run down joints and eventually, working my way into larger, more expensive establishments. It was hard, I lived and breathed revenge, for Jordie. I wanted to have him back. To have something that was mine. I built up a small fortune, studied the market, and began investing. By the time I applied to the University of Ketterdam it didn’t matter that I only had my GED and no family, my self-made fortune was enough.”

“But why here?” I ask, furrowing my brows in confusion. “Why school at all?”

Kaz continues to look at me, eyes blazing. “Because we had a dream. Jordie and I. We had a dream that we would never forget what happened. That we had to run. And that when we were older, more settled, we would build something here. In New York City, something that would last. Something with a legacy. Like Crows, Jordie had said, symbolizing death but themselves being alive. We were dealt bad luck and would bestow it on others who deserve it.”

“Thus, The Crow Club,” I finish his sentence, gaze roaming his face. “A secret society at one of the world’s best universities that would have a legacy. Have prestige. Have a family.”

“Something that is mine,” Kaz’s lips part, wet from his tongue.

“Yes, yours.” I echo.

We are both silent for a few moments. Weighing our words. Our truths. Even the trees outside seem to stop in the wind, leaves quiet and branches unwavering. Kaz has opened up in a way I have never seen before. Never expected. He has been through so much. So much like me. Dealt with death. Loss. Life. We aren’t so different. None of the Crows are.

“What about the others?”

“Those aren’t my stories to tell,” Kaz responds, voice returning to its detached state.

I nod, once, accepting. I know a few of them already. Nina. Wylan. The new recruits. But Inej and Jesper are mysteries. Complete and whole geniuses shrouded in questions. I don’t like questions. Especially ones I can’t answer.

“How did you survive? With him?” Kaz’s voice rings again, reflecting my earlier question. His words are too big for the small car, inhaling deeply through my nose as a small smile graces my lips. His long fingers move the shift into reverse to back out of the spot to drive us back to the city himself. The true test of his skill on the Manhattan streets.

“That friend. The one who taught me how to drive,” I reply, a bit of wistful nostalgia filling my tone. “He helped me. Took care of me. Looked after me.”

“Past tense?” He inquires, feet smooth as he presses on the gas pedal.

“We are still friends,” I say. “I think. Things are just… different.”

“Different. That’s an understatement.” He replies, voice drenched with irony. “Everything is different, isn’t it, depending on how you look at it.”

I nod and laugh, giving him a compliment on how swiftly he picked up driving before we settle into a comfortable silence. Crows. Allies. Friends. If we can call ourselves that.

I hope we can.

----

Today, I am supposed to meet the enemy.

Kaz told me yesterday he set up a rendezvous at one of the campus coffee spots and that there would be someone waiting for me there. Someone he wouldn’t name. Someone that I am supposed to gather information from. Someone who thinks we are on a date.

I had almost hit him when he pulled up his phone to show me the fake dating profile that was made for me. Pictures of me smiling, laughing, most of them pictures I didn’t even remember taking, all glowed brightly at me, accentuated by a bio that said I liked my men tall, dark, and tortured.

How cliche.

“Nina made it,” Kaz had shrugged then returned his phone back to his pocket.

“And you would be surprised by how many matches you made,” Inej’s voice was laced with humor, lilting into the room without a trace.

“She’ll walk you over,” Kaz said, gesturing around the room to her unknown location. “Like any dutiful girl would for her best friend about to go on a date from an app. Then, you’ll just need to proceed as normal. Ask him about his life, his job, his degree, his connection to UOK. All the basics. The main concern is reading him out for a vibe, his family has had a lot of influence in some shady shit and he’s from another society here.”

So that’s what this was about? Some sour deals that probably put Kaz out of some easy money and a rival society that was challenging Kaz’s position in the control of campus secrets and his standing legacy? I don’t feel like that is the whole story, but that’s all that Kaz was willing to give me at the time.

And he hadn’t said anything this afternoon when I had gone into the Crow Library to meet Inej. He acted like nothing ever happened, like he hadn’t revealed some of his darkest secrets to me. Like we hadn’t shared a moment of… something. He barely looked at me from his desk, hair rumpled and face flushed from stress, in my tight long sleeve dress and tights, combat boots laced up around my ankles in case this random guy got the wrong idea.

The air outside had turned to autumn, giving us an unusually cold and windy day. I was puttering around and trying to think of something to say to Kaz, when Inej came down the staircase with silent feet, dressed in a pair of black leggings and a cream knit sweater. Her hair had been mused in the back and her face also looked a bit red. I had almost laughed, looking between her flushed state and Kaz’s slightly red cheeks, before giving Inej a knowing quirk of my eyebrows.

And now, outside of the library and alone, walking across the cobblestoned campus paths with autumn leaves falling around us, I turn to her. “Do I even want to know?”

“It’s college,” she replies, so quiet it’s almost to herself. “Things happen.”

“Things don’t just happen with Kaz Brekker.”

She looks at me, face breaking out into a blinding smile that splits her beautifully baked face. “They do when he’s in a rather… compromising position.”

“Inej!” I release the laugh I’ve been holding, the now pulled back coil of her hair showing off the reddened tips of her ears. Since I have known of Inej, she has always been rather modest. Sure of herself in a quiet way. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need reassurance or shields. Inej herself is a shield, a force of silent secrets she keeps hidden beneath the unsuspecting lithe of her dancer’s frame.

We take a right turn down one of the main campus paths, small walkways opening up into a large courtyard. Students mill about, sitting on statues, kissing underneath the garden archways, reading books on their way into classes. The University of Ketterdam has always been such an eclectic place, not only because of its location in New York City, but because of its campus. Lush, green, beautiful. An ode to history and architecture and modernity all the same. The programs here are some of the best in the world and while tuition isn’t cheap, the value of a Ketterdam degree is worth it.

“Is it bad that I kind of do want to know though?” I begin, not even sure what I’m saying.

“No,” Inej says, voice thoughtful and not defensive in any way. This is why I love Inej. So honest and unafraid. “I think everyone wants to know about Kaz. Everyone wants to be the hero that solves the mystery or the lover that turns a prince from darkness.” She pauses, looking around at the students, seeming lost in thought. Her dark eyebrows crease together, as if in thought or sadness. “Some people just can’t be saved.”

I can tell she’s referring to Kaz. But I’m not sure if I agree. I think everyone can be saved. I think darkness lives in everyone and all a person needs is a bit of light to show them through. People weren’t born into darkness, or evil, they were made that way. Through that, they could be unmade. And Inej has enough light and strength in one of her hands to see any person through the blackest of tunnels. I think of what Kaz had said to me, in the car, about his story, about his desire for revenge. For retribution. Maybe I want to believe we can be saved from the darkness because I want to be saved. Because like calls to like. And there is a deep chasm within Kaz that sings to me.

Inej moves her head to look at me, a full and unabashed gaze that somehow makes me uncomfortable. Like she can see straight to my soul. Like she can see every lie I have told or every promise I have broken or every secret I have kept. Like she can see my desires and my shame and my longing for things I can’t have.

“But we love them anyway, don’t we?” She finishes, giving me a contemplative look.

I think of the people I love, the people I did love, when there were still people in my life that were capable of receiving such a thing; people who were dark and painful and I still loved them anyway. Love can be such a blinding thing. Blinding and binding.

“Yeah,” I echo, her reflective tone rubbing off onto my voice. “We do.”

The both of us descend into silence as we continue to walk across the quad. I begin to feel my stomach turn, my palms sweat. No matter how many times I have done this, not dates, but encounter new people, this feeling returns. Every time I have to meet someone new, report on something, present something for a class, I would feel anxiety grip my insides and twist. When I was younger, that anxiety was terrifying, it made me cower, it made me scared. But as I got older, I began to use it and cling to it. I began to form it into an entity that gave me courage instead of taking it, something that would ground me to myself and propel me into my fears.

Inej begins, “Kaz texted and said he’s outside. Reading. Good luck.” Then she’s gone.

Steadying my breath, the smell of coffee hits my nostrils as I round the library steps to the small path beside it. The coffee shop is nestled into the side of the huge, brick building, almost like a tumor sprouting from the side. Inej has completely disappeared, only leaving the familiar scent of herbs in her wake. She is supposed to be going up the library steps to find a good vantage point from one of the many windows facing the coffee shop on the building’s side. Students move around through the cafe windows, in and out of the doors, little bell ringing to signal both arrival and departure.

But I am not paying attention to any of them.

Because there is a boy. A man. Sitting at one of the tables outside, his long legs stretched underneath the opposite chair, wearing a pair of leather sneakers. His long fingers are thumbing through a novel, covers worn and pages yellow with age. He can feel someone there, looking, sitting up and turning in that little metal chair to see who. To see me.

It’s Alek.

I blanch, mouth going dry and jaw slackening. I know him. I more than know him. I-

“Cataleya,” his voice is pure night, laced and dripping with stars. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, not even phased. Not that I have ever seen him look surprised. I flash back to that day in the garden, to his hands on my face, wiping my tears, to his arms around me, murmuring condolences, to the face that I could see through my blurred tears. Dark hair, pale skin, beautifully big gray eyes. I had barely known him, barely seen him despite our houses being right next door, despite our windows being on opposite sides of the alley and me being able to spy on him when his curtains were parted at night.

“Aleksander?” I stand a little straighter, gathering my shock and shoving it deep down.

He smiles, standing up from the chair on the patio of the coffee shop. He is so tall, taller than I remember. His dark jeans are fitted against his legs and the black long sleeve button down he is wearing shows off a large portion of his impeccable chest. I don’t remember when the last time I saw him was, but I definitely don’t recall feeling the pulsing and intense heat that flashes through my body when I look at him. I suddenly feel naked. And stupid.

Is Kaz trying to kill me?

Swallowing thickly, I scan the windows on the side of the library for Inej, wondering if she has already found a perch to play spy. The sun reflects off of each glass surface in the afternoon light, making it impossible to see through any of them. Blowing a breath through my lips, I attempt to quell the storm brewing and churning in my stomach.

“What a wonderful surprise this is,” Alek starts.

I catch the edge in his voice, the way the tone lilts at the end. A tell of how much this encounter is not a surprise. For him anyway. But I smile, I nod and I watch as he fluidly closes the distance between us and takes me in his arms.

I hate how I exhale.

How my whole body relaxes.

I hate how good it feels.

Like coming home.

He smells like winter and barren tree branches, like snow and absence of light. Like a dark night wrapping me in its embrace and taking away the pain that days bring. Peaceful and mysterious all the same. Just as I remember it. Just as I remember him.

“Since when did you start wearing all black?” I joke as he pulls away, gesturing to his outfit. “Are you some kind of darkling now?”

He gives me a blinding grin, chuckling under his breath.

“Something like that.”

He gestures us back over to the table and I sit across from him, back rigid and legs crossed. I feel like a mannequin, still and stoic, despite the intense pounding of my heart and rush of blood through my veins.

“How have you been?” He asks, leaning back in his chair with an amused look on his face. “I must say I was very surprised when your profile popped up Tinder.”

I clench my jaw, working my teeth against each other. “Yeah, so was I.”

Tilting his head to the side, Alek studies me, eyes unabashedly roaming from my face to my chest to my waist, to my legs visible on the side of the table. I swallow, trying to clear the unfamiliar lump in my throat before I speak.

“But I’m good. Great, even. But I didn’t even know you are here. That you went here in the first place.”

“It’s a temporary thing,” Alek responds.

“Temporary?” I push.

“I’m just getting a business credential for the semester,” he says, airy and dismissive.

I narrow my eyes at him, hoping he can feel the suspicion and annoyance radiating from my look. He drums his fingers on the table, weighing my stare with a measured, even gaze that infuriates me further. I always hated when he did this when we were kids. Always challenging me. Always trying to get me to back down. Luckily, our time apart has sharpened my detective skills and my comfort with confrontation.

Alek sighs, blinking slowly. “Fine. I’m here because of you.”

My jaw slackens.

Because of me?

“I missed you,” he whispers, in a rare display of vulnerability and affection, before reaching across the table to take my hand.

Fire lashes up my wrist and arm, chills spreading in its wake. His touch is electrifying me, his skin like a hot branding iron pushing into me with delicious pain. Alek’s jaw is set, the hard lines on his chin lined with stubble. I want to take his face in my hands and kiss him. I want to feel him against me and get lost in the impossibly deep gray ocean of his eyes.

“Where were you then?” I venture, pushing down the pressing anxiety.

“I had a lot to deal with after my dad died,” he responds, voice detached and noncommittal. “I’m really sorry I let our relationship fall away, but I didn’t want to drag you down into my grief. You’ve always had enough on your plate.”

“You helped me through grief.” My tone steadies. “I wanted to help you.”

He huffs, “I didn’t want your help.”

The words are like a slap in the face, pulling my hand from his with a start. His dad’s death had been very abrupt and unexpected, launching Alek into a world of unknown wealth and property and an accumulation of other assets he wasn’t even aware his father had. His death was ruled under suspicious circumstances, but no leads were ever found for a murderer or any other sort of foul play. And with Alek’s mother long gone to cancer, he found himself newly eighteen and alone in the world. Except he wasn’t alone. He always had me.

Alek releases a breath, eyes softening as he leans back in his chair, aware of the mistake in his harsh words. He pushes a hand through his hair, the dark waves parting for his hand like a saint in the sea.

“I don’t mean it like that. I wanted you to be there, Cataleya. But some things you have to do on your own, you know? I had so much to figure out and sort through and… it was overwhelming.”

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Alek was never the kind of guy to ask for help, especially not from people he is close to. He always did things alone, always felt weak for not building his own empire, his own legacy, his own destiny, without anyone else. But two years, I haven’t heard from him in two years and now here he is. In front of me. Asking for some sort of forgiveness. Is there anything to forgive? The pit in my stomach says yes. But my throbbing heart and other throbbing parts of me say no.

“I missed you, too.”

A small smile blossoms across his face, the sight beautiful and stupefying.

“I can’t help but notice you walked here with Inej Ghafa,” he starts and my alert senses begin to tingle. “Isn’t she a part of Kaz Brekker’s Crow Club?”

“How do you know about that?” I ask before I can help myself.

“Anyone who is anyone knows about Kaz,” he responds, almost spitting his name.

“Okay…” I begin, unease settling into my stomach like a stone. “But why do you?”

“He has something I need.”

The stone becomes a boulder.

“Are you-” I stop, then start again. “You’re the one that this is for.”

“If by “this”, you mean whatever scheme he is planning to trap me in, then yes.”

“But why? How do you even know him? Don’t you know who he is and what he does? What are you thinking going against Kaz?” I ask urgently, struggling to keep my voice low.

He pins me to the chair with a dead look. “He has debts he needs to pay.”

“You’re going vague again?” I shake my head, irritated with his bipolar intensity then flippancy. “You need to back down. Or you’re going to end up hurt.”

A smirk tugs at his full lips, “Your lack of faith in me is really inspiring, Cataleya.”

“It’s not that,” I retort, exasperated, crossing my arms. “Kaz is really powerful. With more networks and connections than you know. If you don’t stop whatever crusade you have on him, you’re the one that’s going to end up indebted.”

He laughs this time, a full and deep laugh that surprises me. “Has he really dug his talons that deep in you? That you’ve forgotten how wide my own connections spread? How cunning I can be?”

“We haven’t spoken in two years,” I respond, pettily. “I don’t know you at all anymore.”

He leans forward, eyes incredibly dark and face serious. “You know that’s not true.”

I hold his stare, raising my eyebrows, feeling satisfied that I made my point. Alek reaches across the table and places his palm up on it in invitation. I can see the veins of his inner wrist, with dark ink snaking across the blue and disappearing under his shirt sleeve. He didn’t have any tattoos when I last talked to him. My fingers itch to push back the fabric and see them. His secrets. Like Kaz’s, they are so plain on his skin yet hidden through metaphors and signs.

Licking my lips, I push out a breath and put my hand atop his, feeling his eyes follow mine to where the ink is displayed. Without saying anything, he pushes the sleeve of his shirt up his forearm, stopping at the inner crook of his elbow.

Inhaling and holding, I blink at the constellation on the inside of his forearm. A night sky, swirling with black and dead space, with creatures in between zombies and ghosts with huge demon wings flying through it. There is a ship at the base of his wrist, a small stern gliding through dark sand, a tiny speck compared to the massive size of the creatures flying above it. It is dark and torturing and incredibly impassioned. I let the pads of my fingers drift softly up Alek’s arm, watching goosebumps form on his skin.

“What are they?” I ask.

“They’re called volcra,” Alek says. “Beings that live in darkness and are afraid of light. They feed on those who come into their path, who are unable to see or defend themselves in the black sea of sand.”

“It’s so… intense.” I search for the right word to describe it, coming up short.

