#keep in mind this is a military man who listens to country and old rock

[uhzuku]

i’ve had my dad hooked on lady gaga and kesha since i was like twelve and it’s finally my sister’s turn 👹👹

[rescue-ram]

Okay my actual answer:

I think Frank is a bit of a joyless creature who struggles to truly and unselfconsciously Enjoy himself, and would be more preoccupied with what kind of music he Should like rather than the kind of music he Actually likes.

So in modern terms, I think he would force himself to like "bro country" and classic rock and obsessively cultivate the Correct Opinions on who the best guitarist of all time is so he can win any potential argument, because that's what a Real Military Man would like.

I don't know enough about popular music in the 30s-50s to be specific, but same vibe for canon time period. He probably really likes, like, Sinatra, because he's Cool. I think he would purposely eschew jazz and blues because Racism, but I think it would be funny if he's never actually seen Cab Calloway and thinks he's white and constantly makes comments about how good he is. He could probably be persuaded to see one classical performance a year for Appearances Sake, but he'd get nervous that actually being moved was gay and constantly make little biting comments about how effette and intellectual the whole thing was under his breath.

My humorous answer:

Musical Theater and in the modern parlance "music for the girls and gays" but he DOES NOT acknowledge this at all and will stridently refuse to acknowledge any Themes at all.

A lot of musical theater is very heterosexual in story, and Frank is offended by any implication that there could be something 💅 about liking it. What sort of red blooded American male wouldn't enjoy seeing a beautiful young woman sing?? Huh?? What's wrong with that?? And then he gets really into the numbers about which productions are successful and who's are flops, and dishing on gossip about who's sleeping with who, etc. He lovesssss the Drama and being pandered to by highly accessible musical theater. Also he probably has some sort of contrarian opinion that the arts scene in Indiana is far superior to Broadway because they're more authentically American or something.

Also the idea of modern Hawkeye borrowing Frank's iPod to play tunes while they're driving to the new site for the MASH unit (so they don't have to talk) and it's literally the playlist of a 45 year old gay man- nothing but Madonna, Queen, Boy George, Elton John, Kate Bush, etc. but Frank Will Not Acknowledge Any Implications

Frank: I keep telling you, I just like what was on the radio when I was younger, your filthy mind is the only one that sees anything untoward about that!

Hawkeye: I'm just saying, you were listening to a pretty damn specific radio station. The same one my uncle and his roommate of twenty years listen to, in fact.

Frank: Oh shut up! I am sick to death of arguing with you! Go put on playlist 2, that's where I keep my modern music. I'm sure it will appeal to your "millennial" sensibilities

Hawkeye: ...You listen to Chappel Roan???

Frank: Oh, what's the problem with her!?

Hawkeye: ...you know what? Nothing. Good luck babe ❤️

Random question: What kind of music do you think Frank would listen to/enjoy? I don't care if it's modern or actually period appropriate. I'm just genuinely curious as to what you guys think?

Because I can't imagine him being actually into classical music like Charles

But I also can't picture him being into more jaunty tunes like Mulcahy

What do you fine people think?

[writefightandflightclub]

“One word from you and I will jump off of this ledge I’m on, baby.” - First Love / Late Spring (Mitski)

Pairing + genre: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x reader. Hurt / comfort + angst.

Summary: Santi is the sorta man who keeps his promises, and he promised to be there for you always and forever. All you have to do is say the word.

Author’s note: this one hurt me. Word count: 6k (SORRY!)

Warnings: panic attack  / aftermath = a major / central theme. Allusions to prior trauma (non-specific). One mention of blood. ANGST.

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.” - Frankie Morales

Years of cruel awakenings in the military had made Pope an especially light sleeper. Luckily, out here in the suburbs, he was significantly less likely to be awoken with a grenade through the window. So, when his cell phone rings, wresting him rudely from slumber, he almost allows himself to be blasé about it. To just hit the red button and turn over.

But it’s still pitch dark. Too late -or too early- for this wake-up call to be something routine. So, Pope’s arm pokes out from beneath the covers as he fumbles blindly for his phone. He brings it to his ear wordlessly, voice still grogged by sleep. If he expects anything at all, it’s for the caller to be Catfish - drunk and checking-in on his sorry ass again.

“Santi?”

Instead, it is your panicked voice -swaddled in tell-tale signs of danger- which slices through the dark like the blade of an enemy combatant, yanking Pope harshly from his haze. Flinging off the coiled ropes of sleep, he is instantly firing on all cylinders, his body responding in much the same way as he might to enemy fire; preparing to counter a threat. To eliminate whatever is hurting you, with as much speed and precision as possible.

“Shit. I’ll be right there.”

Pope throws the covers off and he’s already awake and moving, even before he can comprehend exactly what’s wrong. He knows enough. He knows that something is wrong. And he knows he’s going to be there for you, like he promised he always would be.

He tugs on his nearest sweats and tumbles through his house in the dark, adrenaline pumping through him as he barrels his way across the landing, stubbing his toe more than once on the strewn piles of unpacked boxes. Pope’s breath seethes through his teeth and he curses, momentarily wondering if he’s grown soft since he was discharged; he could swear bullet wounds never used to slow him down as much as a big toe clipped on the corner of a box.

Continuing to shake the remaining webs of sleep from his head -and actually remembering the layout of his new house- Pope presses on. He throws himself down his staircase, missing the last five stairs. He is straining to decipher your words on the other end of the line all the while, to little avail.

He speedily wrestles on a jacket and scoops his car keys out of the bowl by his front door, quickly toeing on odd shoes before he scrambles from his house and slots himself behind the wheel of his truck. Pope’s heart is hammering blood around his body as he slots his cell into the car phone holder and powers the car down his driveway, all less than a minute from waking.

He’s a mess of worry as he hears you cry blearily through the speaker, and he bridges his fingers against his forehead in frustration when he can barely interpret a single word of it.

“Cariño, listen. I’ll be right there. You at home?”

All he can make out is a “no” and “driving” and not much else, and he panics.

“Fuck.”, he curses, under his breath, as he realises he’s not going to get anything useful out of you in your current state.

Pope sucks air in through his teeth with frustration. He can’t eliminate the threat if he doesn’t know what it is, and there’s nothing Santi finds more terrifying than not knowing what he’s up against. Nothing more terrifying than being unable to execute a plan. To fix a problem with lethal precision.

“Just sit tight, okay? Just stay there. I’m coming to you, cariño.”

He pulls up a tracker app to establish where you are, and he puts pedal to the metal, driving far faster than he should. There’s no way he’s going to let a speed limit or some pesky stop lights stand between him and getting to you as quickly as possible.

Following directions to your location, Santi eventually finds your truck strewn in the middle of an intersection, door flung open. It looks reminiscent of something from out in the field, as if you’ve been strewn from your vehicle by a blast.

As Pope pulls around, his eagle eyes immediately locate your shadowed form crouching on the lip of the sidewalk, face buried to your knees. He parks abysmally, his heart throbbing, and legs it over to you, his movements tactical and efficient.

When he reaches you, Pope crouches down in front of you without a care for those bad knees of his. When he reaches you, everything ceases to be tactical or lethal. Everything about him is suddenly soft and haphazard, and he’s pawing gently at you and looking over you for any harm, examining your eyes for clues as you regard him like a sheepish animal.

You don’t appear to be physically hurt, but your skin is sheening, your face tear-stained, hands trembling and eyes glassy. 

“Sweetie. Hermosa, look at me. What happened?” Pope asks, his voice both soothing and insistent as he gingerly tips your head upward with his strong hand to search your vacant eyes.

You don’t answer though, and so, recognising the aftermath of a likely panic attack -knowing how they manifest for you- Pope comes to sit behind you on the sidewalk edge, slotting his legs either side of the trunk of your body and wrapping you firmly in the circumference of him. He pulls you tightly to his chest, bundling your clammy arms and hands into his embrace.

Pope shushes and soothes and rocks you. He brushes your hair back from your sweaty face. He lets your tears fall wet on to his hands as he clasps them in front of you. And through it, Pope does his best to present a picture of calm, despite his terror at seeing you so distressed. He forces his breathing to remain slow and deep and steady, until your own stunted breaths are somewhat in sync with the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

“I got you. You’re safe,” he mumbles into your hair, into the crook of your neck, hooking his head over your shoulder, all stubble and grizzled curls nuzzling up against you. “You’re safe. You know that, cariño?” He soothes, encourages. “Tell me yes, baby. Come on.”

“Yeah,” you finally push out, voice scrubbed clean. 

The inflection of your voice hurts Santi. Boy, does he know that feeling. Your voice sounds strung out; tense, and spread thin. Somehow you sound on high alert, burning and raw... but at the same time, empty and numb. Like a shocked, ravaged fruit, scooped-out.

It manifests differently for Pope -nightmares mainly- but he knows. He understands. You’d both done more than your share of dark things that insisted on following you out from the military. The resulting pain had always been a bedfellow lying under the covers between you, pushing you further and further apart as it nuzzled its way into your chests, causing hearts to crash and ribs to bruise like roll cages.

“You’re ok, sweetie. You’re doing good.”, he reminds you. “That’s it.”

You’re still tense against him, all of your muscles stacked and coiled like an angry snake, your legs bouncing agitatedly; yet at the same time there is no intention in your body. You are aimless. Firing on all cylinders but with no target - nothing in your sight. No tangible threat to eliminate.

Pope knows all too well that the most elusive enemy of all is the kind in your head. Still, your breaths become slower, more level. And now that your physical symptoms appear to be calming, body levelling, Santi tries his best to bring your mind back too. Tries to ground you in everything real and tangible. 

“Focus up for me, ok? You know the drill. What can you smell?”

You are silent, and he gives you a gentle jostle in his arms. He wishes he could see your face properly, but you are still staring dead ahead. 

“Come on, hermosa. Try for me.”, he pleads, and something must finally reach you.

When your voice finally comes, to Pope it’s like the first bloom of spring after a long winter.

“I can smell peach trees. Balmy air. Gasoline.”

He finally unclenches a little himself, as you begin talking. “Good. What can you see?”

Your hair brushes against his neck as you subtly swivel your head around the scene. “Grey. Asphalt. A badly parked car. But also... spring. Buds and blades of grass peeking through the cracks.”

Santi similarly scans his eyes around the intersection and empty lot in your view. “Shit. You’re fuckin’ poetic, baby.” He would have just said trucks. Maybe would’ve recited a few number plates he’d accidentally memorised already - old habits die hard.

Pope smiles softly to himself as he is reminded of the way you see things. Differently. More softly. You always saw him more softly. You didn’t see him as a killer. You saw the buds peeping through the cracks. You loved him like spring.

“You’re doing good, cariño. Keep it up. What can you hear?”

“Your voice. The hum of the pylons against the hot, damp air.”

Santi is calm, practically mesmerised by you as you speak. He swallows thickly, as he holds you against him. “What can you feel?”

You take a deep breath then, before speaking, your chest straining against his circling arms as your rib cage expands. Your voice is fuller when it flows from your lips, and it is only then - finally, that you sink into him, allowing relief to take you. “I can feel you.”

“You back with me, huh? Come on, keep going. Let’s finish this.”, he encourages, his breath billowing over the back of your neck.

“I can feel... my heart in my chest, the air on my face. Wet tears there. Your warm skin on mine, and your body sturdy against me. Your breath warm, your stubble rough on my neck. The hairs on your arms tickling against me. I can feel the metal bobbles of your chain digging into the flesh of my shoulder.”

Your hands start to slip over Pope’s arms and hands as you become more and more grounded, seeking out more textures. Touch always grounds you like nothing else.

The more grounded you become - the more your touch skims over him- the more Pope rises, swept away like spring blossoms on balmy air, sweet and helpless. Then, your fingers skim over his watch, running over its glassy face. Over the ridges of his knuckles. You stop abruptly when you reach the cool, smooth wedding band on his ring finger.

Pope tries not to let his heart break into pieces as you pause, rotating the ring ever so slightly between your fingertips. 

Grounded, back to yourself, you swivel your head towards Pope, turning to where his face nestles at the junction of your shoulder. “I feel... safe,” you say, bringing your palm up to the side of his face, your stare no longer vacant like a house with empty windows, but lit with the soft glow of home.

You’ve come back to him, and you’re inviting him in. 

“You are safe. I’ve got your six, ok?”

“I know you do. And I’ve got your zero through twelve.”

Pope smiles sentimentally, as you recite your old phrase, the feeling bittersweet like unripe peaches.

How he wishes you would really come back to him. Invite him in.

Pope narrows his eyes fondly at you. You have mascara streaking down your cheeks. Tear-plumped eyes. And you’re beautiful. He could kiss you. Wants to. But this moment is not about his comfort, so, instead, he presses his palm over yours and asks you gently:

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He feels you stiffen slightly against him.

“Take your time.”, he soothes, running his fingers up and down your arms, absent-mindedly dipping his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume. Light notes of first loves and late spring. 

“It’s dumb,” you say, leaning your head back on to his chest. “I was driving home from...”, you appear to cut yourself off, snapping your lips shut, and it is only then that Santi properly clocks your attire.

Oh. Okay. Well, shit.

That’s a “date” dress if ever he saw one.

He wants to either fight or to retreat. To take some action, deploy some strategy. He wants to beg you to be with him instead. He wants to. But he tries to swallow his heartache down. This isn’t a time for his pain. So, he simply buries it right down with all the rest; shutting himself off. Eyes becoming vacant windows. 

“And then what?” he prompts softly, neutrally, giving you an easy way to bridge the glaring gap in your story.

“Nothing. It was nothing.” You shake your head disbelievingly as you recall it. “A car backfired behind me. It became bullets,” you continue, voice monotone, brow troubled, eyes searching like the sweep of headlights. “Tires screeching became screams. The stop light glaring down on my hands, became red like blood.” You shrug, tugging in a long breath only to huff it out in frustration, voice hollowed-out again. “Then, I was back there, Santi. I was right back there. I’m such a fucking cliché.”

Pope smooths his hands over your shoulders as he feels your muscles recoil against him. This is one of the times he doesn’t envy your poetry, at all. When your trauma is a scribe which can translate everyday things into a metaphor for your pain. All Pope can offer is to look at you with comprehension. Understanding. It’s no use telling you it wasn’t real. He knows how real it can feel, in the moment. All he can do is gently kiss your hair. Hold you a little tighter. Be here for you, like he promised.

Pope wishes he could take all this pain from you. If there was a way, he gladly would. In a heartbeat. But a fine job he did of that; when he was with you, he had only seemed to hurt you more.

He shakes the clingy webs of pain from his own mind. The nightmares clawing at him sometimes even while waking. “Then what?” Santi probes gently.

“I guess I got out of the truck. Parked like a shithead. And that’s when I called you.”

You twist your head back towards him, nipping your lip guiltily between your teeth in realisation. “I’m so sorry. It’s so late.”

Pope’s face becomes pinched and he looks down at the asphalt. “Don’t apologise,” he says sincerely. “I promised you always and forever. I still mean that.”

Gratefully, seemingly overcome with broiling emotion, you press a chaste, sentimental kiss to Pope’s lips, even as other more broken promises linger and mingle in the air between you.

With the shock of your lips on his, Pope finally stands, helping you delicately to your feet with him. “You wanna walk it off or shall we drive straight home?” Well, shit. It’s not his home anymore. “I mean, I’ll drive you... you know what I mean,” he trails off, sheepishly. 

You fold your arms over yourself, separating from him. But still you say warmly: “Can we go home, Santi?”

He looks at you, forcing his eyes to remain warm and soft. Guarding the perimeter of his heart. Refusing to let the pain creep in. Still, he knows a late frost can kill off those shoots which dare to venture out into the fickle sunlight. He won’t let happiness bloom either.

Instead, he wraps one sturdy arm around you -giving your shoulders a squeeze- and nods, insisting he’ll be right back with you as soon as he’s parked your truck up “less like a shithead”. He promises to swing by and collect if for you later but for now, you bundle into his truck and he leans across you to clip you securely into the passenger seat.

Then, Pope drives. Much more calmly than he had en route to you, keeping the movements of the car as soporific as possible as he winds through the quiet, dimly lit suburbs.

Every now and again, his eyes flick over to check on you. Your head is turned away from him, as you watch the dark scenes slip by the black hole of the window pane.

“You don’t have to watch me, Santi,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He swears you must have eyes in the back of your head. Or maybe you know him too well.

“Mm-hmm,” he says, dubiously.

You turn towards him then and stupidly he looks away, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road rather than looking at you directly. As if he might turn to stone if he your eyes meet his. 

God, he wants to look at you. He’s missed your face far too much to waste so much time not looking.

“I’m okay.”, you insist again.

“I know,” he says softly. Not with any pity, mind; only empathy. Pope’s good with other people’s pain. It’s his own he can’t get a handle on. Too much baggage to carry.

“I really thought I had it under control.”, you say, your prior conviction wavering.

His eyes flick to you then, your gazes finally meeting and sparking like the switch to a warm, porch light. Familiar. Instantly warm.

“You did, until you didn’t,” he says plainly. “And you will again.”