“I want to remind myself to not be afraid of light. Of happiness. That the things that I may think make me weak, really make me strong. I need to find more light, to find my light. I have been full of darkness for a long time, Cataelya. I’ve lived in a thousand moments of it.”

I tilt my head, fingers pressed into the inside of his elbow and looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes are trained to the spot where our skin is meeting, his lips parted and eyebrows furrowed a bit in the middle. I resist the urge to flatten it with my thumb, letting the wind and the sound of other students fill the silence between us.

“You were the only light in my life for a long time,” I say to him, tracing the volcra’s deformed bodies with my index finger. “I had nothing. I had no one. You pulled me from that nothingness. From the darkness. And held me in your arms. Brought me up to somewhere better. Where I can hope. Where I can not only see light, but make my own. That is invaluable to me.”

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Can you help me, then? Can you bring me back my light, too?”

My breathing stalls. I know what he’s asking from me. I know it’s more than just offering a flashlight through the tunnel. I know it’s more complicated than I can currently imagine. Alek stands up, coming around the table to kneel in front of my chair. Some students stare, wondering if they’re about to witness a proposal. I ignore them, keeping my eyes trained on Alek’s imploring gaze. I know in this moment, I will give him the world, the moon, and all of its stars. I will give him all of my sun and then some, I will summon everything I have to fill the darkest parts of him.

He takes my face in his hands, palms impossibly soft on my cheeks. Subtly, slowly, I nod, watching his face break a part into a smile. Without pausing, Alek leans forward and kisses me. His lips are smooth and plush, completely stunning me into inaction as he runs his fingers along the sides of my throat. I sigh into his mouth, body realizing what is happening just as he is pulling away. Parting my lips, I stupidly sit in my chair as he gets up in one flowing movement.

Alek looks down at me with a smile. “I hope to see you soon then, Cataleya.”

Just like that, he scoops up his book and walks away. Gone as quickly as he appeared.

----

The room is completely aglow with light, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and candles lit around the room. Everything has a soft, burnt hue, like the room is on fire from below and the blaze is lighting the space. It must be the size of the University of Ketterdam quad, with hundreds of people talking, dancing, eating, and drinking. I recognize some students and faculty, but most are a blur of unfamiliar gowns and tuxedos.

“They know how to throw a party,” Nik says appreciatively.

“If they didn’t, no one would take them seriously.” Zoya retorts, leaving Nik’s side without so much as a glance to drift into the crowd. The smell of honey and sweet drinks spreads through the room, long tables lining either wall stacked with a massive spread.

“That’s where I’ll be,” whispers Nina.

I smile at her, gathering my dress in my hands and descending the few flat stairs to the main rooms. The floor is a beautiful tile, mosaics and colors that I can’t decipher flowing from the entry way beneath the mass of bodies. There is something magical about it all, something historic, like stepping into a time machine. The walls are lined with thick tapestries, with small halls leading into different areas of grandeur. I shouldn’t be surprised that wealth like this still exists, but every time I see it, I am.

Scanning the space, I see Alek from across the ballroom, near one of the food tables, his gaze drifting across my body before a smile forms on his lips. He is wearing an all black suit, lapels crisp and smooth, with a single blood rose pinned above his heart. It mimics the read of my dress, the stain of my lips, the seduction in his eyes. He cocks his head slightly, dark hair falling over one of his beautifully arched eyebrows.

I hold his stare, letting the bubbling pit of fire burn deeply in my stomach. The pit that forms when he looks at me, seated low and hot. The pit that would cackle and seethe if he would touch me, if his pale hands would settle on my hips and his lips would touch the shell of my ear, whispering sweet nothings and dirty everythings into my ear. Snaking my tongue between my lips, I watch as Aleksander tracks the motion, his posture straightening ever so slightly.

And then Kaz is there. In my line of vision.

The fire sputters out, replaced by something else. Something that grips my lungs and forces my heart to beat faster. His suit is a deep navy, bringing out the smooth pearl of his skin and accenting the night of his hair. He looks like a shooting star, dark and light at the same time. I wonder who picked it out for him, or if he selected it himself. I can’t imagine Kaz in a tailor’s shop, trying on suits and drinking bourbon with the upper elites with him.

But then again, maybe I can. He is a business man after all. And great at faking it.

Kaz catches my stare, tipping his head up in greeting before disappearing into the crowd. Nina and Nik dissolve from my side as well, going to observe and mingle before the drama begins. Alina is the only one left next to me, her golden dress sparkling in the chandelier light. She turns to me and sets her hand on my arm gingerly, sun earrings dangling from her ears.

“Be careful,” she whispers. “He’s not who you think he is.”

I open my mouth, about to ask her what she means before her hand is gone, and so is she. I watch her move into a group of people, hugging a man in a dark gray tuxedo from behind before giving him a kiss. Must be Mal. I don’t feel right, especially after what Alina said to me. I feel like something is amiss, but I don’t know what.

I spot Kaz again, whispering something to Inej along the back wall. Her dark eyes drift to me, cementing the feeling in place.

Alone, I cross the space to Alek. I had seen him twice since our fateful coffee date and both times had been very formal and full of business. Full of me trying to help him get his light back. Through some sort of grand scheme, it seems. One that required me to also recruit Nik, Alina, and Zoya to help Alek while seeming like they are helping Kaz. Sort of like a double agent, except I don’t know which side I want to be standing on at the end.

“How are you?” Alek asks, tone casual to an untrained ear, but clipped enough for me to hear the true question behind his words.

“Something’s wrong,” I respond under my breath before I loudly declare my happiness.

He lets his gaze linger on my face for a moment, schooling his features into neutrality.

“Can you handle it?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit, dropping my fake smile. “I might need help.”

Vague enough, but he clearly gets the message, rolling his shoulders before giving me a dazzling grin. Alek reaches a long arm to stop the waiter passing by, grabbing two flutes of sparkling gold champagne and extending one to me. As if this is only our second time meeting. As if we both happened here by incident and he is looking to get lucky.

“I could never refuse such a beautiful woman.”

I return his smile, throwing back the entire drink for some liquid courage. It tastes sweet and fizzy against my tongue, a faint acidity coating the roof of my mouth. Alek takes a long and thoughtful sip of his own champagne, much more graceful than me and folds my arm into the crook of his elbow. He begins to lead me from the ballroom, towards the Crow’s meeting spot. I look behind my shoulder, searching for their familiar faces. But all I see is Nina, already watching, her eyes focused intently on the joining of my arm with Alek’s while she pretends to listen to Nik, whose lips are moving with passionate fervor. Her mouth parts ever so slightly as she catches my eye.

“Careful,” Alek mutters, forcing me to turn my head back in front of me.

Dread and fear coil in my gut. I have never seen Nina look that way. I have never seen her look at me and not see me. I still don’t spot any of the other Crows at their reported positions around the room, where they were supposed to stay until I could get Alek alone and before I could lead Kaz to Alek and they could duel it out and I could decide who to side with then.

I swallow, mind racing, trying to calm myself by believing that there’s a reason for their absence.

Alek seems to sense my trepidation, holding my arm a bit tighter as we meander from the crowded room into a near empty hallway.

“Something’s wrong,” I repeat, trying to unravel everything quickly. Too quickly.

Kaz, pushing everyone into this heist with such force. The others, more quiet than usual, less pressing for Kaz to give them details. Kaz, letting me teach him to drive, letting himself be vulnerable for me. Inej, barely talking to me a week into our plan. Nina, completely open and honest and warm until she saw me with Alek. Jesper, less happy than usual, less enthusiastic, more solemn and quiet, often excusing himself when I came into the room. And Wylan, always seeming to be off rekindling his relationship with his father.

I didn’t need to help them with appearances at all.

When fear arrives, something is about to happen.

“It’s a trap,” I breathe, clenching my jaw and letting my stomach pit out inside of me.

“I know,” Alek replies, cool and distant.

My blood turns to ice. “What do you mean, “I know”?”

He doesn’t respond, turning right down the hallway that leads to a back patio exit, and not to the left, to that private seating area where the Crows were supposed to be waiting. Alek increases his pace ever so slightly, giving me a glazed and lusted look when people come out of the rooms to pass us by, too high or drunk or exhausted to care.

I try to stamp down the panic in my bones. How could I be so stupid? How could I get so caught up playing both sides that I didn’t see what was right in front of me? This is not the part where things are supposed to go wrong. I am supposed to get to choose. I am supposed to see them interact, gauge my feelings, myself, my words, and decide which side I want to be on. If I want to be a Raven or a Crow. If I want to be crime or creation. Of course, Alek is one step ahead. And so is Kaz.

“We need to be more casual, less uptight,” Alek states as he pushes through the glass doors leading into the large mansion courtyard at the end of the corridor. “If any of them are watching, they’ll hurry things along if they sense we’re onto them.”

“I think they already know,” I swallow, the night air turning cold and bitter. We hover on the cramped patio for a moment, not descending the small set of stone stairs into the gardens beyond. I can hear voices from inside, music drifting about, people laughing and heavy breathing from behind bushes. I wish I could have gone to this party with no other intentions than for fun.

Maybe in a different life.

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Alek shrugs.

And then I am up against the thin black railing behind me, Alek’s hands settling into the curve of my hips. I can feel his warmth through the satin of my dress, bleeding fire into my skin, my heart, my core. He licks his lips and pushes me tighter against him. Our bodies are flush in all of the right places; hard and soft in all of the right places.

“Kiss me, Cataleya,” he baits me, voice low and raspy.

He doesn’t have to say it twice.

I surge forward, his lips plush and velvet against mine. He smells like winter, like snow and frosty tree branches and endless starry nights. I grew up with this smell, revelled in it, fell in love with it. His dark hair brushes against my forehead, the strands so soft and gentle in a way I had never known Alek to be. He is always pushing, moving, plotting.

He reminds me of Kaz in that way.

Kaz.

Alek’s tongue slips along mine, sparks flying and thundering in my ears. Haven’t I wanted him like this for so long? Haven’t I imagined what this would feel like since our first kiss, being barely a peck? Haven’t I dreamed that he would want me? That he would have me in the way I desired?

So why is this falling so flat now?

Kaz.

The voice reverberates through me, like a Crow picking from a dead body, peeling flesh from bone until I am stripped bare. My head begins to pound, a dull ache in the base of my skull. Alek runs his fingers up my bare arms, drawing goosebumps in his wake until I am shivering beneath him.

“Cataleya,” he murmurs, deep and throaty.

The old feeling returns, the burning desire, the expectant eyes. The little girl waiting for her master to approve. The little girl waiting for someone bigger, someone better, to grab her hand and drag her from the dirt. I feel ridiculous for not being able to squash it down, to tamper it. I don’t know if that feeling would ever die. The feeling of dependence. Of unworthiness.

Alek seems as if he’s about to say something, but his head whips to the side. I follow the movement, the stone of dread in my stomach sinking deeper when I realize the courtyard has gone quiet around us. Not a single sound from behind the bushes, not a giggle or a whisper or a moan. Too quiet. The sound of death.

The headache threatens to split my brain a part, eyes blurring as I watch Alek attempt to stumble down the stairs. He gets one step in before a figure blocks his path. My breathing becomes laborious, squinting through black spots clouding my vision before I can see who it is.

Wylan.

His suit is a forest green, dark velvet tailored for his tall lanky frame. The color perfectly offsets the ruddiness of his hair and his shoes are a deep brown leather, squeaky clean and new. Leave it to Kaz to outfit all of the Crows with his endless bank account.

“I’m sorry,” Wylan says, face truly betraying some measure of regret.

The pieces click together, like a lock sliding into place.

He hasn’t been working with his father all these weeks. He has been working on something else entirely. Something that would take lots of time, lots of care, and lots of studying. When Nina said those things I thought she was talking about how he was mending the relationship with his father. She was not. And not just that, but his studies most likely required more than himself for success. Probably Leoni, the incredibly kind and intelligent biochemical engineering major who Kaz sometimes recruited for special missions that required more stealth, less blood.

Wylan was studying poison.

And we had ingested it from the champagne.

----

My head is throbbing when I come to, the sound of a car engine roaring in my ears. I don’t know how I got here. All I remember is Alek, his hands on me, his warmth leaving me to spin me into the arms of someone else. The shaved hair, the deep brown eyes, the palor of his skin, the stability of his grip around my waist. Then Alek again, his lips on mine, my back against the wall.

I force myself to swallow, trying to see anything through the blindfold at my eyes. I am still in my dress, the silk smooth on my skin, and I can feel the car coming to a stop as I struggle to find the strength to say something.

My bones feel like liquid, muscles weak and shaking. But Alek had been the only one who offered me a drink, he had been the only one I trusted enough to gulp heartily. Wylan. I remember Wylan. Standing at the ledge of the stairs in the courtyard. Me and Alek.

Poisoned.

The car’s back door opens and I feel a rush of the cold night air as two gloved hands drag me by my feet from the vehicle and out onto the street. Dread coils in my stomach and my skin pricks with goosebumps, the cobble stones ripping at my exposed ankles and arms. After being dragged a few hundred feet, hissing at the burn of scapes and tearing on my skin from the uneven street, I am forced onto my knees. I don’t feel right. Nothing feels right. Where is Kaz?

As if in answer, the blindfold is yanked down my face from behind, my eyes blurring and struggling to adjust to the dark light of my surroundings. I am in an alley, wedged between two buildings built of collapsing brick. I can hear the faint whiz of cars, but in front of me is only a few hundred paces of the alleyway and then trees. I am not being brought here to talk. It’s too secluded. Too quiet. And the smell, bark and sap and something else… I clench my jaw.

A shadow fills my periphery and I struggle to stay up on my knees as a figure takes shape in front of me. The navy suit, clean white shirt, the black leather gloves, the hard lines of his jaw and set of his eyes. I know why I am here. I know what this is. His stare is furious, rage and ice and merciless vengeful eyes boring into mine.

He made the choice for me.

“Kaz,” I rasp, voice cracking and broken.

He snarls at his name from my mouth, shoving me up into the nearest building. I stumble in my heels, his movements fast and forceful enough to drive my back into the wall with no problem. The rough edges of the brick dig into my back, clawing at my skin. This is nowhere near the last experience I had against a wall, with Alek. Caressing me, kissing me, igniting me. I try to stay calm. I try to think. But all I can see is Kaz’s face in front of me, burning with hatred and disdain as he rams me harder into the unforgiving bricks.

I try to hold in my scream as a knife plunges into my side from one of the roofs above, deep and intense pain bursting through me. I don’t know who threw it, I don’t know how many of them are up there and how many stayed behind. I don’t know how long they’ve been in on it, I don’t know if Kaz has been aware the entire time. But I do know that now he knows, they all do. And that I won’t be leaving here alive.

I can’t move enough to take the knife from my side, the hilt small, but the blade curved and lodged deep above the bone of my hip. Blood seeps through my dress, the red becoming impossibly darker, and the drip drip of the liquid pings against the stone street as it runs down my legs. It’s the only sound between us besides my ragged breathing, pained and desperate.

“This was all a test of loyalty,” he says evenly. “You failed.”

And I would die for it.

Kaz’s hands close around my throat, gaze steely and intent. I try not to panic, my jaw locking and lungs constricting with the pressure of his grip. The warmth of the blood continues spreading and soaking through my side, red and sticky and filling my nostrils with the scent of copper. I can already barely breathe, trying and failing to make it through the pain. It makes sense how loose Kaz’s lips had been with me, all the questions he had asked to try and taunt me, to reveal my relationship to Alek, how he let me teach him; he thought I would be a dead woman soon. And dead women don’t spill secrets. Or give lessons beyond the grave.

“We knew it was you all along,” Kaz says in my face, tone even as he chokes me. “Funny. You didn’t even know he was here until we flushed him out for you. Until we set up that date and watched you become the person we suspected you were. Until you crawled back to him and pretended he was the only light in the pit of darkness that’s been your life.” Kaz’s gloved fingers are hot against my pulse and his hair is falling down his forehead, sides freshly shaved. I can see every prick of stubble along his chin, see the muscles feathering in his jaw. I’ve never been this close to him before. Not even in the car. A day that felt so long ago. Like a lifetime.

“Don’t you know why we scouted you in the first place? We knew he would try to ruin us from the inside out and use you to do it, it was only a matter of time. But that game can be played by both sides.” His voice is low, a snarl that roars in my ears, my side throbbing. “Nikolai, Alina, Zoya… you thought that you were bringing in new recruits to then turn against us. We had them first. They were always Crows, not one of Aleksander Morosova’s ravens. They have even more of a reason to want revenge on him than I do. And I’ll bet they’re being even less pleasant with him than I am with you right now.”

A pit burns inside of me, low and feral, deepening with each of his words.