You throw your hand on to Pope’s thigh to deliver a grateful squeeze, but then you’re looking out of the window again. As if you can’t have too much of him at once; can’t give too much of yourself at once. Can’t open up all your rooms lest you might invite him in to stay. Keep him distant like a guest in the parlour. Keep your head turned as if you’re walking away from him and you can’t look back, only ahead. Don’t invite him into your bed.

With a sigh, and a bridged hand rasping over the stubble at his clenched jaw, Pope pulls the truck into your driveway, engine gently humming until he slips the key out of the ignition.

He pats your thigh this time, to break your stare out of the black hole of the window. You look back at him wistfully. “Come on then, drama queen.”, he teases, boldly, his heart thrilling when the faintest ghost of a smile glints in your eyes.

Pope opens up the front door and leads you upstairs, following the familiar route to the master bedroom. He guides you to the edge of the bed, with a broad hand on the small of your back, and settles you down before flicking on the bedside lamp, a soft glow pooling in the room. Then, he gets down on his bad knees again to ease off your shoes.

His eyes flick around. Pope is always observing. Now he’s observing your life without him. He glances over to your tented paperback on the bedside table. He guesses you’ve started sleeping on his side of the bed since he’s been gone, then? He decides to push that hurt down with all the rest as he wonders vaguely if that was to feel closer to him. His face becomes taut.

“Santi?” you breathe, sucking his attention back as he kneels in front of you, and he deliberately softens his face. Your hands are pressed firmly down on your thighs, as if you need to weigh them down. As if your hands could so easily rise up to wind in his curls, like a spring breeze through a mess and flurry of cherry blossoms. You always saw something fresh in him. Saw poetry. Always saw what was possible, rather than the winters he had weathered.

You were always looking ahead. Oh, how he’d tried to look with you. To believe that he could still bloom. But that summer never came. He was simply glimpses of buds through cracks, never flowering.

“You wanna take a bath?”, Pope asks, throwing up the words like a shield, standing up stiffly. 

You nod slowly. “Yeah. That sounds nice. My muscles hurt.”

“Ok.”, he says, as brightly as possible. “I’ll draw you a bath, Princesa. And I’ll make you some warm lemonade while the water’s running. We got lemonade?”

Shit. He said it again. “We.”

Old habits die hard.

He supposes he can forgive himself the mistake, as he’s here with his home, in his house.

Shit. Your house. It’s your house now.

So, Pope potters busily around your house and sees to what you need, seeing ghosts of his own happiness and pain as he ambles from room to room. Trauma penning dark poetry across everyday scenes.

An apparition of you dancing to Metallica in the kitchen while you cook up pancakes. An image of you splayed out across the couch as you snuggle down, smile broad, ready for a day of watching Disney movies with him, arms outstretched to tug him in to your embrace. 

The kitchen floor where you’d had The Talk. Where you’d cried together for hours, backs up against the cabinets and knees drawn in to your chests until you’d finally decided. Decided that it hurt so much to be with him, that the inconceivable hurt of being apart would somehow feel like relief. Pope could never forgive himself for that. For hurting you that much. All he’d ever tried to do was keep his pain away from you, but it had still found you. It had snook around his perimeter and taken you down.

Always a killer. Always lethal.  Would he ever be anything else?

Pope’s pain flares again now but he pushes it down. Pushes it down again. Pushes it down. And he pads almost serenely up the stairs, coming to your aid. Coming to your aid, like always.

He lets you have a few sips of the warm, sugary lemonade. An old custom to steady the nerves after such a draining event - without resorting to hard liquor, at least. Once you’ve had plenty, Pope bends and lifts you from your perch on the bed, unceremoniously carrying you, bridal style, to the en suite. He sets you gently down by the edge of the tub.

Still not seeming entirely like yourself -still shaken and likely completely sapped from the earlier onslaught- Pope takes matters into his own hands.

“Okay, first things first, Winter Soldier,” he grins gently, taking in your mascara-smudged eyes. “Where’s that bottle of oily shit you rub on your face?”

You smile tentatively, grasping a bottle from the bathroom counter. “I can do it,” you state.

“I know, but you don’t have to, Princesa. Just let me take care of you.” Gently, but insistently, Pope takes the bottle from your hands and grabs a handful of those cotton rounds he’s watched you use before. He asks you to sit on the edge of the tub and tip your face-up to him, and he wipes the mess away from you as best he can.  

Once he’s disposed of the cotton rounds and rinsed his hands, he turns back to you, asking reverently, “Can I help you get your dress off?”

He sees mild apprehension flash across your face at the thought of him undressing you. He’d hate more than anything to make you uncomfortable. After all, just because he’s seen you naked before doesn’t mean he’s entitled to now. So, he waves his finger in the air mysteriously before receding into the bedroom.

Pope returns momentarily, with a big, loose nightshirt from your sleepwear drawer, gathering the material in his fingers until it forms a loop he can ease on over your head.

“You with me, cariño?” he asks. “Do that magic fuckin’ thing. Whip your bra out of your sleeve.”

Catching his gist, you let the shirt fall over you, shimmying yourself out of your dress and underwear whilst preserving your modesty. Pope offers an arm to hold you steady as you step one leg and then the next out of your clothing, respectfully averting his gaze all the while. Then, his arm steadies you as you step over the edge of the tub and into the warm, welcoming water.

For a moment, you don’t lie down. You just stand there. You look so vulnerable in that moment that Pope can’t help but reach out for your hand to grip in his. He watches in earnest as a question rises on your lips.

“Will you stay with me?” you ask him in the smallest of voices, clutching his hand tightly.

“What do you think I’m doing, hermosa?” he whispers, his eyes kind and smiling.

With that, your eyes brim with grateful tears. But you evidently feel free to crouch and then stretch yourself out in the tub. You submerge yourself fully for a moment in the warm bubbly depths, the stirring water wafting aromatic scents of spring around the room.

Pope watches as you dip yourself and arise from out of the water like a mermaid, your hair slicked back from your face and your soaked t-shirt clinging to your skin. 

“Mi sirenita,” Pope breathes affectionately, suddenly unable to push it all down.

He loves you, and old habits die hard.

“Santi?” you suspire, water droplets beading on your eyelashes like diamonds.

“Yeah?” Pope asks with apprehension, feeling like he’s about to stray out of secure territory.

“Get in with me?”

Santi hesitates, rasping his hand over his stubble again. Wishing he had his baseball cap to pull down over his eyes to obscure his emotions. For real? You want him to climb into the tub with you?

Pope examines your eyes for any sign of danger. Of hunger. But you simply look like you’re hurting. Like you need him. And Pope will always be there when you need him. He doesn’t know another way.

“Sure,” he gives in with a nod of his head, voice soft. “Make some room behind you.”

You oblige, folding your knees so he has room to slip in. Pope kicks off his shoes and -still in his t-shirt and sweatpants- plunges into the water. His clothes quickly become clingy and heavy with wetness, but he slots himself in behind you, wrapping his arms like he had on that sidewalk, and you languish your head back on his firm yet comfortable chest.

You both recline there wordlessly, until you seem entirely calm. Until all the bubbles have burst, and the water starts to feel cold. You both lie there as long as you possibly can.

Eventually, you wrap your arms around yourself too, your hands coming to rest on top of Pope’s. Your touch traverses absent-mindedly over his fingers, his knuckles, and again, inevitably over his wedding band.

Pope can feel the questions almost writhing their way out of your body, like coiled snakes. More than likely, you’re about to ask him why he still wears it. Why his sorry ass can’t seem to think about ever taking it off. Still, as you tug in a breath to launch your words, it suspires out of you as wordlessly as it arrived. Perhaps you’d felt him tense against you and decided to spare him the humiliation. Perhaps you didn’t want to hear his answer.

A few minutes later, when you eventually find the inclination to speak again, the words launched on your breath aren’t questions at all. Your hands skim over his arms, your fingertips pruning and wet, your bathtub touch slick and kissing whelks on to his skin.

“I... I wanted to take care of you too. But you wouldn’t let me.” You pause momentarily, breath caught in your chest as if you’re awaiting retaliation. When all you get back is silence, you take that as license to continue, your voice achingly small and trembling. “I worry that you stopped fighting for us because you didn’t believe you were worth fighting for. And, Santi, mi alma, I just need you to know that you were always good enough. You were never too broken for me. I wanted to take care of you, and I just...” You pause to huff air out between your lips, like you’re about to deliver a punch, or maybe like you’re preparing to be struck by one. “...Even if it doesn’t end up being me. Please, let someone take care of you next time, okay?”

Pope stills against you as your fingers worry over his. He feels like his heart has risen into his throat and that he’s choking on it. He feels like everything he has pushed down for so long is fighting to burst out. He lifts his hands away from yours to palm the tears from his face, very suddenly realising how cold the water has gone.