“But even before that, I wanted you.”

And I know, at the tenor of his voice, it’s not the kind of want that I would ever seek. At how his voice drops, so no one else can possibly hear, that I will not like what he is going to say.

“I wanted you the moment I saw you and your father’s face in the news. When I heard what he did to your mother even though no one would believe he could have done it. I knew he did.” He is seething, spitting on me as he goes on. “I knew that he was capable of ordering violence. Of committing it and buying people’s silence. I could see it in his eyes, I could see it in the way he held you against him. Possessive and consuming.”

I have gone completely still, the very blood in my veins seeming to stop, the pulsing at my side ebbing into a dull ache. His words are in a bubble, trapped between our lips. Each syllable pops and rebuilds it, over and over. Trapping me, over and over.

“I didn’t leave the day they came to kill Jordie.” He continues, “I thought something was wrong, for him to force me out the way he did. I hid on the roof of our building and climbed down the stairs of the fire escape a few hours later. Then I saw him. Your father. Positioning my brother’s body on our couch, I saw him take the bloodied knife and place it on the floor, beneath Jordie’s fingers. I watched as he cleaned off any fingerprints, stole away any evidence. He had no blood on him and by the two men that stumbled onto the street and disappeared down an alley, I knew he hadn’t done the actual act...

“But what’s worse? Following an order for murder or sanctioning it?”

I feel tears slipping down my cheeks, dropping like flies on Kaz’s gloves.

“I followed him. Learned everything I could. I learned that he had been involved with an underground drug operation for decades. That my parents had been in debt with them due to some bad decisions in my dad’s twenties. And that your father had been sent to collect or kill. To send a message to the other debtors. Little did your father know that the victims had two children, that they escaped. And that they would be coming for him.”

The air around me turns infinitely colder, everything still and quiet except Kaz’s voice.

“I watched you too.” He continues, fingers losing their grip a bit on my throat. “I watched to see who you would be. If we would indeed become enemies, as our parents were. I observed you grow with Morosova, how he controlled you, how he led you away all those years, how he kept you quiet and kept you in the dark so you would never find out the truth and be killed, like your mother was.”

His words stab me deeper than the knife, my heart in ribbons. Hearing him confirm my darkest fears unleashes the worst parts of me, the parts I tried so hard to keep hidden. Terrified. Insecure. Silent. Obedient. The little girl with an abusive father and dead mother. I hadn’t been her in so long, but Kaz is stripping me down. Shredding me.

Kaz’s voice drops lower, as if he’s telling me a horrible secret. “He knew about it, Cataleya. Aleksander,” he purrs the name like a curse, “he knew everything. His father was one of the men your father ordered to kill Jordie. Who was a part of the team dispatched to eradicate those who didn’t pay, eradicate my parents. Your parents were working together, how fitting that you and Aleksander would, as well. Fate is funny that way.”

The world shatters around me, broken and splintering into a million pieces. Alek knew. He sat there and listened to me while I cried about my mother, how I had desperately wanted his help to look into what happened. He had warned me to want anything was to give myself up. That the only way for me to find peace was to move forward and never look back. That if I continued to want for closure, I would never find it.

“The problem with wanting is that it makes us weak.” He had said, over and over.

How ironically true that had become.

Kaz isn’t done. He continues to pick at me, the Crow in him unable to stop, his dark eyes burning with hate. “Where your own father failed, Aleksander’s father succeeded. He remembered seeing pictures in my house, of me and of Jordie. He remembered that there were two boys. And when I killed him by placing a bomb under his car to be rigged as an oil problem, his son stepped into the role to finish what his father started. To silence me too. But he didn’t and for me, for Jordie, I swore I would destroy them, brick by brick.”

My breathing is coming out in short rasps, eyes blurred with tears of anger and embarrassment and white hot pain. I have been played. So horribly. By everyone in my life. Lied to. By every single person I had known. Even Alek. Alek, who had been the one person I thought would save me. Would be the one in the end to stand by me, to see me, to understand me. But he didn’t. He never did. He used me. Just like my father did. To be a sweet, obedient girl.

In the few months I had known Kaz, he has seen more of me than Alek ever did.

All we ever wanted, me and Alek and Kaz, was to feel safe and be loved. But we never trusted anyone enough to be either. So we fought and resisted and pushed. Into darkness.

A whistle sounds from above, quick and melodic. Inej. Signaling Kaz that he needs to hurry. That enough is enough. But I can see it in his eyes. The hardness. The black pits of revenge and hatred and loathing he feels when he looks at me. It would never be enough. This retribution that he savored for years will never last as long as he wishes it to. I want to wither away into nothing under his stare. Not enough. Not his. Never his. Never a Crow.

“I know you love him,” he whispers so none of the others lurking can hear. “I know he’s the one who saved you. But he used you, Cataleya. He controlled you. You could’ve been so much better, so much bigger. It’s a shame the apple never falls far from the tree.”

I wish it had been you to save me instead. I think, shoving the words down my constricted throat. Maybe if it were Kaz, all those years ago, then things wouldn’t have gotten so messed up. Then maybe I would have been more like Inej, graceful, strong, full of more purpose than what Alek gave me. Maybe I could have meant something. To someone. To the Crows.

But Kaz didn’t find me. Alek did. Alek led me from the garden and held my hand. Alek stroked my hair and told me it would be okay. That I would be okay. Alek raised me to be unforgiving, to scheme and stab people in the back to fill the empty hole in my life. Control. Kaz had said. How he controlled me. How he deceived me. With love. Love. Fake. Love. Fake love. I want to cry or scream at all of them, shaking with rage. I have been a pawn this whole time.

“We are all controlled by something.” I push out, my voice weak.

I try to swallow and fail at the reapplied pressure of Kaz’s palms, drool and spit bubbling from my lips. The alley wall is hard against my back, the night sky black and endless above me. The smog cover is so thick I can’t see the stars, despite the bright spots beginning to dance in my vision. I feel something prick at my spine with the pressure of my position like a silent reminder, mind sharpening and resolve strengthening. Love or no love. I have to finish what I started. I have to complete my assignment. Even if it isn’t one from Kaz.

Even if it is from a liar.

Lies are all I have known.

All I have to hold on to.

I can’t be saved. From darkness. My own or from others. I have waded too deep, gone too far. I may not be a true Raven, but I am definitely not a Crow. No matter how much I wish I could be. No matter how much I came to appreciate them, to care for them, to trust them.

Trust is the most dangerous weapon of all.

Slipping my hands behind my back as if I am trying to scramble against the wall, I reach for the cool metal of the blade attached along the zipper of my dress, letting out a choking cry to cover the unsheathing of my knife. The movement burns my side, ripping open my wound further to pour more blood. It runs over Kaz’s dress shoes, stains my legs. I am losing it too quickly, too much of it ebbing from me at once. Kaz’s hands press harder to my throat, forcing me, willing me, begging me to die now that his speech is over. I know he doesn’t enjoy this. I know he doesn’t relish in murder. Neither do I.

But love is love.

Control is control.

And business is business.

Kaz would agree on that.

“If I’m going down, Kaz,” I begin, voice barely a whisper. “You’re coming with me.”

Without wasting another second, I shove the tip of my knife deep between Kaz’s ribs, watching his face contort in pain and dark eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then furrow in agony. Almost immediately, I hear a scream tear from somewhere on the roofs above and feel a pang of sorrow course through me. Inej just watched me stab the love of her life. Inej, the strong, graceful warrior who had been through more than all of us. She had screamed. Wailed.

I hear her words echo around my brain. The autumn leaves. Her cream sweater. The weight of her stare. “Some people just can’t be saved. But we love them anyway.”

My sight falters.

Kaz’s grip on my neck loosens, then completely disappears as he stumbles back and I fall towards the concrete without him holding me in place. An arrow pierces my shoulder from above, Jesper no doubt. With that incredible skill for landing true. The impact pushes me forward into Kaz’s already falling body, his white tux shirt now stained with blood.

The world spins, my head making hard contact with the street.

“This action will have no echo.” The rough words leak from Kaz’s lips, voice faint and faraway. If I could cry now I would, remembering the meaning of those words that Inej had told me just days ago. We would repeat nothing now. No more harm. To ourselves or others. This is our repentance. Our forgiveness.

Kaz is close to me, for I can feel the warmth of his body and the slick of his blood as it mixes with mine and stains the concrete.

If someone told me nine years ago, when I buried that cat and found my mother buried instead, that this is where I would end up, I wonder how differently my life would have been. I wonder if I would have chosen a different path. One full of forgiveness and happiness. The one of creation instead of crime. Instead of revenge and retribution. The weight of those decisions hang over me like a cloak, protecting and exposing me at the same time. Using the last bits of my strength, I turn my head to the side to look at him.

Kaz is on his back beside me, so close that I can reach out and touch him. Touch his hand that is limp with resignation, his side that is red with blood, his lips that are white with death. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Even as a small line of blood trickles from the corner of his lips and pings onto the stones. I let my eyes close, pretending the stars behind my eyelids belong to the sky and not to the Grim Reaper. Pretending the stars are his eyes.

We’ve all had hard lives. We’ve all taken on assignments that were too big for us. We’ve all done things we regretted and we all leaned on each other too much for our own good while leaning on no one at all. We all let the ghosts of our pasts haunt us into our future. Especially Kaz. And that’s the problem with trusting ghosts, in the end you become one.

You become transparent, empty, without an echo.

“No mourners.” I manage to mumble into the night.

“No funerals.” A disembodied voice murmurs back, but I’m not sure who it belongs to.

And then there is nothing but darkness.

---

~Admin Eggplant

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btchcrft · 4 years ago

Photo

𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑

weeks have turned to months and your journey to olympus, your acceptance of your life as a demigod, has lead up to this moment. it’s been brutal, wrought with pain and close calls, thick with loss, but you’ve endured. as you begin to get ready to sleep, winding down for the night, something inside of you feels different. there’s a strength that grows that you only dimly knew was there before. you feel stronger, faster, more attuned to your senses and your own inner power. if you ever doubted that you might have divine blood in your veins before, now, more than ever, you feel it.

as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall fast asleep, exhausted from the events that have lead up to this point. who knows however long later, you “awaken”. you’re not where you fell asleep, nothing is as it was when you slept. you have to blink a few times but you realize that you’re in a place that seems familiar to you. describe this place? what does it look like, sound like, smell like?

eyes blink open and i already know where i am. it's the scent of paint, of fresh canvases that line the walls, piled in corners. there's a plush, grey rug beneath my bare feet and, a few feet from it is an area that's sectioned off from the small sitting room of my studio in los angeles. it's the one place that i always came to work, where i felt like i could release everything i've been holding in and no one would judge, no one would tell me i'm overreacting or not being true to myself.

this is home away from home; sanctuary.

there's a large canvas on an easel that's blank, four by four. it's what i was going to work on before having to leave. mixed in with the scent of fresh paint is the salty sea air that breezes in through the large windows that give plenty of natural light. the sun is high in the sky, which is strange since it's winter back in my new home, but this is comfortable, familiar. the furniture is still where i left it. two large, comfortable chairs, the end table with art magazines, the espresso machine on the small kitchenette behind it. a smile dances across my lips and the tension in my shoulders eases.

dust motes dance in the los angeles sunlight like flecks of gold and the air smells of a mix between brine and paint that has yet to cure. it’s a sharp yet oddly comforting scent to you, familiar, soothing. you recognize this place as a rough-and-ready altar that is – for once – not devoted to your mother or any other deity, only you.

you look around and something upon the once-blank canvas catches your eye. is it blank? it doesn’t look to be, for shapes seem to dance in its ivory depths now, alit with silvery traces that look to be forming a face or an arm or an eye, but it’s all too vague, having no true form until they come out from the canvas as if born from it.

what does this figure look like to you, and how does your heart respond? are they familiar or not?

this place was always magical to me and now i bring magic to it. my eyes focus on the paint that almost drips onto the floor. brush strokes in muted colors begin to leak from the stark canvas. i don’t recognize this as one of my own creation but as i look at it, it shifts.

slowly, as if the paint dries into a solid form, is a large leather bound tome, like the ones in the mageia library. dark brown leather, golden latches and corner pieces, with runes along the spine.

i’m about to reach for it when the canvas begins to drip once more and another figure emerges from it and leaps onto the floating book.

a lilac mittens ragdoll kitten sits atop the book, blue eyes starring at me. the same cat i was about to adopt before the acolytes scooped me up into this new world. my heart hurts, and guilt washes over my expression. i had wanted her so badly back then. a companion, something to come home to.

the leather-bound tome is spitted out of the canvas’ mouth but instead of falling, it only floats slowly towards you. time feels sluggish around everything in the room with the dust motes now suspended in the air, the curtains now undulating slowly. the exception to this phenomenon, though, is the lilac cat that nimbly hops on top of the book and balances itself upon its thick rim. it licks its soft paw, then rests its blue-eyed gaze upon you. for a few moments, the quiet appraisal is the only thing it does.

“i’ve been waiting for this moment, son of witchcraft,” finally, it speaks and the voice stands out, “i've been waiting for you.” is it familiar, or unfamiliar? is it a kitten’s purr, or something else entirely? how does it make you feel?

my hand moves away from the cat instinctively, almost like a flinch. if there's one thing that i've learned it's that touching things that pique my interest might get me killed.

and then it speaks.

at first, i'm baffled and then i remember everything else that's gone on in my life recently. the monsters, the magic, the might. talking animals—after seeing satyrs and nymphs—shouldn't be out of the realm of possibility.

the voice is female with a slight feline inflection. there's an underlying purr in the words, a comfortability that shouldn't be there between strangers. it soothes the aches in my joints and my chest, makes me feel like i'm truly back home once more.

"waiting for me?" i rebuttal, eyebrow arched. "why?"

waiting for me? why?

the moment you ask the question, the words seem to have a rippling effect on your surroundings, like a spoken incantation, making the entire room shudder with a silvery sheen. but, somewhere deep within you, there’s a certainty that this isn’t an illusion born out of sinister magic, but something else entirely—an echo turning to a real sound, a remnant becoming a whole once more.

the cat’s eyes gleam then and it walks along the book’s rim, relaxed. the tome is opening now and you watch as ink spills across its brown surface, drawing shapes again as the canvas did before. not shapes, no, you suddenly realize, but runes. they are sigils that you can read, language gravid with ancient power.

“what type of runes are these?” the kitten mews.

the book opens and my eyes stay transfixed on it. each slide of paint, almost like calligraphy, is mesmerizing to me. i can feel each phantom movement in my fingertip. the kitten's question makes my head lilt to the side and my eyes focus on the runes that are forming, ancient sigils that are made easier for me to understand.

"power." i say, confidently. "a means of amplification." i know this because it reminds me of the runes on the inside of the bracelet around my wrist, the same power that courses through me that needs a channel to unleash like a wild fire through dry brush. i reach out and stroke the edges of the book, feeling the power of the runes beneath the pad of my fingertip.

i want it engraved in my bones, tattooed on my body. i think to myself, i never want to feel powerless again.

power, you chant and the rooms shudders again. but this time, it doesn’t halt.

the incantation is spoken, the spell thoroughly read, for the runes from the tome emerge in one swift movement and begin dancing around you like the spirits you summon. the edges of the room, you can see, also start to dissolve into wisps of smoke, swirling in the air around you with a hypnotic rhythm.

amid this occurrence, the lilac ragdoll cats begins to float and swells in size. it is amplification as you’ve wished it, a spark becoming a fire, becoming an inferno. the cat’s limbs dissolve too, as if it has been made of smoke this entire time, and you see that both you and it are glowing the same hue. you are both two supernovas on the verge of explosion. you sense that it has your magic, it has your power, but a much, much stronger form of it.

what color is your magic, and how does it make you feel?

how does your magic behave?

the light begins to glow, begins to leak into the air like dripping liquid until it falls to pieces like the remnants of dried paint rubbed between fingertips. the lilac ragdoll grows and grows, amplifies, like the rune itself took hold, took shape, took motion.

i look down at my hands and my magic is back—not as weak as it had felt when facing nyx and eris' monster, not weak as it had been when i had been foolish and allowed my curiosity to get the best of me, allowing something to take parts of me to make it stronger; no, this was my strength at full capacity. crackling wisps of energy weave between my fingers, black and gold, almost amber, like ribbons that thread themselves seamlessly around my wrists.

this feels...foreign, almost. there's a power to it that i can almost taste, delicious, dangerous, seductive. it washes over me, fills me to the brim. this is what ecstasy feels like. this is what divinity must feel like. i feel alive, i feel powerful, i feel like a natural disaster being harnessed between flesh and bones.

it feels like it wants to burn the world down, summon storms, create chaos, but underneath it, like a mischievous feline, is a calmness that allows me to think, to pause. it waits for me to beckon for it before it waxes and wans, occasionally acting on its own accord. but it behaves like it might be mine, and not something borrowed, not something uncontrollable.

for the first time since arriving at camp, i feel like my magic wants to belong.

as one thought after another flits through your head, the cat’s fur mirrors every single one, turning to a fiery black pelt that trails golden smoke, becoming embedded with cracks of black-tinged lightning, taking on a writhing surface of gold and black. your magic runs wildly as ribbons and scatters everywhere in reckless abandon. it’s chaos, it’s power, and it’s rampant, untamed, feral, until you will it to be otherwise.

until you make it belong inside you.

now, the ragdoll cat’s fur is a mass of dark, wispy smoke, but its eyes are so unbelievably golden like they are coins enchanted to glow in the dark. its size is that of a bear now, looming over you. you are not in your studio apartment anymore, but you don’t seem to be in anywhere recognizable either, the world around you a curious blank.