But he still can’t find the words to name his pain. Now is when he envies your poetry. Pope only knows how to use his words a shield, or to attack. He doesn’t know how to make flowers out of them.

“Ok, come on, sugar. Time to get out, ok?”

You shift forward, folding in on your knees, and Pope is staring at the back of your head again, as if his love for you only exists now in a house of mirrors. You’re looking ahead, to the next time, the next love, and yet he is still lost. Still stuck. He can’t find a route out of his pain.

He couldn’t be who you needed. Even when all you’d needed this whole time was him. He couldn’t even be that. He’d shut himself down. Shut himself off from you because he thought his pain would wreck you. And that was the thing that had wrecked you, in the end; that he was gone. Trapped in a house of mirrors. Vacant behind his eyes, which has used to glow like warm, familiar porch lights. He wouldn’t let you in. He wanted to. But he couldn’t find the door.

You heave yourself out of the tub and finally spin towards him. He sees the tears on your own cheeks too. “Yeah. Time to get out,” you intone glumly.

Pope knows you’re not only talking about the tub. It’s time. To finally look ahead.

You offer him your hand and he emerges from the water, his clothes sodden.

“¿Si soy una sirena? Tu eres Flounder.” The atmosphere is too heavy to laugh, but you tentatively chew on a fond smile. “What are you gonna wear now, idiota?” you ask.

“Shit, I didn’t think this through,” Pope admits, then looks at you quizzically when he registers your playful words. “Pero yo soy Sebastian, por supuesto. ¡No soy ese pececito feo!”

Your smile expands, just a little. “I still have some of your old stuff. Don’t be mad - I kept that Metallica t-shirt, for one.” 

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Pope chides, eyes shining softly.

You squeeze his hand and disappear momentarily to find him some clothes, turning away as you both towel off and dress side-by-side.

“Ok, well I better leave you to it.” Pope suggests abruptly, if only to shield himself. You seem better. Happier. He should leave before his own pain drags you down again. Or before he lets himself feel happy. 

“Stay, Santi. Let’s just be broken together, for a minute.”

He looks at you, pained, as if you’re being cruel to him, his heart fluttering like a bird in his rib cage.

“Please?” you beg in a broken, resigned voice. Scooped-out, wringing your hands together. “It feels like the end...” your face scrunches up as you bite back tears “...so please just stay one more time. Just lay on your side of the bed, and fall asleep next to me? Please.”

Pope tries to remember all the bullet wounds he’s suffered, because he could swear this hurts more. He could swear he’s bleeding out as you plead with him. As you talk about this ending. Pope always called you “mi Vida”, so it’s no wonder that your words feel like death; like the cruellest kind of poetry.

As he faces you, Pope’s blood is pounding in his body like he’s getting ready to run. When did you start to feel like a threat? Weren’t you on the same team?

“Santi.”

Still, one word from you, and Pope can’t refuse.

“Okay,” he agrees. Anything for you, even if it hurts him. “Go ahead and get under the covers.”

You oblige and he flicks out the light before coming to lie next to you on top of the duvet. On “his side” of the bed.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, his words like flowers as he throws an arm over the shadowed form of you. 

One word from you and Pope is there. No matter what you need.

But when it comes to his own pain? The pain that was always a shadowed bedfellow between you? Pope can’t find the words. He doesn’t have your poetry. He can’t imagine the possibility of healing. Of blooming.

Being stalked by a threat he can’t name? Can’t give form to? Nothing scares Pope more than a target he can’t fight, because if he can’t fight it, how in the hell can he protect you from it? How could he protect you from his pain? From all of his bullshit?

One word from you and Pope would jump.

He would jump off of that ledge he’s on and fall right into your love again. He would love you like he did in late spring. When the air had smelled like peaches.

Pope would do it differently this time. He would let things bloom. Or, he would at least try. He would try to find the words, like you always do.

He wishes. He wishes you would invite him back in. Wishes you would say the word. But nothing ever comes.

You’re already falling asleep by his side, maybe for the last time.

So, instead, Pope’s gone by the time morning comes. You find his ring laid out on your dresser, along with a note.

“Mi vida. I’m here for you any time of the day or night. Always and forever. Siempre te querré, mi alma. I know I fucked some things up, but I sure as hell don’t need a ring to keep that promise. Santi xxx xxx P.s. Me llevé mi camisa Metallica - I’ll have Frankie drop it back to you, cariño. Looks better on you anyway. xxx xxx.”

Maybe one day Pope would learn to accept that some things are messy. That not everything can be solved with precision. That sometimes, instead of trying to fix everything, it’s okay to be broken; together.

Pope had broken many promises to you along the way, when he became the soldier who had stopped fighting. But there was at least one he could keep.

If you need him, he’ll be there for you.

Always and forever.

************************

“This is a man who keeps his oaths, his promises. To his country, to his friends. One word is all it takes, and Pope will be there for you in a heartbeat. He isn’t the kind of man to let a team member down, and, believe me, once you’re on his squad? You’re on it for life. Forever and always.

How am I doing so far, boys? Doing okay? Yikes. I’m nervous. Okay.

That’s how I know -yeah, I’ve got this- that you two are going to make it work. Because Pope doesn’t know how to let people down, not once they’re on his team. He keeps fighting, no matter what.

He’s the kinda guy you want watching your six. Once he is, you’ll never look back, and you shouldn’t. Because you two are a team now, and everything is ahead of you. You’re a team for life.

Husband and wife.

And you know what my absolute favourite thing about all of this is? Mi hermano. You have found a woman who has your back too.

Todos, you know what she replies when Pope says “I’ve got your six”? She says “I’ve got your zero through twelve”. Isn’t that a-fucking adorable? Even if it is tactically questionable. Jejejejejeje. (I know, I know, laughing at my own jokes.) So, man. Pope. Santiago. I know you can be a stubborn ass, but let her take care of you too, okay?

You deserve it, hermano. I love you.

So, cheers, to the bride and groom. By the way... I don’t know how Pope bagged this one ‘cause she’s way out of his league... For real. But... Oh shit, where was I? Oh yeah, that’s it.... thank you, Tom. You finally came in useful. Jejejejejeje.

Yeah. Cheers, to the bride and groom.

You’re not soldiers anymore, and you don’t need to follow orders. Only your hearts. (Damn right you’re crying. I pulled out all the stops for this, you sap.) But, my dear, dear friends. You don’t technically need to fight anymore, but may you always keep fighting.

Stay with me...

Keep fighting for each other. If you do that, I know you two are destined for a lifetime of happiness. I know we tease you for being a sap and being whipped but honestly, my man, your love? The two of you, together as a team? It’s beautiful, bro.

That’s squad goals right there.

And, Princesa? Pope’s knees might give out imminently. (We have a sweepstake that they’ll give out during the first dance. Jejejejejejeje.)

But his love for you? Chiquita, that ain’t ever gonna quit.

(You ready for this?)

Just like that man’s ass!

Woo! Yes- fuckin’ killin’ this speech, right? Not a dry eye in the house. Pope’s bawling like a mother fuckin’ baby. (Sorry for the language, abuela.)

Right, what was I saying? Thanks, Tom. Getting some mileage out of you today. Makes a fuckin’ change. Jejejejejejejeje.

I was saying, chiquita, that... wow. This man’s love for you? That’s always and forever. And I know, I know he’ll keep that promise. Because Pope is the kinda man who keeps his promises.”

~ Excerpt from Frankie “Catfish” Morales’ triumphant best man speech, on the happiest day of your life. The day you married Santiago Garcia. 

***********************

You awake, and you roll Pope’s ring in between your fingers.

“¿Santi, mi corazón? Ven a casa. Come home.”

You wish he would come home.

Most of all, you wish you could find the courage to say the word.

THE END

Want more? Here’s my first Santi one-shot, which has angst and smut: Ride or Die.

I write for Poe (my main man), Santi, Nathan, Evgeni, Finn. Masterlist here. 

Feedback in an ask or comment will make my day.

Thank you for reading!

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[angel-squid-trash-ghost]

Parental Guidance Pt.3

"You have a lot of explaining to do Iroh.” The Fire Lord’s voice rumbled on the marble walls.

“I can begin anywhere you like, brother.” Iroh kept his face impassive yet still retained his natural smirk.

“You can begin by telling me why you kidnapped the Prince!” The Fire Lord bellowed.

Iroh was no fool. And at times neither was his brother. But Ozai was a glutton for flattery, “I simply was doing what was best for the country. I could not allow my honorable brother to taint his hands in scandal. When our late father, may he be resting in the hands of Agni, had tasked you with the elimination of the prince, of course I did not question. When Lady Ursa foolishly disrupted, the task was not completed. I only did what a good brother would do and tried to help the best way I could.”