“interesting,” the cat purrs, with what seems to be a bemused laugh lurking underneath each word. when it prowls ahead, it has the leisure of a ghost and, of course, the grace of a cat. “so instead of letting your power run wild, you wish to harness it and make it yours.” golden eyes land on you. “show me more, son of witchcraft – paint for me what you desire.”

as the words trail, the world around you spasms and dances. the calligraphy lines from before spiderwebs from beneath you and you are certain that they want you to paint – want you to draw a world that belongs only to you.

paint what i desire.

under any normal circumstance, this would be easy. this would be just another piece i hang in a gallery, allow someone else to buy, allow them to take a piece of my future home with them.

i look down at my hands and i clench my fingers into a fist, dig my nails against my palm, inhale and exhale. i close my eyes, allowing my magic to coil within me, allow it to purr like a cat and strike like a viper.

and then i begin to mold the world as i see fit.

paint what i desire.

there is a mountain that looks like divinity atop it, a radiant glow that can be see like the stars in the night sky, like the moon that hangs above. the painting moves, shifts, strokes of paint trail away to unravel and become something more. it is their camp, their home, but it is much different—fit for the gods, not their children. marble thrones, marble statues, carved into their likeness, altars and offering bowls at their feet. each statue looks draped in traditional greek god attire—white robes, golden belts, laurel wreathes atop their heads.

then there is me, in the middle, amongst them all.

paint what i desire.

divinity, godlihood—not half measures—a new era, a new god of witchcraft, a new king of olympus.

paint what i desire.

ambition made truth. deepest, darkest desires laid bare. unspoken words turned to canvas; a secret never uttered aloud.

the calligraphy lines unfurl and writs as you will them too and paint spills in colors of your choosing. after everything cures, the sight you’re greeted with is grandiose, your own marble face staring down at you from the pantheon of gods. it’s a dream, but you also feel that it can be real, that you can make it real.

languidly, the cat paddles through the air and floats above head of the statue that bears your likeness in stone. it has a cheshire grin on its face now. “good,” the words are a purr, an agreement. “so you wish to remake the world in your own image.”

slowly, the cat swells again until it’s as large as a temple, a colossal thing. its golden eyes glint when it stares down at you, but you don’t feel any sort of fear. it’s like looking into a mirror, a reflection of yourself.

“this will not come easy, little weaver,” it speaks and the words are a deep rumble in your chest. “magic always has a cost, and the path ahead you is full of dangers. are you ready to accept your power, and the challenges it will inevitably bring your way, remaker? are you ready to bear the heft of witchcraft?”

i look at the statue that stares down at me and my gaze moves to the cat.

"not in my own image, but better than it is now, better than it could be." i wave my hand through the air and the image stays as is, framed. "change needs to happen and i want to bring it."

i wonder, for a moment, if this is what eris thinks, too.

i nod my head, the black and amber-gold of my magic trails up my arms until it dissipates, returning to normal. "since i said yes to my birthright there's been danger. i've almost died. i've been captured, i've been face to face with the goddess of chaos." he smirks. "but i am chaos. magic is chaos. and she won't control me or anyone else."

i close my eyes. "heavy is the crown and all that bullshit. i am magic. i can bear it."

“and your mother is the goddess of magic, of cross-roads, and all arcane mysteries,” it laughs and the sound echoes in your bones. “when danger comes, we’ll simply have to show them who’s more dangerous, won’t we?” the cat’s smoky body begins to swirl then and you can see its arm outstretch, pointing one gigantic claw at you, wispy near the tip like the specters that you summon. “paint runs out, little weaver, but magic never truly does.”

the single claw is beckoning, asking you to touch it.

i outstretch my finger toward the claw and, right before i press tip to tip, say:

"not even in death."

the instant your finger touches the claw, you feel all of it pour into you, the cat, the world you’d created, and the magic, as wisps of gold slither down the fingertip and into your mouth and your eyes. it’s all-encompassing, it’s dangerous, and but it’s also so incredibly righteous. this is your birthright and every inch of you accepts it.

then, you fall, stumbling through the dream, only to wake up on your bed. the moonlight is cool against your skin, and nothing rustles in your room. was it only a dream? was it only a trick of your mind? as you begin to wonder, you notice amber lines shimmer faintly under your skin and draw what can only be a half-finished rune.

#psyche #kian prieto #path of the arcane weaver #thank you luke!!!

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ddaenghoney · 5 years ago

Text

chapter thirteen

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): lot of manipulative aspects in conversation.

Word count: 5133

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

Jimin finds himself contemplative. Standing motionless outside of the elevator, he looks on at the button to call for it still unlit due to his lack of movement. He’s supposed to hit the downwards facing arrow, earlier intending to work on choreography before the instructor arrived to work on finalization and moving on to the next song’s dance. But he doesn’t click the button, finding himself uncertain if he wanted to do that or follow the teeming sensation in his head to hit the button that would send him upwards.

He sighs, shaking his head and thinking about the ridiculousness of him just standing there. Rather than mull around in his thoughts it’d be more useful to do practically anything else, so he impulsively reaches to click a button. Stepping back, Jimin rubs his jaw, eyes glancing back down the hallway towards Yoongi’s studio.

For a second your simple sentence registers in his ears. A thanking comment that you didn’t have to say, especially considering how lackluster his involvement really was in the situation. Yoongi did more for you, and, had Jimin not spoken up in the midst of his annoyance overflowing out of his mouth, Yoongi likely would’ve said more. He clearly wanted that producer to stop being disrespectful to you.

Jimin falters at the memory, hand trailing to mess around with his hair as he thinks about your avoidance from the area by entrance into Yoongi’s studio. Not having to ask permission, it was simply granted to you, where it’s commonly understood by the majority of employees in the company that Yoongi hasn’t simply become comfortable with everyone to act like that. While he’s definitely polite and civil, there’s undoubtedly a line between himself and the original employees of SoundWave. Meanwhile, you’re an exception to the fact.

He bites his lip, attempting to silence the jealousy that he doesn’t have a right to feel strongly about anymore. Jimin made the choice to create a rift between the two of you, and there’s no sense in him trying to find away back across it anymore. The gap is too foundationally damaged with nothing in sight to fix its stability in a long-lasting way.

He enters the elevator, thoughtlessly clicking a floor number as he steps away from the couple of people also inside. Watching the stories climb, he tries to think about the future comeback he’s working on. There’s still much to record, but with the title track completed and choreography being mastered for it, Jimin finds the date of release running towards him at a speedy pace.

Another album to drop without his creative input poured into it in the way that you and other producers have worked so hard for him and every other artist. His name next to tracks, on the album cover, face in advertisement, and nothing in his heart to solidify the bond between himself and the music. The thought didn’t occur to him so strongly before, but now that he doesn’t see your happiness in showing him songs you’ve created, he can’t find anything exciting about the prospect of release.

Jimin can’t watch you pour emotion onto paper, or listen to the untamed ramblings of you passionately explaining songs given to other artists. He has to corrupt your meaning to come up with his own, behind lyrics he would have never written himself. He wants to scream onto pages with ink in the way you have. The scribbles in notebooks at his apartment and lines saved into his phone’s notes cling to the hope of further work, but wear away in abandonment. They aren’t enough.

Jimin steps out of the elevator, head bowing as Yerin’s secretary notices him. The button he pressed dragged him upwards in another attempt. Like his last visit, Jimin is unannounced, causing the lady greeting him to smile with apprehension of what he wanted. He could’ve succumbed and hid away in the lower basement levels where the dance studios are, but he’s on the top of the building again.

“Is she in?”

It takes a hesitant affirmative and a few more slowly spoken sentences for Jimin to be left standing in front of the secretary’s desk as she pages into the office. He didn’t have a reason to come up here this time. About a week earlier he had the faintest plan of asking permission to work with a producer on a small independent whim. Now he walks into the CEO office without a plan at all, uncertain of what he actually wants if he gives himself a moment to be honest with himself.

“Jimin,” Yerin greets the unassuming man as he carefully shuts the door behind him. Her eyes remain fixed on her computer as she types quickly, eyes unhindered by his presence. “Take a seat, this won’t take me long.”

Jimin does as she says, forgetting to nod his head as a response. He considers the implication of him coming here again so soon, wondering why he felt so impulsively moved to go and speak to Yerin again. The clutter of his head feels entirely unprocessed, but he thinks of you.

Recalling the hurt in your expression when he told you that he can’t accept what you wanted changed in your contract, Jimin sits with his hands meshed together, silently thinking about how he found himself so afraid to tell you that.

He knew completely that you wouldn’t be able to accept him staying beside you with an opposing perspective, because Jimin knows that despite all the crap that SoundWave gives you that you still understand the worth of what you do underneath all of your own insecurity of how to go about getting what you want. He didn’t want to lose you, but in agreement he’d lose everything he had worked for. However, the fact is that in so many ways what Jimin has was built for him. Jimin bites his lip, thinking that beside his own selfishness, he should’ve supported you.

The news of your leave comes to the forefront of Jimin’s mind. Rumors similar to the producer’s indignant comments swarmed the halls since the day of, but all cleared in front of him by your defiant statement that you quit. Splitting from the path you were on to start creating your own, you gave the greatest shock to the company. Even the tiny inklings shoved into the bottom of Jimin’s conscious, didn’t think you’d ever go this far when nothing outside of your choice is clear.

“Now then.” Yerin stops typing, shifting her chair to face Jimin directly as his eyes lift up to her. The person you overcame despite her chilling methodologies keeping the company arranged in perfect order. “What brings you here?”

“Y/N’s quitting.” Jimin’s voice speaks as small as he feels compared to Yerin and you. Obviously she knows this, and it isn’t something he should come from out of nowhere to restate unless looking for an argument, but his head didn’t consider words. Just the fact that there’s a crack where fingertips can reach through layers of deceptively bright veiling curtains.

The very corner of Yerin’s lip slides into a frown, the hand on her desk curling into an arch as the random sentence remains in the air without an addition. She notes an absence of apprehension in Jimin’s eyes as he stares back at her in the way one does after a realization. “She decided not to continue with the company, that’s correct.”

An evident erasure of any spite is removed from her tone, but not the gleam in Yerin’s eyes that Jimin sees through. Knowing she’s already irritated from your situation-- from losing control in the largest hidden piece to SoundWave. She’s good at hiding it to remain mostly poised.

“This means things are going to change.” Knowingly said. Not an observation, a promise. Jimin doesn’t smile, but his expression appears to be uplifted. Yerin’s hand curls more, fingers colliding with her palm, trying to find clairvoyance to study him, but his reaction is opposite of anything she expected to hear from Jimin concerning your leave.

“You’re not upset.” Yerin finds herself speaking the oddness aloud, not realizing so until she closes her mouth following the sentence. Appearing like a dissimilar person to the one she knows, Jimin pauses only for a moment, before air escapes his mouth in the smallest of laughs. Surprised as well.

“I know how much everything here rides on her.” He says, eyes casting down in consideration of everything you’ve accomplished for SoundWave. A gentle smile slips onto his expression, “I’ve been terrified of her getting sick of the crap she gets here.” He doesn’t miss a beat to rephrase himself, just sitting back into his seat while Yerin’s eyes follow his movements through a hardened gaze.

“Because you would never stop telling me how I’d never make it without her doing everything in the background. For years now that’s the only stance you’ve had, no matter how much I expressed how willing I was to do things for myself. It’s just always been you telling me no. That I’m not good enough-- that it’s not worth the risk.”

“It isn’t.” Yerin speaks up, sighing to refrain from clicking her tongue. She rolls her shoulders to sit up properly, speaking fluidly and without tact, “Your purpose here is for singing, dancing-- being the face of the Jimin persona the public want. Your artistry as a producer of any kind isn’t fruitful to take a risk in when you weigh it against people with endowed talent like Y/N and other producers in the company. This isn’t just about you Jimin. At the end of the day, what sells is more important than your desire to try your hand at songwriting.”

“She’s leaving.” Jimin says, words exiting his mouth with an audible grain of discontentment, that alters into rising frustration, “You’ve made it so she has nothing if she were to quit and she still has. You can’t rely on her to keep everything here functioning like it has-- it would only make sense that you change how things are handled and give the artists--” Jimin straightens from his chair, shoulders stiffening as he practically pleads through biting words, “Give me an opportunity to actually do what everyone out there thinks I do.”

Jimin remains still, watching for any reaction of his words, but Yerin only stares in a calmly pensive manner. No irritation of his outspoken demands, not even shock from his voice’s unintentional rise in volume from his emotions. Jimin keeps himself from faltering, thinking its best to remain firm no matter how long she appears to consider his words in silence.

“This isn’t entirely my decision to have the artists from creating their own music. It’s the board’s collective agreement to produce whatever will sell best from experience.” Cool words ease into the room, her fist uncurling so that her index finger can tap the quietest of beats against her desk. Yerin examines Jimin, finding him absent of a response yet. She shrugs a shoulder once, “To be completely honest with you, I’d rather go back to make a new deal with Y/N than give every artist a sudden opportunity at self-production, but she’s set in her ways.”

“She deserves better than what she gets here.” Jimin speaks without hesitation, though a piece of his mind becomes inquisitive as a faint smirk grows on Yerin’s face.

“And you don’t? Your contract ends at the end of the year.” She says, voice more sly than Jimin has ever heard. “Why not just leave at the end of it too?”

Jimin’s eyebrows crease in surprise, staying quiet while he tries to consider what she means. He catches the sound of his heart once and then it stays in his ears, feeling as though he’s done something wrong. He hadn’t considered his disposability. But that’s a factor isn’t it, one that should’ve crossed his mind, and maybe in a normal train of thought it would’ve. In other situations maybe he’s had the warning in the back of his mind that they could simply get rid of him since he’s replaceable. Replaceable. The word repeats with his heart, making Jimin bite on his inner cheek.

“You’re a liability to other companies.” Yerin leans her chin against her hand, watching him boredly. Her expression different from calm, similar to apathetic instead. “Your career is what it is because of how you’ve been marketed, conceptualized, created-- all synthetic.” Her finger continues a tap that’s out of beat from the way Jimin feels his heart, out of sync, creating a disarrayed ambiance. “You aren’t anything without what we make for you, Jimin.”

Her words send Jimin’s memories back, to every other instance of conversation with her privately for the past five years. The insinuations varying in how opaquely they’re depicted, but also equating to the strings attached to his performances on stage. How crafted his public persona is. Yerin’s reminders that he’s the face alone, and all else is because of collaborated work behind the scenes. Telling him again and again, if Y/N leaves his career could shatter right along with it.

“Just because Y/N leaves doesn’t mean we can alter the entirety of how the company operates. That’s like asking for public scrutiny.” She exhales, rolling her shoulders again in a relaxed manner. Jimin’s eyes don’t leave her, too frozen like suffocation. “Maybe if you left together with her, you could’ve made something, but from the looks of things that’s not something I need to be concerned about, or else you would’ve submitted resignation the same day she did.”

Jimin wonders how you were able to walk off without anyone. Under Yerin’s gaze and the tangling of her words, Jimin feels no freer than usual. Then he realizes that what she says is valid. You’re the one with talent. Yerin knows he can’t leave on his own because of that. Nothing on his own, Jimin is just what they’ve made. Like Yerin has always told him.

Making him align with the company’s perspective to keep your desires subdued. Tricked perhaps, but it’s true that a collapse without you is possible. An engrained thought.

Jimin sits back in the chair, eyes glancing from her to a random point in space in front of his legs. There’s no tension in his body, but he feels as though he’s lost.

---

You stretch your legs, sock-clad feet lying atop the opposite armrest. Staring up towards the ceiling, you let a song play through your ears for the fifth time in a row, while your fingers tap softly along to the beat where they rest on the pillow you clutch against your stomach. The airpods aren’t soundproof like the headphones Yoongi uses when editing, so the typing of his fingers on the computer keyboard ring in the back of your mind. You barely notice when the monotonous sound breeches your concentration on the finalized version of the first song you worked on with him, but you find difficulty in ignoring when he starts typing again after abrupt pauses to take curious glances back in your direction.

“You know, I’m not really upset about that producer--he’s always been like that about my job.” You say plainly, unlocking your phone to pause the song, realizing that the comment would result as it does in Yoongi spinning halfway on his chair to better face you. “I kind of figured people would start rumors anyways.”

“Then maybe I’m more annoyed with that guy than you are.” A tiny sheepish curl begins at the corners of his lips, prompting an endeared smile on your own expression as you eventually shrug. “When did you start hearing the conversation?”

“About whenever he called out to Jimin.” You sit upwards on the couch, tossing the small pillow to the table and pulling your legs up to your chest so your chin can situate on your knees. “I thought he was going to notice me, but he looked in the other direction.” A small scoff escapes your lips sounding like a bitter amusement in Yoongi’s ears. Yoongi’s head nods slightly as he stands up to his feet, strolling to sit on the couch where your legs had occupied prior. “You sounded mad-- I would’ve been scared if I was him.”

Yoongi sighs at the memory of his tone, covering his slightly embarrassed smile with his hand as he rubs his face, sinking further back into the couch. You giggle at his reaction, lightly bumping the tip of your foot against his thigh to tease him. “Who wouldn’t? What a way to get information-- trying to get it through me,” He mumbles his words with his bottom lip prominently poking with his words, “In the first place I wasn’t going to let him say whatever about you anyways. Especially not go around saying you got fired.”

“Yeah,” Your eyes glow happily like your expression as you watch him talk. Yoongi shrugs, crossing his arms to keep himself quiet at risk of sounding silly. “Thank you, Yoon. It made me happy to hear you defend me like that, honestly.” You bite your lip to refrain from more laughter as he just shrugs again and purses his lips together in a muted satisfied smile. “Really I am!” You go on thinking his shy disposition is cute, but Yoongi only nods, mumbling in a joking way,

“Yeah, such a genuine way to thank someone.” He knows you’re speaking with sincerity, but he teases in return just concluding that you may try again with a higher-pitched voice to get him to believe you. Yoongi’s head turns to you as you shift on the couch, curiously raising an eyebrow as you simply crawl the pace to him and tug him into a hug,

“Thank you,” The final syllable trails on in a whine, as Yoongi laughs outright in response to your attempt to get him to stop pouting. His arm as well goes to wrap around your waist, unintentionally nudging you beneath the curve of your side prompting you to suddenly jerk. Pulling him back with you, Yoongi’s upper body lands on yours as you make a squeak of shock from being tickling and fall backwards onto the couch. “Don’t tickle me; I’m trying to be nice and thank you.”

“Accident,” He chuckles, adjusting himself into a less awkward angle as your hugging arms around his ribcage tighten warningly as though you attempt to get revenge. “What are you trying to do; wrestle me to apologize, angel?” Yoongi laughs, listening to your abrupt voice dismissing the idea sheepishly. “If we’re trying to replay the nap from the other day then maybe I should set an alarm since you fell asleep instead of waking me up.”

“How dare you call me out.” You can’t help but grin in embarrassment as he laughs, both recalling the hour nap that ran closer to three. “You made me fall asleep too.” Helpless mumbling excuses leave your lips, while Yoongi makes a disapproving whine at the passing of blame. “Also, how come you get to lie on me again? What if I want a pillow?”

“You threw the pillow onto the table.” He says bluntly, flicking his chin in the direction, as his waist wiggles to break free of the hug. You let out a single laugh, having forgotten that fact entirely and feel silly about his reminder. “But fine, since you’re complaining,” Yoongi’s voice trails off, simply taking a grip on either of your shoulders to bring you along with him as he lays his head on the opposite armrest.

Catching up with the altered positions, you feel a blush creeping along your cheeks while Yoongi’s arms lazily encompass your waist, leaving your face hidden from his sight as you situates against his chest. Biting your lip, you try not to think too much about the placement of your hands, but are at a loss of knowing where to put them. As your ears catch the faint melody of his heartbeat, you feel able to relax just the same with the weight of your forearms flattening also on his torso.

“Comfy?” The faint coarseness of Yoongi’s voice sounds mostly relaxed and gentle, but the questioning tone is genuine. You think even a little nervous that he did something wrong, but your head properly nestling against him relieves most of that worry. Evaporating it in entirely as your voice trickles peacefully,

“Yeah, very.” You don’t think he’s serious about taking a nap, considering the later hour of the afternoon and that you both would likely leave for the day soon. Nonetheless, not an ounce of energy in your body gives you the idea of scooting away from him. Too relaxed with in the warmth of Yoongi’s arms and gentle sway of your head rising and lowering from his even breaths, you lie enjoying the moment. Your hands twitch in little movements as indecision in your head goes back and forth, but eventually you ease them around Yoongi’s waist as well. Satisfied with the action as he shifts up only enough for you to hug onto him as he is to you.

“Maybe it’s not something for me to say, but I’m really proud of you for talking back to that guy, angel.” Yoongi admits softly, glancing as you wiggle a little and squeeze your arms tighter around him. Stifling any chuckling, he sees the faintest of rose decorating your complexation, and rubs his hands along your back, smiling as he questions, “What? You were cool.”

“Stop,” You laugh slightly, then sigh, “I was just annoyed. I don’t know.” Your cheek presses against Yoongi as you reconsider your actions, “I didn’t really feel scared or anything though… It felt kind of easy to speak-- defend myself, actually.”

“That’s good.” Yoongi smiles, letting his neck relax so his eyes can find the ceiling while he goes on, “I think you’re a strong person. Even if things are hard for you, you still do what’s best for yourself.”

“Whatever that is.” You mumble, not intending to discredit Yoongi’s words, because they really made you feel better about it all. Still you can’t help wonder about the future when the present seems so mixed up.

“Things will work out.” He replies simply, knowing it’s not a secure comfort. They’re ultimately just words with only what Yoongi knows about you to make up their validity, but in some ways he believes the simpleness is closer to what you would like to hear. Rather than dedicate paragraphs to idealistic scenarios, he supports you in a genuine sentiment enshrouded with the security of holding you in his arms.

Though there are ways for him to help you in a more pressing way. The idea of it is practically rebellious to the structure of his public persona, but the care of it bothers him less in the moment than it did when he rambled his worries to Hoseok. At the forefront of his mind is your situation, but also all of the potential associated with the idea. The small piece of it that could work for both of you even.

“I was thinking a lot lately,” Yoongi draws out the sentence, hesitant of the words due to their likelihood to change the temperment of the moment. But the rumor of you getting fired plays through his head, as well as the other instances of unfair treatment you’ve received. How you’re willing to leave with nothing. You hum for him to continue, your body completely lazed into his own. “If you want to, I want to release those songs we made together.”

There’s a beat of quiet, then you’re breeching away to support yourself on your arms. Looking down at Yoongi in an incredulous calm, your eyes narrow thinking you didn’t hear him correctly. He can’t help but smile up at you, finding your bewildered small frown endearing, but says again, easier now that it’s been said once, “I want to release them. Independently from my brand; just as Yoongi. With your name there too.”

“You’ll,” You stutter, still thrown off from the prospect, and the air in your throat hitching because of mention at your name being put beside something you’ve worked on. “You’ll get in trouble though, Yoon. I don’t want you to get in trouble for me.” You frown, wishing that you could say yes as instantaneously as he probably hoped for you to.

Yoongi’s undeterred by your response, hands running tiny slow streams along your back still to give a moment of calm. “I’ve released stuff independently before, angel. They don’t mind.”

“But they will if my name’s in there.” You swallow thickly, frown growing into more worry as your eyes deflect from his as you think of reprimand that would come his way undoubtedly.

“You’re not renewing your contract. They can’t stop you from doing what you want.” He strays a hand from your back to find your cheek, gently coaxing you to look back towards his eyes. Yoongi notices the evident spike of worry for his career, finding it similar to what he thought of his own career when Hoseok was going through his scandal. Then unwilling to help because of the risk. “Frankly, I don’t really care anymore if this company wants to get mad at me. My last one already stopped me from helping one friend when I could’ve, and I’m not going to let this one do it again.”

For a second you think that Yoongi’s desire to help you out is your fault for always bring your troubles into his life. That you’ve made him feel obligated. But you realize you’ve never indicated that you wanted to release the music. You didn’t join in collaboration with him under the pretense that you could find a way to drop the music into the public-- it was just his offer to give you an outlet when you originally were sad. But it became three songs before either of you realized. Never a discussion of release, and you didn’t expect anything because of a predisposed view you’ve grown used to.

“I want to.” Yoongi tells you softly, his eyes inspecting your expression as you feel a shift from worry into something different. He watches the space below your eyes, thumb brushing along your cheek to collect a tiny tear, and he notices your jaw appears to be clenched like you’re holding back. A faint smile drifts onto his face, “Do you?”

“I,” You try to speak, only becoming conscious of the tears Yoongi’s already aware of when they drip away because of your speech. An obscure mixture of anticipation fights with pessimism about his idea. “I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to say yes.”

“You can if you want.” Yoongi says, brushing away more of the conflicted tears and catching you against his chest when you huddle back against him. “You don’t have to right now, either though. Just know that if you decide you want to release them, we can.”

“Even if it’ll get you in trouble though, Yoon?” You mumble in a more tamed worry, shifting in belief that maybe you could take a hold of this option that he’s willing extending you.

“Yeah, sweetie. I don’t mind that.” He listens to you groan against his chest, but just rubs your back to soothe any worries. His shoulders startle stiff when you lift your head up once more to look him in the eyes,

“You’re insane. You’re too nice, Yoongi.” Your voice is high like when you tease him or ramble about things you’re surprised about. He just shrugs, head tilting and only offering a smile in return. “You,” Frowning towards him, you wonder shortly why he always has to witness tears escaping your eyes to the point that you can’t even find yourself embarrassed about it. “You make me so happy.”

The shift in your voice to a small whisper leaves Yoongi quiet. Given the context of the conversation the admission is a bit nonsensical, only serving to create flurries in his ribcage. An earlier thought of hoseok’s words replay in his heads about Yoongi being fond of you, and it leaves him a little stunned in reaction to how you appear in his eyes. Yoongi opens his mouth a little to speak but finds no words coming out, silenced further by your curling smile.

“You know that you don’t have to feel like you need to help me, right?” You speak as through searching for doubt, but Yoongi instantly shakes his head. Curtly responding,

“I don’t. I help you because I want to.” More than that, but his mind doesn’t catch a particular word as he watches you rub your eyes from the previous evidence of surprise about his idea. His hands slide from a hug, settling to gently hold onto the sides of your waist, finding himself struck by enamor as you softly laugh.

“I wonder why-”

“I care about you.” Yoongi maintains eye contact as he blurts into your sentence, remaining serene like voice as you drop your hands from your face back to his chest. Looking down you take a moment to consider the intention of his words, unable to ignore the fervent tone despite his low voice. “We’ve gotten really close this year; why wouldn’t I want to help you?”

“Because I act like I need it every other second,” You murmur mostly teasing to which Yoongi rolls his eyes. Not having that thought for even a second. You giggle, reaching your hand to play with his hair and soothe his suddenly sour expression at your joke. “You mean it about wanting to release the songs?”

“Yes.” He nods, humored by the way you stare at him to search for even a hint that he’s unsure.

“You really mean it-”

“Angel,” He sighs, smiling at the singsong voice you ask again with. Squeezing your waist, Yoongi nods his head, “I thought about it a lot before today. I mean it.”

Your lips purse into a line. Knowing full well that Yerin would be angry the second those songs are sent out, you’re still hesitant. Granted the spiteful part of you finds the prospect of irritating her amusing, but not at all at the expense of Yoongi’s reputation within the company or otherwise. But if he’s the one presenting the idea, stating over and over again that he’s okay with it, you’re inclined to acknowledge that he knows what the idea could mean for him. And he’s still willing to do it.

“Okay, then.” Your heart thrums at Yoongi’s eyes widening slightly from your approval, but the quickly expanding smile on his face is hopeful so you succumb to a mirroring it. “Let’s release them.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know via ask, comment, rb with tags– however ! i’d just really appreciate feedback 🥺 i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire @tsvkino-usagi@xionysus @baebyjoonie @honeyoongles

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animationandmup · 4 years ago

Photo

Teaser image for Dex and the Humanimals, a 2D animated series from Canadian studio Epic Storyworlds.

Trouble is brewing in Greenlandis, a timeless high-tech world where human-animal hybrids called “Humanimals” have been living in harmony for centuries. Driven by an unquenchable thirst for power, a cold and calculating Cyborg named Kaz is now building an unstoppable army of Cybornimals to extend the tentacles of her evil organization over the entire Humanimal world, threatening its very existence. In her quest to subjugate the untameable Sector 11 of Greenlandis and dominate the world, Kaz created the perfect weapon; a Cyborg with optimized strands of Humanimal DNA who presents as a human boy. Invested with extraordinary mutation powers and an independent wild streak, this infinitely powerful creation has become her own worst enemy. Meet Dex!

#dex and the humanimals #2d #tv series #animation #animation news #canada

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iameverything · 5 years ago

Text

A Conversation: Lost Under Heaven

“The Manchester duo Lost Under Heaven, or LUH, have never been keen on subtlety. Super-sized in every dimension, the music of former WU LYF leader Ellery Roberts and visual artist Ebony Hoorn sought grand answers about love and mortality by way of drastic melodies.”

First off, for people who dont know, who is Lost Under Heaven? Ebony Hoorn & Ellery James Roberts Collaborative life work.

The first time I heard of you guys was 'I&I' on the HBO show Ballers and I was hooked. I originally thought of bands like July Talk etc, where the voice coming from the person is a surprise, in a very fascinating and amazing way. Was there a moment you can remember when you (Ellery Roberts) realized you had such a unique voice? When I was young I found a cathartic uplift in singing as hard as I could, usually in response to the noise of the rest of what ever teenage band I was playing with, since then I’ve learned to control it, focus it, People always tell me my voice is unique, it’s just how it comes out, but these days I am singing quite differently, working on a softer croon. I have nothing to shout about anymore.

In regards to the previous question, whats it like to get your music featured on HBO Ballers and even Netflix 13 Reasons Why, among other content? How surreal is that? Its always strange to see a song that has quite specific meaning or ambiance to you, put in a totally different context, but that is also the beauty of creation, once you release something you never know what it may go on to inspire.

With how unique Ellery's voice is and than to be accompanied by the other beautiful voice that is Ebony, I am surprised your music isn't showing up in a lot of other content. I picture LUH having a song in a tv show as the intro in my opinion. How much longer until North American tv/movie productions start taking notice you think? Have you gotten any offers you turned down? We haven’t turned anything down, sure it would be nice to have some high level syncs, make cash flow easier and get the name out to a wider audience, but these things always come out of the blue… We enjoy narrative, atmosphere and an expansive sound in our song writing so it lends well to soundtracks. We are actually working on our first soundtrack for ‘8 days with hopper’ a feature film due in 2021, a really beautiful project that we are very excited to be a part of.

Before we dive into the bright future that is Lost Under Heaven, we gotta go back to the past. Before you (Ellery) joined Ebony for LUH, you started in a band called WU LYF, mindset wise, what was it like being in WU LYF vs LUH? And creatively how different was it? WU was a teenage jam band that got picked up on a wave of hype. I loved the creation of the record and feel it is a very genuine document of untamed youth, but after touring it for 18 months relationships soured and the joy, the fire was gone- trying to write the second record and growing in awareness to the state of the world I fell into a deep depression, I longed for a deeper life and my heart knew I needed to make a change. I broke the band up quite impulsively which I regret for it needlessly hurt those closest to me- but life moves on, wounds heal. creatively all the songs came out of 4 people jamming together for hours and hours- with LUH the process is much more focused, considered, I sit at a piano or with a guitar & write songs working with Ebony to produce them in a cinematic world of atmosphere and tension. I only miss WU LYF in the nostalgic way people miss their teenage years of wild abandon.

With endings come new beginnings.... Right before the end of WU LYFE, did you guys always know Lost Under Heaven was the next project in mind? And has it lived up to the expectations of what you pictured? Lost Under Heaven began when I moved to Amsterdam to live with Ebony, we were not really anticipating working together but it naturally came with me making music whilst she made her visual art in the same small apartment. We then started to have grande visions of what we could create together, we see LUH as a life work, ever evolving, a process thru which we can experiment with ideas and express our ever evolving level of consciousness.