“By taking him from the palace alive.” Ozai’s nose started to flare.

“Yes of course!  Seeing the boy board alive raised no suspicions. I was free to help on the open ocean. Away from listening ears and prying eyes. And alas, I was handed the perfect solution. When our ship sunk it took many lives including the Prince’s. The people weep for him in the streets as we speak.” Iroh held back the bile creeping up his throat.

“I do not care what they are doing in the streets. They seem to be weeping about something all of the time. Is it not enough that I am conquering the world for them?”

“Oh but, brother, their tears can be used to your advantage. Appear to them and share in their losses of their own sons with yours. You will have them not just by their minds but also their hearts. They will see you as you truly are. A man who just wants what is best for his people.”

“I do not care what’s best for them. I want glory! Victory! I’ll let them starve if it means the rest of The Earth Kingdom!” Ozai thundered. The sound rung for seconds after. He breathed out smoke regaining his prim posture. “But I can see the appeal in that strategy.”

“You are wise and will make the best decision.” Iroh bowed. Only for a moment. He didn’t trust his brother not to throw fire at his head.

Ozai laughed, “So, what decision should I make about you? I should burn you alive. Or at least imprison you. Your attempt of help could have been a disaster.”

“But the spirits were on my side. Everything happened as it should have. Now the Prince is no longer a problem and you, dear brother, are Fire Lord.” Iroh fought the strain in his smile.

“True again.” Ozai looked to be pondering something. “Alright I have made a decision. We will use the Prince’s unfortunate death to win the people over. They will be allowed to pity me and then love me more. Then I will continue taking what belongs to us and they will worship me forever.” Ozai said pleased with himself.

“An excellent judgment.” Iroh nodded. He waited patiently for Ozai to say more.

“And about you. I don’t think our father would have wanted me to kill you. He would have just made the request if he did. I will allow you to keep your life. I may need you later.”

“A thousand thanks to you, your majesty.” Iroh himself thought he sounded a little forced.

“The news spreading of a dead royal child will surely knock the memories of your failure at Ba Sing Se right out of their simple heads.”

“Indeed.” Iroh bit his tongue. Ozai had not stopped mentioning the failed siege. He wished to insult his military career forgetting it was where Iroh lost his only child. Or perhaps he did not forget. He did try to murder his own son.

“If you ever move without my permission again, I will string you up in the middle of Caldera and set you aflame myself.” Ozai warped his mouth into a wicked grin.

Iroh was keen to change the subject in case Ozai thought too long on it. “Very understandable. Maybe we can start new with a nice cup of tea.”

“Yes.”

               Servants reappeared a short time later with everything Iroh needed. He took the teapot into his hands and heated the water to the proper temperature. Iroh had not forgiven himself for abandoning Zuko and probably never would. He prayed every night he was still alive. He hadn’t expected the Water tribesman especially a Southern one, to be so unafraid of him. Then maybe they had gotten rid of Zuko and his nephew was truly dead. Iroh had tried to apologize that night as him and his men made their escape. Hopefully, it was enough to make the chieftain understand.

               A piece of his heart was with Zuko. Another with his wife. Another with his son. The last bit he would try to give to Azula. Ozai’s second child. Iroh knew without the intervention of Ursa, Ozai would sink his talons into her and sear her with his hatred for everything not golden eyed and draped in red. Fortunately Azula was still a toddler and had more of a chance.

“So how is the Princess Azula progressing.” Iroh poured the tea.

“A cup of tea and you go rambling on like an old man.”

“A cup of wine and you ramble on like a mad one.” Iroh jested.

Ozai did not seem to mind, “Well her tutors say she is doing well. She is learning to write the formal characters.”

“Write? She is barely three years of age.” Iroh took a long sip.

“Yes. She is a prodigy. She’s excelling in teachings created for children twice her age. The sages have determined she will be a bender.”

Iroh caught his paternal tone and tried to hold onto it. “Oh good news.”

“Very good. I like her much more than the first one. The other one was always whining. I blame myself. I allowed him to be around his mother too much. Not this time. Azula will be the perfect heir.” His brother’s smile had not wavered once.

 Iroh balked at what was considered to be a normal chat at tea in the court. He pressed on pouring another round, “And if I may ask, where is the Lady Ursa now?”

“Not that it is any of your business, but I had her branded and banished. But she has probably taken her own life by now.”

“Maybe.” Iroh said sadly.

It was almost certainly true. He wouldn’t blame her any.

…………………………….................................................................................

               Zuko rolled over in his furs. He settled into the warmth that encircled him. He was still getting used to the cold. It wasn’t too bad until the wind blew. He looked across the floor to Katara. Katara was nice. She called him friend. She was teaching him how to talk like her. He was teaching her some of his words too. Every day he woke up; earlier than the rest, looking forward to sitting with Katara and learning new things. He squirmed closer to her. She never seemed to mind even when he did wake her. She’d always smiled at him before lolling back to sleep.

The next person to wake would be Sir. Sir always sat up, looked to his left, say something, and then fully arise. Zuko always pretended he was asleep. He’d watch Sir dress himself with his chiefly fittings and unwrap his great whale bone spear. He wished he was allowed to hold it. Not even Kanna picked it up.

               Zuko watched Sir leave. He wasn’t sure if Sir ever noticed he was awake. Zuko had a difficult time figuring him out. He was kind enough. Although he wasn’t allowed to sleep near Sir anymore, he still said goodnight. Sir taught him things like sit straight, don’t rub it, speak up. He would ask Zuko if he was ok a lot. Sir liked it the most when Zuko said he was in a good mood. But there were other times when Sir would be a little more cross. He had to learn do not do that and did you hear me. It didn’t take Zuko long to figure out he wasn’t supposed to eat snacks in his bedding or bring Mink Snakes into the house.

He laid a little longer and stretched out his legs. He could feel the sun move higher in the sky even with the pelt blocking the window. Next, Kanna woke. She made a lot of noise getting up. She waddled over to Zuko,

“Good morning, Early bird!” Gran- Gran bent the best she could. She planted a big wet kiss on his cheek. “Go get that pan hot now. I have something special for breakfast.”

               Zuko threw off his furs eagerly. He ran over to the hearth throwing some fresh wood in. Gran- Gran had showed him how to use spark rocks. The small lights bounced around the wood until a tiny string of smoke appeared. Zuko cupped his hands and blew the fire to life.

“Well done. Now get Katara and Sokka up.”  

“Yes!” Zuko hopped up and crouched to Katara’s side. “Katara time to wake up.” He patted her cheek softly. “Up, up.”

“Good morning, Zuko.” She smiled big.

“Good morning.” He smiled back.

Katara suddenly scrunched back down into the furs. “Mm! It’s too cold!”

Zuko reached behind him and pulled out the extra blanket Sir had given him. “Here.” He said in Fire’s Tongue.

               Katara sat up. He wrapped the blanket around her. She nestled softening her expression. Some of her braid had come loose and the dark ringlets roamed around her. She looked at him with sleepy eyes. Zuko moved some of the hair from her face. If he kept doing it, he feared she would fall back asleep. He made sure he was nice to her when she woke up. Zuko regretted waking up Katara those nights when his mind wouldn’t cease showing him images of black water and screaming men. But Katara was there when he opened his eyes. Her small hands would grasp him and tell him he was safe. And he would feel safe. He wanted Katara to have the same feeling.

She pulled the thick material tightly around herself. “Thank you.”

Zuko stood and grabbed his pillow.

“What are you doing?” Katara yawned.

Zuko tossed the pillow at Sokka. The pillow made a satisfying thump. “Sokka! Wake up!”

Sokka made the noise of a dying Tiger Seal. “Go away!”

“Zuko be nice.” Kanna tutted.

“Sokka! Food. You help.”

“Cooking is women’s work.” Sokka abruptly sprang up. “Is that bacon?” His mouth watered.

“Sure is.” Kanna eyed smugly. “But maybe only us women and Zuko will get some.”

 “You help cook or you help clean. Gran-Gran say.” Zuko teased.

“So you go help then Mr. Helpy-helper-head.” Sokka rolled back over.

               When Katara went over the words for family, Zuko learned Sokka was her brother. Sokka still wasn’t open to Zuko being in the house. Zuko at first tried to get Sokka to like him but he just ended up being called names. Some of them he hadn’t learned yet, but he could tell they were mean. Sometimes he’d try to boss him around and Zuko would just pretend not to understand. Katara said he didn’t have to listen to Sokka anyway. There wasn’t much he knew about him besides that he liked meat and weapons. It seemed if he was not eating, he was practicing throwing his boomerang.

“You know the little ones can’t help with all the cooking yet. How do expect to feed yourself when you go hunting with your father?” Kanna said.

Sokka pouted taking the spatula. He mumbled something about “warrior’s sleep” watching the meat carefully.

"Watch out for the grease popping."

"I know. Ow!" Sokka jumped back.

              Zuko and Katara laughed at him. Katara moved her arm to ask Zuko to join her. He sat and snuggled under the blanket. She was warm or he was warm. He didn’t know. But she was soft and her hair was soft and the blanket was soft. Zuko thought about building a house made out of a giant blanket. Then they could be warm forever.

Katara turned her attention to Zuko, "Guess what! Today is your last day wearing these.”

“Last day?” Zuko asked unfamiliar with the phrase.

“No more bandages!”

Zuko nodded. "That is good. Katara is happy?”

“Uh-huh!” Katara hugged him, “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yes!” Zuko cheered.

…

               Breakfast was amazing. Zuko would dream of the salty meat for weeks. Sokka had already joined the other boys in weapons lessons. Zuko sat with Katara to hear the story about the Wolf and the Raven. Gran-Gran was an amazing storyteller. She showed them tiny cards with painted pictures. They had to hold them carefully because they were very old. The lesson in the story was about working together. Zuko thought it was his favorite so far. Next was practicing writing his name. Katara could write his name better than him. He tried not to let it bother him. Katara said he would get better. He was a natural talent in sewing. Gran-Gran mended clothes so she could trade for goods around the village. Ms. Yise’s petty skirt was going to get lamp oil. Mr. Kursru’s parka would get more spark rocks. Then they were going to pick up the weekly rations of non-hunted food. Gran- Gran had tried to explain to him that tradesmen had brought some root vegetables from the Earth Kingdom. He didn’t know what they were or where the Earth Kingdom was, but Gran-Gran seemed excited. So he was too.

                  His excitement didn’t last long. Kehana, the healer had requested to see him. He didn’t like visiting her.  She always looked at him like she had eaten something bitter. She was old like Gran-Gran but not at all inviting.  He hated the ointment she put on him. It stung and smelled rotten. He hated her thin fingers and how they were so sharp he felt like they might poke right through him. But Katara always went with him. She held his hand and told Kehana when she was being too rough. He was lucky to have a friend like her.

“Almost done.” Katara squeezed his hand as Kehana prodded at his scar, “Then we’ll go deliver the clothes. Gran-Gran should be all done when we get back.”

“Ok.” Zuko winced as the brush irritated the freshly cleaned scar tissue.

“Can you be more gentle please.” Katara asked sweetly. Zuko sighed in relief.

Kehana glared but lessened the pressure. “Your father shouldn’t be letting you spend so much time with him.”

Katara creased her brow, “Huh?”

“You are around him too much. It isn’t right.”

Zuko didn’t like her tone. Katara held his hand tighter, “Zuko’s my friend!”

“I hope you remember that when the Fire Nation come back.” Kehana all but threw the brush back in the bowl. “This is the last time I want to see your unsightly face, boy.”

Zuko lip quivered. He took a deep breath. Deeper than he ever had before. “Be nice.”

“Do not dare speak to me!” Kehana snapped. Zuko scrambled back. Her rage felt too familiar.

Katara pulled Zuko up. “Come on Zuko, let’s go. We don’t need her anymore anyway.” She grabbed their parkas.

Kehana started ranting about how she had come so low in her life to end up treating a Fire nation child. “Stupid girl. Your mother thought she could talk to the Fire Nation as well. And now she is dead.”

Something in Katara’s chest lurched. “Miserable hag!” Katara kicked the ointment, splattering it on the wall. She hadn’t even buttoned up before she was dragging Zuko out of the hut.

               Zuko stared at Katara’s uncovered head as he tried to cry silently. She was really upset, and he didn’t want to make her worry more. He wasn’t entirely sure of what Kehana said but he could feel it in his bones that she hated him. He felt like it was his fault she was mean to Katara. The tears fell harder. He could no longer conceal his sniffling. Katara stopped stomping and turned around. Her eyes were watery, and her face was twisted like he’d never seen before. For a moment he thought she was going to yell at him. She sighed and touched the edge of his scar.

“Don’t worry about her. You’re not ugly.”

Zuko shook his head. He didn’t know the right words to say in that moment, “I’m sorry.” Is all he could think of.

“You don’t need to be sorry. Kehana is just a meanie. An old stupid meanie…” She trailed off as tears slipped. She tried to blink them away. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about anyway! Mommy was trying to protect us!” Her voice cracked.

               Zuko almost tackled her into a hug. Katara let loose and sobbed hard. She shuddered when he rubbed her back. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many questions he wanted to ask. There were still so many words he didn’t know. So he whispered Fire’s Tongue into her hair. He told her she was the nicest person ever. How she was brave for speaking up for him. And how beautiful she was when he first woke up. He thought she was a spirit of mercy and he still wasn’t convinced she wasn’t. Katara settled down and drew back a little. Zuko gently wiped her eyes. She hiccupped in some breaths before she fully regained herself. She put her hands on his face. Zuko could tell she was thinking about something.

“You’re not bad. I can tell. I’ve seen bad people. They hurt my mommy. I think they hurt you too.” She traced his scar again. “When my mommy died, I prayed for her to come back.” She shuttered again. Zuko put his hands on hers. “When it didn’t work, I prayed for a friend. There’s no one my age here and it felt like no one else understood…I just wanted someone to talk to.”

“Katara teach me. So I can talk and make Katara feel better.” Zuko started to fasten her parka.

Katara smiled big. But tears came again. She threw her arms around his neck. “I knew when I heard you came from the ocean that La had saved you. And then Mommy had brought you here so that I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.”

“Lonely?” Zuko asked.

Katara looked at Zuko. “Don’t worry about that word. I’ll make sure you never have to know what it means.”

Zuko squished her cheeks making her giggle. “Friends.”

“Friends forever.” Katara put her forehead to his.

               The night was easier after Gran-Gran reprimanded them for dawdling. She couldn’t have been too angry because she made cookies to celebrate Zuko not having to wear his bandages anymore. At bedtime, Katara insisted on sleeping in Zuko’s furs. Sir had no luck in trying to convince her otherwise. After their goodnight prayers and kisses, Katara cuddled close and Zuko closer. She fell asleep before him. He closed his eyes to follow.

“Friends forever.” He whispered into the darkness.

[billie-ford]

1

Days Gone By

6

Houston. The biggest city in the state of Texas and the second largest in the country. But more intimately, it was the home of Billie Ford. She was known well throughout the countryside of Houston and even into the inner city as the kid that went the extra mile. A star runner on the high school track team, destined to make state. The friendly mechanic that willingly made house trips and sometimes took a hot meal as payment. The devoted wife and mother, the lively younger sister known for her exuberant energy. The street she lived on for more than half a decade was once known for it’s exuberant energy too; music bumping from almost every open window and a potluck every other week. It was now a decrepit wasteland. One of the first cities to fall when the virus broke and when it fell, it fell hard.

Every inch of public road was cluttered with debris, abandoned cars, streaks of blood and dead bodies - roaming or not. Music would not be heard on these streets ever again - unless you chose to count the mindless humming from Billie every now and again. Despite how sparse supplies had grown, Billie couldn’t bring herself to leave. Having already abandoned her once warm, loving home, she was now holed up in a strangers house on the other side of the city. Boarded up, furniture pushed against windows and a makeshift bed of sheets and couch cushions positioned messily in the center of the living room. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to call it quits, no matter how ghostly it had gotten in the last few months. Something was keeping her here, and she just couldn’t describe what it was.

(six months since the fall)

“How long will you be?” 

Despite his name, Hunter Hammond was no scavenger. He was a meek man, all five-foot-nine of him. Abraham used to tease him when their families got together for a dinner, joking that Billie had managed to fuse her bisexuality and marry both a man and woman all in one. Hunter never liked Abraham too much.

“I’ll be as quick as I can but who knows what those streets look like now.” Billie tightened the laces of her boots before standing and slinging a backpack over her shoulder. Just behind Hunter, their son Devin played with plastic cars in their couch cushion bed. His smile and bubbly laugh was a constant reminder of what the world had been once, and for both Billie and Hunter it gave them hope.

Billie cupped her husband’s cheek, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “Back before sundown. I promise. C’mere sweet boy,” she kneeled down and kissed her toddler on the head, breathing in the scent of his cloud-like curls. “You take care of your ol’ man for me, m’kay?” The boy smiled and nodded.

“Board this right back up.” She gave Hunter a stern look as she moved the furniture from the back door, their backyard a quiet enough escape to the road behind them. “I mean it. The second I’m out.”

“Don’t worry, I got you. Come back to me safe, Bill. I mean that.”