You guys are just absolutely marvelous, I even went as far as calling you my favourite band of the last decade. You guys present not just new ideas, but new sounds and something I have not yet seen. You guys have such a unique vibe its insane. Have you guys ever been approached by any labels or music reps to change anything up significantly? And what do you think of artists doing that to get signed? Fortunately we both have always had a very clear idea of what we should be doing. We are ever motivated to create and have great gratitude that we are able to live this life. To be honest nobody’s ever really challenged us to change, the way in which we work is essentially D.I.Y so we just explore where ever the energy take us. We probably would benefit from some business management, but the blessing of doing everything yourself is you learn and grow at a high pace. As to other artists, each is own their own path and they have to live with themselves so I have no judgment- personally I have never compromised my art to get a wider appeal, or more success, I strive for soulful honesty- not just entertainment.

Little backstory: I was once standing on a beach somewhere in a middle of nowhere, and the beach was a temporary home, something to hide away in but it was only a band-aid of escape. In the mist of the sunset setting and nothing but ocean in the backdrop, your track Loyalty from the album Spiritual Songs for Lovers to Sing came on, and everything made sense in that moment. One of my favourite songs ever, hands down. Talk about what that song means to you guys? How did it come to be? Loyalty is one of my favorites, it was actually the first song Ebony sang on, the first time I really heard her voice- I wrote the cello part years ago, probably when I was a teenager and always had the idea to make an epic street hassle (Lou Reed) kinda record, but could never figure out how, then I came up with this guitar riff and sang along it all started to come together but I had no idea how the chorus should go, so I asked ebony to just play around and those line’s “we are going to sail away…” came out of it- perfect! yeah I love that song, we have never really been able to play it well live (with out a cello player!) so I haven’t heard it for a few years- but you made me want to revisit it now…

While we are on the topic of your first album, what was the song writing process for it vs your second album Love Hates What You Become? Would you say there was a difference creative wise between the two? Spiritual Songs was written in lots of little fragments over a couple of years (2012- 2015) I mostly wrote it on a piano and then straight into Ableton so its a lot more processed production, - Love Hates I wrote whilst we toured the 1st record in 2016- I had started playing guitar for the live band so I wrote nearly all the songs on 6 strings, I finished it up in a week in January 2017 so it was fast, focused- we produced the record with Jon Congleton in 3 weeks recorded and mixed, so it was all very fast- I felt the record to had a raw urgency, to keep us moving, keep the band on the road, but then the label stagnated the release schedule for 18 months and it kinda lost the energy, I am proud of the record- but it was quite a frustrating period, which I am happy to have behind us.

I've always wondered, with your album titles like Love Hates What You Become or Spiritual Songs for Lovers to Sing, where do these ideas for album names come from? The Unified Field. I don’t know man, ideas arrive and you note them down and then months later they have meaning, that’s the way titles, lyrics most of what we do comes to be- I like walking around aimless, letting my mind roam, writing down anything that feels exciting

Speaking of creative, you guys recently left Mute Records to start your own label LUH International. What prompted this big change up? And in a nutshell what can we expect from these big changes? As eluded to earlier, after the release of Love Hates we had become frustrated by the slow and bloated process working within a label system can place on your creativity- We were looking for new way to work in the world with more intimacy and spontaneity, an opportunity had arisen with a de-centralised video platform called Vevue that enabled us to become financially independent for the foreseeable future- so we decided to make LUH.international formalised as an entity- to release our work, not necessarily a record label, I see it more as creative studio that will periodically make short run pressings of our projects- we are currently putting together the First, a book that consolidates our work on the Love Unite Humanity web series release via Vevue.

What advice can you give someone who would want to start up their own record label? Patience, perseverance and maintain a level of success consciousness- law of attraction vibes.

You guys are not just starting your own record label, but developing original content (and music) titled Love Unites Humanity (Episode zero here) and will be featured on the video platform Vevue. In saying all that, what does this project mean for you guys? And how will this take Lost Under Heaven onto the next level? Love Unites Humanity brings together a lot of our thoughts and experiences over the last few years, I see it as a way of articulating our world view, thru artistic expression. It also provides us a free space to experiment, creating work quickly and immediately releasing it with no middlemen, the Vevue platform enables us to directly earn from our work with it token exchange economy.

When can Canada expect to see LUH live in concert? ah man, I have no idea, we’d love to get over to you tho- perhaps some one reading this will want to make it happen.

5 rapid fire questions, give the answer that comes to mind first If you were not called Lost Under Heaven what else would you want to be called? Ebony & Ellery James and their Famous Flames Best venue to play in? The White Hotel, Manchester Favorite current song? ROSALÍA - Juro Que Best underrated artist? So many but my today I say, Kali Malone Favorite song that is your own? Here Our Moment Ends or Black Sun Rising

Cover photo by Chris Almeida

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#luh #lostunderheaven #www.seohero.uk #london #music

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beautymouth72-blog · 5 years ago

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How Crenshaw became black LA’s main street

Crenshaw Boulevard starts in the middle of bustling, concrete Los Angeles at Wilshire Boulevard and ends in the untamed, unearthly natural beauty of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, a little more than 23 miles away. In between, the heartbeat of historically black Los Angeles pulses at such landmarks as Dulan’s Soul Food, the Los Angeles Sentinel, West Angeles Church, Leimert Park, Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, and the Paul R. Williams-designed Angelus Funeral Home, where the bodies of director John Singleton and rapper and activist Nipsey Hussle were recently prepared.

At Crenshaw and 50th is the epic Great Wall of Crenshaw, a series of murals depicting black Americans’ contributions to history, created by the street art collective Rocking the Nation in 2000.

“Crenshaw Boulevard is the main street of black LA. Has been, still is, and hopefully always will be,” says Nina Revoyr, activist and author of the acclaimed 2003 novel Southland. “It is a boulevard of both aspiration and disappointments.”

The first section of Crenshaw Boulevard sprang out of the calculated aspirations of Missouri-born developer George L. Crenshaw. In the early 1900s, he began to develop the grand neighborhood of Lafayette Square in the Mid-City section of Los Angeles, then undeveloped ranch land. He decided to name one of the main streets running alongside the development after himself. “In those days, you just went down to City Hall and signed a little slip and that was it,” his grandson Charles Crenshaw told the Los Angeles Times in 2003.

In 1918, a new dirt street, Angeles Mesa Drive, was finished, linking up to Crenshaw Boulevard:

Angeles Mesa Drive, the new short cut route between southwest Los Angeles and the city-to-sea boulevards, is now open to the motoring public from Slauson Avenue to West Adams Street. The new highway shortens by miles the traveling distance between Hyde Park Inglewood, and Redondo districts to the south and southwest of Los Angeles and the west beaches, Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley.

During the building boom of the 1920s, Angeles Mesa Drive gained in importance, as it became the suburban site of new sprawling planned communities. “The paving of Angeles Mesa Drive, is part of a comprehensive plan for the creation of another north-and-south artery beginning at Wilshire Blvd. and extending to the paved county highway a mile south of Adams Street,” the Los Angeles Times reported in 1924. “First steps for the widening of Crenshaw Blvd, of which the Angeles Mesa Drive is a southerly continuance have already been taken.”

In 1925, the Los Angeles Investment Company opened tracts for the upper-class neighborhood of View Park, on the slopes of Baldwin Hills alongside Angeles Mesa Drive. In 1927, the Walter H. Leimert Company hired the pedigreed firm of Olmsted and Olmsted to lay out its planned self-sustaining “community of tomorrow” on 600 acres skirting the boulevard.

Called Leimert Park, this idyllic community featured tree lined streets of elegant homes and apartments designed by architects including Richard Neutra and Sumner Spaulding. In 1932, the Stiles O. Clements-designed Leimert Theater opened in the community’s commercial center. In 1929, Crenshaw Boulevard and Angeles Mesa Drive were finally coalesced into one megastreet.

The Angelus Funeral Home is one stand-out building on Crenshaw, and it was designed by architect Paul R. Williams. It’s also where the bodies of Nipsey Hussle and John Singleton were served.

Due to redlining and racially restrictive housing covenants that kept non-whites from living in all but a few areas in LA, the neighborhoods and businesses along what came to be known as “the ’Shaw” were predominantly populated by middle and upper-class white residents. But after the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the racist covenants in 1948, large numbers of successful Japanese Americans began to move into the neighborhoods along Crenshaw. Soon many more black families bought homes in the area as well.

This was an era of great promise for black Angelenos, says longtime Leimert Park resident Lynetta McElroy. “When you talk to some of the older people who came from different areas they said something about Los Angeles blacks was different than anywhere else,” McElroy says. “They had this look. They had fine cars, fine clothes, they had their own clubs. Black culture was rich.”

The addition of these two rich cultures would usher in a golden age of multicultural community on Crenshaw Boulevard. McElroy, who is of African American and Jewish descent, recalls her mother taking her to the annual Japanese-American celebration of Nisei Week in Crenshaw Square. “You would have Japanese dancing and music, food and a carnival,” she says. “You had all the cultures just right here. The ladies were in kimonos, and they were dancing and singing, and they invited the onlookers to learn the dances and sing along.”

McElroy and her African American and Japanese American friends at Crenshaw High also frequented the legendary Holiday Bowl. Perhaps no establishment exemplified the Crenshaw District’s diversity more than this bowling alley and coffee shop at the intersection of 37th and Crenshaw. Designed in the Googie Style by the architect Helen Liu Fong for the firm Armet and Davis, the bowl was opened in 1948 by four Japanese investors. (It was demolished in 2003.) According to KCET’s Ryan Reft:

Early on many of the bowling teams consisted of local Japanese farmers, grocers, and merchants, all of whom competed in divisions that suited their profession: the Gardener’s League, the Produce League, and the Floral League, to name a few. When the area began absorbing greater numbers of African Americans… the teams changed as well. “[M]y team has one black, one Italian, another Japanese, and Korean Sponsor,” Floral League member Dorothy Tanabe told the Los Angeles Times.

Throughout the decades, the Holiday Bowl would continue to be what one longtime employee referred to as a “United Nations.” A high school aged McElroy and her girlfriends spent an intense six weeks at the hangout learning to bowl, determined to earn a letter for their Crenshaw High jackets (she earned it—and still has it today). During the 1970s and ’80s, “that was the go to spot,” says Gina Fields, who grew up all along Crenshaw and lives today in Leimert Park. “It was definitely a cultural hub.”

Revoyr, who is of Japanese American descent, remembers her very first trip to the bowl. “Seeing African American and Japanese American folks of my grandparents age all hanging out together in a coffee shop in such a way that it became clear that these were friendships that existed for decades. That was so beautiful to me,” she says. “Going into the Holiday Bowl and seeing Japanese food and Southern food on the same menu, I just loved that.”

The “Great Wall of Crenshaw” is an important mural that spans 800 feet and incorporates images and icons from black history across the ages.

So important was the Holiday Bowl to the community that during the LA Uprising in the summer of 1992, Rodney King joined with other locals to protect the business from looters, telling potential troublemakers that the bowl was “our place.”

“When I think about Crenshaw—in particular, when I think about a place like the Holiday Bowl, and that whole strip right there, it represents the best version of a polyglot LA—people who are both very, very clear and very proud of who they are as individuals and families, but also who can feel part of a larger collective whole in a way that’s cross racial,” Revoyr says.

The Japanese American influence can still be seen in the bonsai trees and plantings in the yards of the small Mediterranean and Spanish style homes off Crenshaw. However, by the late 1960s, many of the communities surrounding Crenshaw Boulevard, from wealthy View Park, Lafayette Square, and Baldwin Hills to working-class Inglewood, had become mainly associated with black Angelenos.

Black-owned businesses flourished, while farther down the ’Shaw in Hawthorne, aerospace companies offered good employment for many local residents. Glass-plated, modernist car dealerships opened up and down Crenshaw Bouelvard, providing more employment for South LA residents.

Every year, the Martin Luther King Day Parade would travel down Crenshaw Boulevard (it now goes through King Boulevard), and the community would come out to watch. “I remember playing my flute in the band as the Audubon Elementry School band walked down Crenshaw Boulevard,” Fields says. “Later I became a naval cadet and marched with the Youth Naval Cadet when I was 15, and we got all dressed up in our dress uniforms, and it was just such a proud feeling to be able to march... down Crenshaw Boulevard with the crowd cheering.”

Leimert Park became an artistic mecca for artists, artisans, and venues, such as the famed blues club Babe’s & Ricky’s Inn. Its small village green just off Crenshaw Boulevard became a community gathering place for festivals, jazz concerts, and press conferences. At the hip cave-like musical venue Maverick’s Flat, acts like the Ike and Tina Turner Review, The Temptations, Billy Preston, and Parliament-Funkadelic played packed shows while locals and celebrities like Marlon Brando, Sonny Liston, Steve McQueen, and Muhammad Ali danced along.

Many fly dancers at Maverick’s Flat would appear on Soul Train, which debuted in 1970, and transported South LA cool across the country. Host Don Cornelius would also source telegenic and talented dancers from local Crenshaw area high schools. Musician Patrice Rushen recalled in the LA Times hanging out at a local park only to be approached by none other than Cornelius himself. “Anybody who wants to go, we’ll have buses and take you to the TV studio,” he told the high schoolers. “All you’ve got to do is come on the show and dance.”

Young men talk to three young women in their car at the usual gathering spot along Crenshaw Blvd on a Sunday afternoon in 1996.

Photo by Gary Friedman/Los Angeles Times via Getty Images

It was also during this same period, while the Soul Train bus picked up dancers on the ’Shaw, that young men and women began cruising Crenshaw Boulevard on Sunday nights, showing off their tricked lowriders and speaker systems. By the 1980s, cruising had become a weekly ritual on the ’Shaw. “I would come home from Berkeley for the summer and Crenshaw Boulevard was just lively!” Fields says. “You’d see all these low riders, decked out cars, parked in front of the Wienerschnitzel. And we’d hang out. And my mom was like ‘You know you’re not over there hanging out on Crenshaw!’ ‘No Mom.’ And my sister and I were out there—hanging out with all the lowrider cars. It was just such a fun neighborhood.”

Cruising reached its peak in the early 1990s, when more than a thousand cars would jam Crenshaw Boulevard, from Jefferson Boulevard to Florence Avenue. Faced with mounting pressure by frustrated Crenshaw Boulevard business owners and civic leaders, in 1994 the LAPD began to barricade 3.5 miles of Crenshaw, from Adams to 78th street, every Sunday night. But this and other deterrents had little effect, with cruisers simply going farther south on Crenshaw or taking side streets. In April 1995, a popular Banning High football player named Dupree Taye was shot and killed in a random act of violence when the red Ford Thunderbird he was cruising in got a flat tire.

Violence would become an epidemic during the late 1980s and early ’90s, as gangs and drugs and social, educational, and economic inequities wreaked havoc on many communities in South Los Angeles.

During this time period, Crenshaw Boulevard would become legendary in popular culture, with films such as Singleton’s Boyz in the Hood, and artists from the area including Eazy-E, Ice-T, Ice Cube, and Dr. Dre rapping about the hard realities that faced many South LA youth. There also more lighthearted homegrown acts like Skee-Lo, who penned an ode to Sunday night cruising on the 1995 track “Crenshaw”:

Who me I’m Skee, I rap and produce

Pull over I wanna know you and my crew wants to know your crew

Now how them cheeks fit in the seat of that Jeep

See this is type of freak that could be cool for me

I like her style she like my style I make her smile she think I’m funny

Won’t front it be pump rollin Crenshaw on Sunday

After the LA Uprising, some middle class black Angelenos left South LA for safer areas in the city. Throughout the ’90s and 2000s, Latinos began to arrive in greater numbers, and some of the boulevard’s historically black-owned businesses began to close. Years of disinvestment in resources and infrastructure by the city and state also took their toll.

The “Great Wall of Crenshaw” is an important mural that spans 800 feet and incorporates images and icons from black history across the ages.

In 2008, the construction of the 8.5-mile Crenshaw/LAX light rail line was announced by Metro. Although a fight to add a stop at Leimert Park, called by Singleton “the black Greenwich Village,” was successful, the plan deeply polarized communities along Crenshaw Boulevard. This and the encroaching gentrification of areas like Leimert Park led to the formation of Destination Crenshaw, a planned 1.3-mile cultural district spanning Crenshaw Boulevard from 48 to 60th streets.

“Destination Crenshaw came about as a result of conversations related to the building of the Crenshaw/LAX Metro line and the controversy in the community that remains to this day about the portion between Hyde Park and Leimert Park being built at grade,” says Los Angeles City Councilmember Marqueece Harris-Dawson, who grew up visiting his grandfather at his real estate operations on Crenshaw Boulevard. “Folks were very, very upset. Folks were like, ‘this is the African American community’s major street.’ In no other major street in Southern California does Metro build rail at grade.”