Hunter had shut the door before she could give him a second look, the sound of the couch scraping on the other side signaling she was now trapped on the back porch. She took off down the patio stairs, through the neighboring backyards and through the small line of trees that shielded the house from from the main road.

Billie liked to call them walkers. They reminded her of how her dad used to walk when he had knee surgery and ended up with a walking frame for a few weeks; hunched over, slow, lazy. Her father was an intimidating man - strong and stern, a frequent yeller who, just by cracking the buckle of his belt, had Billie stood straight and ready to accomplish any command. But even Abraham Sr. didn’t scare her as much as those things did. Her father could be reasoned with if you showed him enough respect; they could not. The howls of sorrow trapped inside distant memory disturbed her more than when they ran her way, jaws chomping and drooling for a taste of human flesh. Something she had only seen in her brother’s horror movies, and even those couldn’t prepare her for the sights she had seen. It was the humanity lost somewhere within them - that’s what terrified her. She remembered the first time she caught wind of the pandemic beginning to break across the globe; her ear just barely picking up the sound of the radio over power drills and welders.

She hadn’t been able to find Abraham since things really went to shit.

The military did what they could when things started to get out of control, but even they had families to protect and sticking around to maintain order just seemed foolish. Multiple trips were made to the Ford residence with no luck; Cupboards were barren, clothes strewn about and that picture he had on the mantle of the two of them one Christmas was busted out of its frame. Despite her excuses - he didn’t have time to come for me. they were in trouble. he did come by but I was already gone. he’s still around, we just keep missing each other. - she couldn’t kill the eating thought that he just left her. His baby sister, abandoned. He broke his promise. Subconsciously, that was the biggest reason she kept one foot in Houston - he was still coming back for her. But with every day that passed with no sign of life, the hope that he was still close - and breathing - faded further and further away...

7

The camp was far beyond the rest of civilization. And good for it. The tops of buildings looked like shoe boxes interwoven with visibly abandoned streets in the far distance, gray in comparison to what it once used to be. This flat plot of land had barely been touched by human hands when it was found; turned up dirt and rock accompanied by machinery and port-a-potties. A construction sight soon to be turned into a number of vacation homes, that much they gathered from the weathered sign stuck in the ground at the base of the hill.

Breakfast ended an hour ago; watery eggs with sparse salt and bitter potatoes. Everyone was busy now, in the full swing of their day; taking buckets of dishes to the river to be washed while another group returned with wet laundry to hang dry.

“You should let these grow so I can push them to the side. You don’t really want all this hair in your eyes do ya, hun?”

Jane Ford, forty-two, a high school swim coach in what now seemed to be another life now sat in her husband’s tattered flannel and blue jeans tucked into yellow hospital socks. With her eldest between her knees, she snipped away at the atrocious bob the child had given herself a year prior. Her bangs stuck out every which way and no amount of water, time, or prayer would set the needle straight hairs into place. Jane huffed in defeat and dropped the comb and fabric scissors into a cup at her foot.

“I like it like this, momma.” The ten year old stated while playing with the torn ear of her stuffed bunny, given to Jane as a baby shower gift from her aunt. The dirty old thing brought her comfort more now than ever, a reminder of her favorite - well, her only - aunt.

‘You hug this little guy every single night. And wherever I am I’ll be sure to feel it.’

“Leave her hair alone, darlin’. If she likes it than she likes it.” Abraham watched his girls while sipping a black coffee, occasionally looking out into the horizon to scan for survivors or otherwise. “We Fords have the tendency to look good in whatever hairstyle we’re rockin’.” He winked at his daughter who grinned.

“Tell that to your tenth grade mullet.” “You still had a crush on me didn’t ya sweetheart?” “Oh, stick it!” “Last time I did we ended up with the twins..” “Ew, dad!”

He howled with laughter and beckoned his child to come towards him. She jumped up into his lap and he tussled her wet hair, the act earning him a curse from his wife. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head and took that moment to thank God. His family, all five of them, were together and secure. But every thankful thought was followed by the sudden sorrow he felt for his first family; his baby sister. Big Bad Bill. 

He was a military sergeant and when he was called to duty the only thing on his mind was getting this issue under control. He only evacuated the quarantine camps when he had absolutely no choice and by the time he reached his home in the suburbs it was too late to go the inner city. She was just too far away from him. He couldn’t count on all fingers and toes how many times he’d been down in that area since then, practically swatting her home the second he could. Empty. She had taken the photo of them from his high school graduation on her fireplace.

Despite the “no man left behind” attitude instilled in him during boot camp, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe that his sister was still alive. She was tough, but she wasn’t survive-life-or-death-situations-tough. She was just a mechanic.

A familiar shrill voice followed by marching steps in the gravel snapped him out of his pity party. With a groan, he shooed his daughter away to play with the other kids before standing to meet the five-foot-two hurricane that was Marizol Espinosa. “Dios mio Abraham! My Rosita should have been home days ago!” The group he had sent out nearly three days ago had yet to return and despite the majorities silence, everyone was a little worried about their return. Marizol was not one of the silent ones.

“Te quiero fuera. Out there. Searching for them.” A manicured hand rested on a jutted hip, the other pointing a bullet like index into the ginger brutes face. Jane’s eyes flickered between the two cautiously as she busied herself with cleaning chunks of dark hair from her lap.

“Mary, I wouldn’t have sent the group that I sent if I didn’t think they could handle their hides. Give em the day darlin’, I’ll radio in from time to time and if nothin’ still I’ll send a crew after em.”

“Oh dios- get more people lost! Or killed! You listen to me jengibre...” As she opened her mouth to grill him with undoubtedly ruthless insults, the radio on his belt crackled with life. A female voice just barely came through. Abraham gave Marizol a smug grin.

8

“I’ve always loved you, and made you happy...and nothing else could come between...but now you’ve left me, to love another...you have shattered..all..of my dreams..” Breathless, Billie trudged along the side of the road as the afternoon heat caused beads of sweat to rolled down her jaw. With daylight running low she was worried this would be another unsuccessful supply run, having already searching multiple stores and homes throughout town. “You are my sunshine. My only sunshine..you make me happy when skies are gray..you’ll never know dear- fuckin’ hell it’s hot.”

She came to a stop outside of a gas station. A run down shack of a business that she had been to multiple times for a cigarette and a beer during her commute back home after work. But with its busted out windows and disregarded hoses it looked to be a completely foreign shop.

In and out quickly was the plan, and smooth enough it went. She packed what she could; in her months of scavenging she learned quickly that if you looked for things where those things weren’t meant to be, you could find what you needed. With a bowie knife in one hand and a half melted snickers from the cash register in the other she wandered the aisles freely, skimming underneath shelves for stray cans and water bottles. As she was preparing to leave, check today off as a successful enough day, one too many walkers began crowding the door from which she came, falling through busted windows and disemboweling themselves on shards of glass. She took down what she could with her bowie, hoping to clear a way to the road but for every one she killed two more crowded in its place. “Fuck.”

Searching hastily with a newfound feeling of vertigo, she spotted the employee exit behind the counter. A pipe had been lodged into the handle and bent outwards, trapping it shut. She cleared the counter, shivering at the feeling of rotting hands skimming the back of her arms before forcing the pipe out of place and slamming the door shut behind her. Her footsteps echoed off the walls as she searched her bag for a flashlight, her knife wielding hand still raised defensively.

“Grab them!”

Billie felt the sharp pain of a shoulder in her spine as she was tackled to the ground, her cheek crashing into the cold pavement and the wind escaping her lungs as her knife slid feet away from her grasp. She was frisked for her weapons, her bag tore violently from her shoulder as a knee remained snug between her shoulder blades.

“You one of the bitches that jumped us?” “Huh!? No!”

The cool metal of a gun barrel met her temple and she stuttered, “I ain’t here to hurt no one! I’m just stuck! On the bible, man!”

“What do you mean stuck?”

“There’s an ocean of them dead fools out that door behind me- gotta be packed to capacity by now. Man can you get off my back you’re hurting me!”

She was hoisted to her feet as a lamp clicked on. The room lit up in a small yellow glow, revealing a number of people surrounding her. To her left, brunette hair was pulled back under a military cap and tan hands secured in fingerless gloves held a glock steady to her head. Latina. Her glare was strong, eyebrows knitted as she trained her sights on Billie.

“There was a group in here yesterday. They locked us in.” In front of her, a young asian boy sat on a railing. They were in a garage. “Think you can help us out of here?” The man previously kneeling on her spine asked. He was the stockiest of the group; dark skinned, a gap tooth, and a flat cap concealing a bald head. 

She didn’t have much of a choice. Either they all got out or none of them got out. “I can try once your friend gets that barrel off my cheek.” She huffed. A delivery truck sat begging to be used in the middle of the garage. A full tank but no keys, they say. Luckily for them, Billie didn’t need keys. She looked towards the latina, and only after the asian boys pleas did she lower her weapon.