Building at grade would cause major disruption on the street, splitting it in two and making it less a walkable main street and more like a drive-though thoroughfare. Community and civic leaders decided to turn what they saw as an insult into an opportunity. “Folks came up with the idea of an open-air people’s museum,” Harris-Dawson says. “The African American history of Los Angeles is extremely rich—as rich as any city in the country. And that there ought to be a place, like we have Chinatown, like we have the Fairfax district, like we have Little Tokyo, like we have San Pedro... that calls out the contributions of African Americans building this region.”

Targeted to be completed in spring 2020, Destination Crenshaw will include 100 permanent art installations extolling the history and culture of black Angelenos. The Leimert Theater is being fully restored and modernized, and there are plans for a public amphitheater and 10 new parks and miniparks.

The architecture firm of Perkins and Will will oversee the design and construction. Landscape design will be provided by Studio-MLA. “What we hope is that we build a cultural hub and that people can actually consume African American culture in these locations,” Harris-Dawson says. New housing is being built along the under-construction Crenshaw/LAX line, and efforts to spruce up the boulevard can be seen all around, including in the planned restoration of the Great Wall of Crenshaw.

“With Destination Crenshaw, our working tagline was ‘unapologetically black,’” says Ron Finley, an artist and community activist known as the Gangsta Gardener. “There’s nothing in Los Angeles that celebrates black Los Angeles. Destination Crenshaw is going to be just that. It is going to be proudly, historically black—it’s going to be super black.”

Another community partner involved in Destination Crenshaw was the rapper, philanthropist, and civic leader Nipsey Hussle. On March 31, Hussle was murdered outside his Marathon Clothing Store on Slauson Avenue, just off Crenshaw. His death devastated both the old and young in South LA.

Mural of Nipsey Hussle on the corner of Crenshaw and Slauson.

“He was a guy who saw beauty in a place that other people just dismissed as unworthy and desolate and as less than,” Revoyr says. “And I think that in elevating the Crenshaw area with his obvious love and respect, he made the young people who live there feel that they were respected.”

But those leading Destination Crenshaw are determined Hussle’s innovative work and ideas will live on. “He had this project and this program called ‘All Money In,’” Harris-Dawson says. “Our community creates value, especially in the realm of culture. Except the community doesn’t benefit from the creation of that value, and so if young people in South LA make a sneaker popular or a t-shirt popular, you then have to go to Melrose to buy the t-shirt!”

Through Destination Crenshaw and other programs, the councilmember aims to bring money and foot traffic onto Crenshaw Boulevard, creating value that stays within South Los Angeles. “I think that there’s great potential with the Metro line,” Revoyr says. “More people are going to be coming through Crenshaw hopefully with the line opening… and the Destination Crenshaw project should be a draw.”

But there are concerns. “There is understandably a lot of anxiety about what that’s going to do to property in terms of affordability,” Revoyr says. There is also still much work to be done on other parts of Crenshaw Boulevard. “As you go farther south... the disinvestment of public resources becomes more and more evident.”

Longtime residents like Fields and McElroy also worry that the rail line, along with gentrification and development in single-family neighborhoods, will obliterate their close-knit feel and its rich heritage.

“We all know each other. We all watch out for each other. I recognize every neighbor on my street... Despite the fact that it’s in the middle of a big city smack dab in the middle of a very large city, [Leimert Park] is this cute small little neighborhood that’s fun to just walk around and wander around and just meet people,” Fields says.” I hope that with all the progress that’s being proposed and all the developments that are coming that we’re able to maintain the uniqueness of the neighborhood.”

Along with these vibrant patches of community and culture, there are stretches of the boulevard almost like ghost towns, where boarded up businesses are the norm. For Revoyr, Crenshaw Boulevard remains a street of contradictions. “You see these buildings and these places of great beauty and great promise and then you have at Crenshaw and Slauson Nipsey Hussle murdered in front of his store,” she says. The ’Shaw is a street rich in history, art, commerce and culture, but it has the potential to be so much more.

Source: https://la.curbed.com/2019/5/17/18563304/crenshaw-blvd-los-angeles-nipsey-hussle-history

#read more #see more #check it out #interesting #learn more

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oletacho · 6 years ago

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Unbroken: Path to Redemption: A Brief History of Louis Zamperini’s Journey

UNBROKEN: Path to Redemption: A Brief History of Louis Zamperini’s Journey

UnbrokenFilm.com Running Time: 98 minutes Rating: PG-13 #UnbrokenFilm

“I’d made it this far and refused to give up because, all my life, I had always finished the race.” —Louie Zamperini

When he passed away on July 2, 2014 at the age of 97, Louie Zamperini was victoriously celebrated as a true American hero. This former Olympian, whose long, incredible and inspiring life has been described as one of the greatest stories of triumph in the 20 th century, lived through and beyond what most could comprehend. His tale of crippling despair trumped by indomitable will and redemption continues to serve as a message of hope for the millions who have been affected and inspired by his journey.

And it all began more than a century ago. As a youth in Torrance, California, the youngest son of Italian immigrants, Louie was an incorrigible delinquent, breaking into homes, stealing from shops and brawling with anyone who dared challenge this untamable boy. As a teenager, with the persistent encouragement of his older brother, Pete, Louie turned his life around by channeling defiant energy into a shocking talent for running. Breaking record after record across the nation, the 19-year-old “Torrance Tornado” qualified for the 1936 Berlin Olympics and surprised everyone whom he encountered—from his famous teammate Jesse Owens to the man who almost veered mankind toward global destruction: Adolf Hitler.

Like most young people of his generation, when World War II broke out, the young student from University of Southern California, who had come within seconds of breaking the four-minute mile, put his dreams on hold and enlisted in the service. His military career would lead him to become an Army Air Corps bombardier, in which 2 nd Lt. Zamperini embarked upon numerous missions across the Pacific—a daunting profession where approximately 50 percent of his fellow airmen wouldn’t make it through the war. In April 1943, Louie’s defective B-24 Liberator, the Green Hornet, on a rescue mission in the South Pacific, suffered engine failure and crashed into the sea, killing eight of the 11 crew members upon impact.

Louie and his Green Hornet’s two fellow survivors—Russell Allen “Phil” Phillips, the craft’s captain, and Sgt. Francis “Mac” McNamara, its tail gunner—drifted in a six-feet-long by two-feet-wide raft in the open Pacific for many weeks. Mac managed to hang on for 33 days—surviving seven rounds of strafing by a Japanese bomber and the omnipresent sharks that circled their vessel—before he tragically succumbed to his hunger, dehydration and exhaustion. Louie and Phil lasted for a total of 47 days, a

record in the annals of history for survivors on a raft, and ultimately drifted 2,000 miles to an atoll in the Marshall Islands, with the remnants of a typhoon carrying them to shore.

Just as they saw land and were beginning to float toward it, they were captured by the Japanese navy and imprisoned in the first of what would be several POW camps. During more than two years of torturous captivity, Louie—alongside his fellow prisoners—was starved, not to mention mentally and physically abused beyond comprehension. Louie was singled out by a prison commander named Mutsuhiro Watanabe, known to the men as “The Bird,” for particularly sadistic acts of mind games and deplorable brutality.

Louie survived these inhumane ordeals across the most severe regions of war-torn Japan before he learned, on August 20, 1945, (two weeks after the 9,000-pound bomb called Little Boy annihilated Hiroshima), that the Allied prisoners were free men and that the war was over. As Laura Hillenbrand writes in the definitive Louie Zamperini biography, Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption: “In the midst of running, celebrating men, Louie stood on wavering legs, emaciated, sick and dripping wet. In his tired mind, two words were repeating themselves over and over: ‘I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!’”

The veteran who had survived so much returned home to Southern California, but his life was forever changed. Louie was plagued by nightmares and a crippling mental disorder that would not be classified as such until decades later: post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Like the countless heroes who returned from the far reaches of these cruel detention camps, Louie found post-war life a monumental struggle. For four years after his internment, he battled crippling anxiety, alcohol abuse and demons that visited him every time he went to sleep.

Only after Louie and his new bride, Cynthia, heard a young preacher by the name of Reverend Billy Graham speak in September 1949 would he understand his need to be forgiven and to forgive others. Embracing his new-found Christian faith, Louie’s life turned completely around. In subsequent years, Louie devoted himself to spreading a message of faith, fortitude and forgiveness…going so far as to travel back to Japan and offering forgiveness to the prison guards who had starved him and beat him senseless. Only “The Bird” refused to meet with him.

Louie’s story had all the makings of an unforgettable film. In fact, Universal Pictures had long been interested in his life. In 1957, the studio acquired the rights to Louie’s book Devil at My Heels. Back then it was planned as a vehicle for Tony Curtis, but the project was shelved before a script was drafted. In 1998, a CBS Sports documentary on Louie’s life aired on the network and breathed life back into the project. When producer Matthew Baer watched the piece, he was tremendously affected by what he saw, unknowingly embarking upon what would be a 16-year quest to get a film made. He met with Louie and his family, then brought Louie’s story back to Universal Pictures, as the studio remained tied to the rights. The studio was once again interested in bringing this epic saga to the screen. Although several screenplays were commissioned at the time, no director signed on to the project.

In 2002, however, a turn of events changed everything. Louie Zamperini and best-selling author Laura Hillenbrand’s eight-year journey together began just as the author finished Seabiscuit: An American Legend. During her research for her first book, she kept coming across another famous Californian who was discussed as the only one who could give Seabiscuit a run for his money. She thought: “Someday, I’m going to look into this guy.” She wrote Louie a letter, and he wrote back.

The more they communicated, the more Hillenbrand was fascinated by what she learned about the man and asked if she could write her next book about him. Louie agreed, even though he had written his own story years before. His life dedicated to service, he wanted to spread the word of reconciliation as far as he could.

During their collaboration, which ultimately spanned more than 75 phone interviews and exhaustive globe-spanning research supported by approximately 400 endnotes, Hillenbrand and Zamperini agreed not to meet in person until the book was published. The author needed to envision Louie as the young troublemaker whose spirit would transform him into a hero for the ages…and the subject was busy enough with a charitable schedule and speaking engagements that seemed impossible for men half his age.

Published in 2010, Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption became a runaway bestseller, spending more than 185 weeks (15 of those in the top position) on The New York Times hardcover bestseller list. Among its many accolades, Unbroken was awarded Best Nonfiction Book of the Year by Time magazine and won the Los Angeles Times Book of the Year Award for Biography.

After years of having Louie’s amazing story turned down by other financiers, Baer, buoyed by the public’s embrace of Hillenbrand’s book, brought Unbroken back to Universal for consideration. The studio acquired the book in December 2010, and its success lifted plans for the project to head toward production. In 2014, UNBROKEN was released, earning $163 million worldwide at the box office.

About This Production Pure Flix, The WTA Group and Universal 1440 Entertainment present a Matt Baer Films production: UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION, starring Samuel Hunt and Merritt Patterson. The casting is by Nancy Nayor, CSA, and the music is by Brandon Roberts. UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION’s costume designer is Diane Crooke, and the film’s editor is Amy P. McGrath. Its production designer is Mayne Berke, and its director of photography is Zoran Popovic. The drama’s executive producers are Bill Reeves, Erik Weir, Michael Scott, Dave Mechem, Cynthia Garris and Luke Zamperini, and it is produced by Matthew Baer, p.g.a., and Mike Elliott. UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION is based on the book by Laura Hillenbrand. The screenplay is by Richard Friedenberg and Ken Hixon. The film is directed by Harold Cronk.

With the success of UNBROKEN, producer Matthew Baer went to Universal 1440 Entertainment, wanting to tell the post-war aftermath of Louis Zamperini’s remarkable life. “Lou’s story is an embarrassment of cinematic riches, from when he was a young boy until he was 97,” says Baer. “We had tried versions of the first screenplay that included his post-war experience, but the difficulty in making a film version, is once Lou is freed from the Japanese prison camp, it wasn’t possible to have a stronger emotional climax than his return to Torrance. We were not able to make a three-hour version of the film and there was no way to have the female lead, Cynthia, come into the film after two hours. My feeling, and hope, was if UNBROKEN was successful, I’d get the chance the tell Lou’s post-war journey in a way that does it justice.”

The WTA Group was involved with the home entertainment release of UNBROKEN and helped lead the creation of a bonus disc that was included alongside the film to tell the “rest of the story” of Zamperini’s life through archive video footage from the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Additionally, the company assisted with the development of a special Christian retail edition. That product sold well, confirming that people wanted the rest of the story.

In 2015, The WTA Group executives Bill Reeves and Dave Mechem met with Glenn Ross, General Manager and Executive Vice President of Universal 1440 Entertainment, to encourage the idea of a film that would tell the rest of Hillenbrand’s book.

“We explained that the millions who read Laura Hillenbrand’s bestselling book or saw the first film, UNBROKEN, know and love this next part of Louie’s story,” says Reeves, president of The WTA Group. “For Zamperini fans, UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION shares that next chapter of his astonishing life and his inspirational love story.”

Glenn Ross and Universal 1440 Entertainment agreed the story needed to be told, met with Baer, and development on a new screenplay began, along with bringing aboard director Harold Cronk.

“From the overwhelmingly positive and passionate reaction to UNBROKEN, we believed there was an audience out there eager to see Louie and Cynthia fight and overcome an entirely different set of challenging circumstances,” says Ross.

“The hunger for quality films that contain faith has been proven time and again in the past few years,” says Executive Producer Michael Scott, CEO and co-founder Pure Flix. “That audience very much wants to see the redemption story in Louie’s life on screen.”

“The first film was about Lou’s struggle to survive. This chapter is about the battle for his soul and the incredibly powerful message of forgiveness. Once we can accept that we are broken and allow ourselves to receive grace, we are finally free to offer it to others,” says Cronk.

Screenwriter Richard Friedenberg says, “The heroism of Louie Zamperini, his adventure from the downing of his bomber to his rescue from a Japanese P.O.W. camp, is the stuff of a legend. But what comes after, the story of his return, his heartbreaking struggle, his recovery and ultimate redemption is what attracted me to Laura Hillenbrand’s book. We see in Louie’s conflict so many parallels to the soldiers who continue to return from our present wars, and through his pain and strength we understand the sacrifice every one of them has made.”

Screenwriter Ken Hixon shares, “I was attracted to Lou’s story: the power of second chances and the courage it takes to overcome often insurmountable odds. I also wanted to depict how love at first sight can evolve into a durable, long-lived relationship.”

For Will Graham, the grandson of Billy Graham, the film shines a deserved light on the now- famous 1949 Los Angeles Crusade. Will Graham is an evangelist with the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and plays his grandfather in UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION.

“It’s hard to overstate how important the 1949 Crusade was to my grandaddy,” Will Graham says. “Of course, it was of eternal significance to Louie and Cynthia Zamperini and thousands more like them who accepted Christ as a result of granddaddy’s preaching. But Billy Graham was an unknown, a nobody before that Crusade. It was the publisher William Randolph Hearst, who, after three weeks of the Crusade generating no interest, told his editors to ‘puff Graham.’ They put him on the front page and the rest of the media followed.”

Design, Locations and Shooting

“Never give up, no matter what. Even if you get to last place, finish.” —Louie Zamperini

Production began on UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION on September 5, 2017, at Universal Studios and wrapped on September 29, 2017, after 20 days of filming. Locations included Oxnard Beach, Verdugo High School and Cal Poly Pomona campus, where buildings resembling California in the 1940s were utilized.

“UNBROKEN captured the hearts of moviegoers worldwide and garnered several Oscar® nominations,” Producer Mike Elliott says. “The bar was set high for UNBROKEN: PATH TO REDEMPTION.”

Director Harold Cronk says, “We were able to assemble a team of supremely talented crew members who were committed to telling Louie’s story the right way. Developing and executing a plan to visually communicate Louie’s internal struggles required a tremendous amount of work with the writers. Then came the equally difficult task of finding the actor who was up to the challenge of bringing Louie’s story to life in a way that honored his remarkable journey. Samuel Hunt’s immersive and inspired portrayal of Louie Zamperini does just that.”

Director of Photography Zoran Popovic says, “The biggest challenge of making a period film are the angles on the exterior locations. We had to be very careful where to point the camera. Lots of shots were composed having the CGI enhancement in mind. We added old LA in the background and made Oxnard look like Miami Beach, Florida.”

Costume Designer Diane Crooke adds, “We used actual period costumes of course, so the majority are over 70 years old. Having such affection and respect for the period, special handling and care was required to uphold the integrity of the wardrobe.”

About the Cast “The world, we’d discovered, doesn’t love you like your family loves you.” —Louie Zamperini

Director Cronk and producers Baer, Elliott and Universal 1440 Entertainment were keenly aware of how important the casting choice would be to deliver on Louis and Cynthia’s powerful story for the finished film. Elliott remarks, “Casting was a challenge from the start. We had an entirely new movie but didn’t know how we would replace the original UNBROKEN cast. Would the audience reject new fresh faces? We think we succeeded thanks to an exhaustive nationwide search, and a lot of hard work by our team at Nancy Nayor Casting. We sincerely believe the new cast members are going to steal some hearts.”

Samuel Hunt as Louis Zamperini Samuel Hunt can be seen now as Craig Gurwitch, the former Army Ranger and computer specialist nicknamed ‘Mouse’ on NBC’s Chicago P.D. in addition to several cross-over episodes of Chicago Fire as the same character. Prior to landing his role in the hit Dick Wolf franchise, Samuel was in a number of independent features, appeared regularly on Days of Our Lives, and made waves on the FOX hit series Empire. To know Samuel is to know his impressive rock climbing skills, his solid theater experience and his serious passion as an outdoorsman.

Merritt Patterson as Cynthia Zamperini Merritt Patterson starred as Ophelia Pryce in the first season of E!’s hit series The Royals and as Olivia Matheson in ABC Family’s Ravenswood. She has guest-starred in episodes of numerous series, including Sony/Crackle’s Art of More; the CW’s Life Unexpected and Supernatural; and ABC Family’s Kyle XY, among others. Merritt’s numerous made-for-television credits include Hallmark’s A Christmas Cottage and A Winter Prince; The Pregnancy Project; Radio Rebel; and Iron Golem. She appeared on the big screen in Fox’s PERCY JACKSON & THE OLYMPIANS: THE LIGHTNING THIEF and in the independent features WOLVES, PRIMARY, RUFUS and THE HOLE.

Vanessa Bell Calloway as Lila Cleveland native Vanessa Bell Calloway is an actress and director, known for COMING TO AMERICA, DAYLIGHT and CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN, among many other film roles. TV credits include recurring roles in Shameless and Hawthorne. An eight-time NAACP Image Award nominee, she and her husband, Dr. Anthony Calloway, have two children.

Will Graham as Billy Graham Vice President and Associate Evangelist, BGEA William Franklin Graham IV (Will) is the third generation of Grahams to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ under the banner of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Will is the grandson of Billy Graham and the oldest son of Franklin Graham. Participating in crusade-style events—called Celebrations—since 2006, he has held evangelistic outreaches on six continents around the world. Will also serves as Vice President of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and as Executive Director of the Billy Graham Training Center at The Cove in Asheville, N.C. In November, Will’s first book—a devotional titled Redeemed: Devotions for a Longing Soul—will be published by Thomas Nelson, featuring stories centered on the life-changing power of a relationship with God. A graduate of Liberty University and Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, Will and his wife, Kendra, have two daughters and a son.

Bobby Campo as Pete Zamperini Just 15 months after his mother suggested acting lessons, Bobby Campo had moved to Los Angeles and landed the first in a variety of television credits including a recurring role on Freeform’s hit series Greek; Law & Order: SVU; and CSI: Miami. Bobby was then cast as the lead in New Line Cinema’s THE FINAL DESTINATION, the fourth installment of the studio’s most successful horror franchise. Bobby began working steadily in independent film and earning series regular roles on Syfy’s Being Human and MTV’s Scream, and acclaimed guest star and recurring roles including ABC’s Grey’s Anatomy and FX’s Justified.

Andrew Caldwell as Harry Read Andrew Caldwell is known for the fan-favorite recurring role of Harley Johns in Season 3 of The CW’s iZombie. Other television credits include Netflix’s American Vandal, YouTube Red’s Ryan Hansen Solves Crimes on TV, TNT’s The Librarians , How I Met Your Mother, Hannah Montana and a voice roll on Disney XD’s hit animated series Randy Cunningham: 9 th Grade Ninja. Feature film credits include TRANSFORMERS, TENACIOUS D IN THE PICK OF DESTINY, ALL ABOUT STEVE and MY BEST FRIEND’S GIRL.

Gary Cole as Dr. Bailey Veteran of stage and screen, Gary Cole received an Emmy nomination for HBO’s Veep. He recently appeared in BLOCKERS, the PBS mini-series Mercy Street and Small Crimes opposite Nikolaj Coster- Waldau. Gary is best known for roles in classic cult comedies such as OFFICE SPACE, TALLADEGA NIGHTS: THE BALLAD OF RICKY BOBBY and DODGEBALL: A TRUE UNDERDOG STORY. As an

ensemble member of the famed Steppenwolf Theater Company, Gary’s theater credits include August: Osage County; Speed the Plow; American Buffalo; and Balm in Gilead. Additional film credits include: THE GIFT, A SIMPLE PLAN and Clint Eastwood’s IN THE LINE OF FIRE. Television credits include: American Gothic, The West Wing, Arrested Development, Desperate Housewives, Chuck, The Good Wife, The Good Guys, Suits and Hart of Dixie.

David Sakurai as The Bird Born in Copenhagen, David Sakurai moved to Japan at age 18 where he received theatrical training and honed his skills in Tokyo’s indie film scene. Returning to Denmark in 2008, David earned a variety of drama, comedy and action roles including the lead in the post-apocalyptic action drama EASTERN ARMY (2010), which earned him a Best Actor Award at the Danish Movie Battle Festival. Known for IN ORDER OF DISAPPEARANCE, LIZA, THE FOX-FAIRY and ECHOES OF A RONIN, David’s recent work includes Lilyhammer, Luke Cage and HOUSEWIFE.

Bob Gunton as Major Zeigler Acclaimed films in Bob Gunton’s distinguished career include Oliver Stone’s JFK and BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, GLORY, BROKEN ARROW, Ben Affleck’s ARGO and as the Warden in Frank Darabont’s THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION. Just a sampling of Bob’s other film credits includes PATCH ADAMS, DOLORES CLAIBORNE, THE PERFECT STORM and LINCOLN LAWYER. On Broadway, Bob received Tony ® and Drama Desk ® Award nominations for his performance in the title role of the musical Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street and earned a Tony nomination and won a Drama Desk Award for his performance as President Juan Peron in Evita. Among his myriad TV credits, he had a regular role on the hit series 24 and played Franklin D. Roosevelt in the miniseries World War II: Behind Closed Doors. A Vietnam veteran, Bob was awarded a Bronze Star for Valor.

Vincenzo Amato as Anthony Zamperini Vincenzo Amato is an actor and iron sculptor born in Sicily, Italy, and fluent in five languages. Film credits include Angelina Jolie’s UNBROKEN, WAR STORY with Ben Kingsley and Catherine Keener, Jeremy Leven’s GIRL ON A BICYCLE, DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE MORGANS, Miramax’s PINOCCHIO, and the award-winning LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. In 2007, he was nominated for the prestigious David di Donatello Award ® for Best Actor in the Miramax film GOLDEN DOOR opposite Charlotte Gainsbourg. Television credits include Madam Secretary, The Blacklist, Elementary, Boardwalk Empire, The Good Wife, Damages, Gossip Girl and Pan Am.

About the Filmmakers

“I think the hardest thing in life is to forgive. Hate is self-destructive. If you hate someone, you’re not hurting the person you hate, you’re hurting yourself. True forgiveness is complete and total.” —Louie Zamperini

Harold Cronk Director Harold Cronk has directed numerous films including GOD’S NOT DEAD, which earned over $62 million at the box office and won the GMA Dove ® Awards for Inspirational Film of the Year. He’s the founding partner in 10 West Studios and EMC Productions. Cronk won the Best Director Award at the Beverly Hills International Film Festival in 2006 for his film WAR PRAYER. He wrote and directed the films JERUSALEM COUNTDOWN and MICKEY MATSON AND THE COPPERHEAD CONSPIRACY. He also has extensive theatrical film credits in art direction and set design.

Richard Friedenberg Writer Richard Friedenberg is best known for writing the film A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT, which starred Brad Pitt and was directed by Robert Redford, who was nominated for an Academy Award ® . He also wrote the screenplay for the Hallmark Hall of Fame television film Promise (1986), starring James Garner and James Woods, for which he won an Emmy Award ® . Furthermore, he wrote the screenplay for DYING YOUNG starring Julia Roberts and wrote and directed THE EDUCATION OF LITTLE TREE.

Ken Hixon Writer Ken Hixon is best known for writing the film INVENTING THE ABBOTTS, which starred Jennifer Connelly, Liv Tyler and Joaquin Phoenix. Hixon’s other films include WELCOME TO THE RILEYS, CITY BY THE SEA, INCIDENT AT DECEPTION RIDGE, MORGAN STEWART’S COMING HOME and GRANDVIEW, U.S.A. Two of his television films, Secret Sins of the Father and Caught in the Act, were nominated for the Edgar Allan Poe Award by the Mystery Writers of America.

Laura Hillenbrand Author Laura Hillenbrand is the author of the No. 1 New York Times best-sellers Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption and Seabiscuit: An American Legend. The latter was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, won the Book Sense Book of the Year Award for adult nonfiction and the William Hill Sports Book of the Year Award, landed on more than 15 best-of-the-year lists and inspired the film Seabiscuit, which was nominated for seven Academy Awards ® , including Best Picture.

An essay Hillenbrand wrote for The New Yorker, A Sudden Illness, won a 2004 National Magazine Award. Her work has also appeared in such publications as The New York Times, Vanity Fair, The Washington Post and The Los Angeles Times. Hillenbrand and actor Gary Sinise co-founded Operation International Children, through which American troops provided school supplies and other essential items to children in war-stricken countries.

Matthew Baer Producer Matthew Baer is the producer of UNBROKEN, based on Laura Hillenbrand’s bestselling book, for Universal Pictures. Angelina Jolie directed from a screenplay by Joel and Ethan Coen, William Nicholson and Richard LaGravenese. UNBROKEN earned $163 million worldwide. Baer also produced the character thriller MAGGIE; the indie film, THE BACHELORS, starring J.K. Simmons and Julie Delpy; CITY BY THE SEA with Robert De Niro, Frances McDormand and James Franco; VIEW FROM THE TOP with Gwyneth Paltrow and Mike Myers; JACK FROST with Michael Keaton; and THE REPLACEMENT KILLERS. He is also a producer on the 2018 Tony ® winning revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel.

Mike Elliott Producer Producer Mike Elliott began his career with legendary indie producer Roger Corman, where he eventually became head of motion pictures. Elliott left Corman in 1994 and has since produced more than 100 films and television shows, including several that have appeared in major festivals, such as Sundance, Telluride, New York and Toronto.

Luke Zamperini Executive Producer Luke Zamperini is the only son of Louis and Cynthia Zamperini. As a child, Luke accompanied his father on Victory Boys Camp retreats, giving him the knowledge and wisdom to keep Victory Boys Camp true to its original mission. Luke continues to make himself available for public speaking events where he tells his father’s story and shares his unique perspective on what made Louis the man he was.

Cynthia Zamperini Garris Executive Producer Cynthia Zamperini Garris is the daughter of Louis and Cynthia Zamperini. Cynthia Garris was born in Hollywood. She is an actress, known for CRITTERS 2 (1988), SLEEPWALKERS (1992) and PSYCHO IV: THE BEGINNING (1990). She has been married to Mick Garris since 1982.

Bill Reeves Executive Producer Founder of The WTA Group, Bill Reeves has extensive experience in the Christian product industry in retail roles, and then with Word Entertainment/Warner in distribution, supporting artists such as Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith. At Big Idea Productions, Bill led Christian retail product licensing and distribution for the successful VeggieTales brand, including its theatrical release JONAH: A VEGGIETALES MOVIE. At Thomas Nelson Publishers/HarperCollins he served as executive producer of several childrens video properties, including Max Lucado; Hermie & Friends. As Vice President of marketing for Propeller Consulting, Bill participated in the marketing launches of leading faith-based films such as FIREPROOF, COURAGEOUS and SOUL SURFER and led consumer products campaigns for the Kendrick Brothers; films, including the New York Times No. 1 bestselling book The Love Dare and many other charting books. In 2009, Bill launched The WTA Group, which has led marketing campaigns for such films as 90 MINUTES IN HEAVEN, THE ULTIMATE LIFE and GOD’S NOT DEAD. The agency also steered the release of films such as HEAVEN IS FOR REAL, WAR ROOM and I CAN ONLY IMAGINE.

Michael Scott Executive Producer Michael Scott, CEO and co-founder of faith-film giant Pure Flix, has produced more than 25 films and hundreds of television commercials. Among his many films are the breakout hit GOD’S NOT DEAD, the No. 1 faith film of 2014, earning more than $62 million at the box office; GOD’S NOT DEAD 2; and DO YOU BELIEVE? Michael produced the long-running hit TV series Travel the Road, a groundbreaking Christian reality series following the lives of missionaries Timothy Scott and William Decker, as they journey to the ends of the earth. Now airing on TBN, Daystar, INSP, Netflix and many more, Travel the Road has gained a worldwide audience.

Dave Mechem Executive Producer Dave Mechem has more than 25 years of experience in home entertainment sales and retail marketing and has held key positions with Sony Pictures, Universal Pictures, Turner Broadcasting and Ingram Entertainment. He has worked with key accounts across all channels from mass, club, grocery, e- commerce, rental, distribution and Christian retail. Dave led the home entertainment sales and promotion of AFFIRM Films titles into the general and Christian retail markets and guided the release plans for TO SAVE A LIFE, SOUL SURFER, COURAGEOUS, HEAVEN IS FOR REAL and MOMS’ NIGHT OUT among others. Since joining The WTA Group, Dave has consulted on more than 20 home entertainment releases including GOD’S NOT DEAD, DO YOU BELIEVE?, UNBROKEN and WOODLAWN.

Zoran Popovic Director Of Photography Native of Serbia, Zoran Popovic graduated from the American Film Institute. He has been the director of photography on numerous music videos, commercials and feature films, including WAR INC, a political satire, starring John Cusack and Ben Kingsley; and SIN, starring Gary Oldman, Ving Rhames and Brian Cox. In 2012 Zoran received an Emmy ® for his work on Moments in Time. His recent work includes STANDOFF, starring Thomas Jane and Laurence Fishburne; SUPERCON, starring John Malkovich; UNCHAINED also starring Malkovich, Adrien Brody and Antonio Banderas and directed by Paul Solet; and BREAKTHROUGH, for Fox 2000 to be released in 2019. Mayne Berke

Production Designer Mayne Berke’s credits as a production designer include: S.W.A.T., directed by Clark Johnson, starring Colin Farrell and Samuel L. Jackson; THE PRINCESS DIARIES, directed by Garry Marshall, starring Julie Andrews and Anne Hathaway; ROCK STAR directed by Stephen Herek, starring Mark Wahlberg and Jennifer Aniston; 15 MINUTES, directed by John Herzfeld and starring Robert De Niro and Edward Burns; JACK FROST, directed by Troy Miller, starring Michael Keaton; and ROMY AND MICHELLE’S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION, directed by David Mirkin, starring Lisa Kudrow and Mira Sorvino. He also designed the acclaimed HBO original film Don King: Only in America, and the Clio Award-winning Levi’s Elevator Fantasy commercial, Directed by Michael Bay.

Diane Crooke Costume Designer Diane Crooke is a costume designer with extensive experience designing and supervising for film, television, print and web. Crooke’s interest in fashion developed around the age of 10 when her mother and grandmother taught her to sew. Crooke’s career took off when she got the job as costume supervisor for the for the first three seasons of the hit NBC series Friends. After that, she supervised multiple projects including six seasons of Crossing Jordan. As a designer Crooke spent five seasons designing for NBC’s popular dramatic TV Show Parenthood, before designing Scream for MTV. Recently Crooke worked on the Mow Treehouse for Blumhouse directed by James Roday. Crooke has jumped into the feature world, designing CHIPS and ALL STAR WEEKEND directed by Jamie Foxx.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The State of California and the California Film Commission

MPAA Certificate # 51621

Universal Studios is the author of this motion picture for purposes of the Berne Convention and all national laws giving effect thereto.

WHILE THIS PICTURE IS BASED UPON A TRUE STORY, SOME OF THE CHARACTERS HAVE BEEN COMPOSITED OR INVENTED, AND A NUMBER OF INCIDENTS FICTIONALIZED.

THIS MOTION PICTURE IS PROTECTED UNDER THE LAWS OF THE UNITED STATES AND OTHER COUNTRIES. UNAUTHORIZED DUPLICATION, DISTRIBUTION OR EXHIBITION MAY RESULT IN CIVIL LIABILITY AND CRIMINAL PROSECUTION.

IN MEMORY OF BILLY GRAHAM

Unbroken: Path to Redemption: A Brief History of Louis Zamperini’s Journey published first on http://womenoffaith.com

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