After she jimmied the lock for a while, Billie got the door open and jumped into the driver seat, the latina following her every move as she popped off the connector to the ignition. She looked down to the only other woman and quirked a smile, “you wouldn’t happen to have a bobby pin would ya, hun?” Deadpanned, she dug into her hair and retrieved two bobby pins, slapping them into Billie’s hand who muttered a thank you. In seconds she had the pins poked into each hole of the connector and the truck growled with life. First the lights, brightening the room even more but she refrained from turning the engine, alas, suffocating them all with toxic fumes. Billie turned to the woman below, already used to the bitter gaze she sent her way. “You get the door open and you’re home free.”

“You should come with us.” Once stepping out of the truck she was greeted by the man that had tackled her to the ground, now smiling at her apologetically while extending a hand to shake, “call me T-Dog.” The latina huffed in protest. “She’s useful, Rosita.” Rosita.

“I would love to but uh..I got people waiting on me.” “They can come too.” “There’s no way you’re getting this truck up that road.” “We’ll wait.” “We can’t wait for some stranger, we’ve got people worried about us.”

“I could go with you!” It was the asian boy again, short black hair now covered with a baseball cap. He approached Billie with a smile that rivaled T-Dog’s. These weren’t people that Billie would coin as survivors - all but Rosita maybe - but here they were anyways. “I know my way around the city. We can pick up whoever you’re with and head back to camp.”

“So there’s more of y’all..?” “Loads.”

Rosita shook her head again. “No, no. That’s too many more mouths to feed and we’re already low on supplies.”

“Actually, Rosita, I don’t think supplies will be an issue...”

A voice echoed from within the newly unlocked truck, the sliding door disconnecting the storage space from the front seat now wide open. They followed the sounds of his footsteps to the back door where it was then unlocked from inside, flew open with a loud clang, and revealed stacks upon stacks of unopened cans, bags of chips, and soda. The man - the eldest of the group - smiled down at them, particularly Billie. “That solves that problem young lady.”

“Look at that,” the asian quipped, “we’ve got food for a few more mouths, someone who knows their way around a sticky situation, and you got us to watch your back. Sounds like wins all around to me!”

Everyone seemed to be in agreement of letting this squirrely stranger and her mystery companions join the group, all but Rosita, who had Billie wondering if she had cut her off in traffic one time.

“She helped us when we needed it, Ro,” he reasoned, “she didn’t have to.” He seemed keen on having Billie join them but she just shrugged; made no difference to her. Even the older man, who looked to have been on a fishing trip before they got locked in here, threw in his two cents. “Always room for a survivor.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Rosita squared up to Billie with folded arms. “You get that door open and you get to come back with us. Bring your boyfriend or whatever. Bien?”

“Gracias, a-mee-go.”

If you looked for things where those things weren’t meant to be, you could find what you needed. - Billie’s Law. 

Billie knew garages like the back of her hand, and she knew of the spare clicker that came with every garage system. It was a shot in the dark, hoping the door would even work if she found it, but she searched high and low despite it. Even despite Rosita’s smug bark of ‘we looked for it already’. Like a dog on a scent she overturned garbage cans and tools boxes all while she watched impassively. No clicker. But underneath a uniform coat, beneath a stack of scrap metal, was a car jack, and Billie knew more than a few ways to use one of those.

With a loud bang and a rustic whine, Billie managed to jam the jack underneath the door enough to bend it and gave the handle a few pumps to lift it all while T-Dog and Rosita readied themselves to bash the skulls of any unwanted stragglers. She managed enough space to roll under and the asian boy quickly followed, keeping an eye out for her while she finished the job. Eyes stinging with sweat, Billie picked away at the lock while disembodied moans approached her, silenced by the lead pipe her new comrade armed himself with. The door was finally freed in minutes; they were free and she had a new home for her baby boy.

“Looks like you’re ours now.” The boy smiled again. “Glenn.”

She shook his hand, her grip firmer than his. “Billie.”

[cecilspeaks]

147 - The Protester

Hot singles in your area are staring into the forest and grinning absently. 

Welcome to Night Vale.

Astronomers are frantically trying to determine why a chunk of the moon is missing. Ragged and greedy like a slice removed from a pie by hungry hands rather than a civilized serving utensil, the gap in the moon has been baffling professional sky gazers for weeks. Fun fact: did you know a group of astronomers is called a commotion?

Astronomers believe the moon could be eroding, because people have stopped believing in it, like ancient Roman polytheism. Others have theorized that the moon was damaged by enemy ships in the ongoing Blood Space War. But people on the internet have countered that this is part of the mandala effect, and that that piece of the moon has always been missing and we’re collectively misremembering. Like how those beloved picture book bears that we all remember as the Berenstein Bears, have by all physical evidence always actually been spelled “The Dog Pound Boyzzzz”. Boyz with a Z. Because of the 2016 city ordinance that proclaimed that anything can be true if you say it loud enough, astronomers are forced to consider all sides.

I don’t know any astronomers, but I do know a scientist! My husband Carlos has been the leading scientific mind in Night Vale since we started dating, almost six years ago. Carlos says that he has been studying and interesting meteorite he found out in the sand wastes and scrublands beyond Night Vale. He believes this particular rock is a piece of the moon. Standing before a giant wall of blinking lights, flickering screens and intermittent beeps, Carlos determined that this piece of the moon broke off only one month ago. But this is impossible, because no one can remember seeing the moon breaking apart in the sky. Well, maybe we were all asleep when it happened, I told Carlos as I dabbed away a small crumb from a cheese Danish that had gotten stuck in his beard. Oh, fun fact: Carlos grew a beard! And I have never liked beards on men, but now – I do. It’s got two thin silver racing stripes down the chin, and the hair is so soft. We’ve been married over two years and every day, I fall more in love.

Oh right, the moon, OK good God, always with the moon. [mutters] Yeah, yeah… Carlos has been studying an unusual number of empty homes and businesses about town. He noticed that the houses on either side of us are completely empty, but he didn’t remember them being empty before. He remembers us having neighbors, but he couldn’t name a single thing about them. He believes this might be related to the damaged moon. Whatever happened a month ago to the moon immediately caused us all to forget it, because something in our timeline changed. Carlos said: “Perhaps we are not forgetting people and events, perhaps they never existed at all.” His eyes were cloudy with pensive thought, and I touched his furry cheek and said: “You’ll save us, hon. I know you will.” He smiled and asked if I’d be willing to reach out to archeology professor Harrison Kip again. Carlos, uh, had been communicating with Kip about this very issue, but now emails to Harrison keep bouncing back, and his phone number is no longer in the phone company’s database of working numbers. I laughed and said: “Carlos, I don’t know who Harrison Kip is!” Carlos looked worried, and said he wasn’t sure he did either. But he felt like he should.

Protestors have organized a sit in in front of city hall, demanding an end to the Blood Space War. The city council, seeing the crowd of about 150 people gathered around the front entrance of their building, took immediate action. They announced they would be taking a long planned family vacation to the Badlands National Park in South Dakota, until this whole protest thing runs its course. “We don’t believe South Dakota actually exists,” the single-bodied, multi-voiced council said. “When you look at a map, it seems like it exists, like it’s just right there when you look at it and it’s between two other identical states, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. Anyway, this feels like a great time to take the kids to see Mount Rushmore.” As the city council said this, several small childlike heads emerged from the city council’s singular body and screamed in happy unison. Or terrified unison. Mm, it’s hard to get an emotional reading on screams.

The organizer of the protest is 20-year-old Night Vale community college student, Basimah Bishara, whose father Lieutenant Fakir Bishara returned home from the Blood Space War three years ago. Basimah greeted her father’s return with joy, but that joy has since been replaced by confusion and pain. Let’s hear Basimah’s story in her own words.

Basimah: Time no longer works correctly for my father. I understand time does not work correctly for many people in Night Vale, but it had always worked correctly for him before the war. In December 2015, he returned home after 11 years of serving our city, our country, our planet in a war that still makes no sense to me. I was six when he volunteered for service, he was 30. 11 years later when he returned home, I was 17. My father was 19. He did not remember joining in the war nor having a daughter nor meeting his wife. He is a teenager, like I was. I no longer am a teenager, but my father still is. He has stayed 19 years old. Time no longer works correctly for him.

My mother Tahira raised me. She expressed reticence about the band I started, the music we played. She grounded me when my grades slipped and shouted at me when I told her I had a girlfriend. But she came to love Marina and more, my mother came to understand as both as people, as women. Not as rivers to be damned or levied.

My father’s return has been especially hard on her, because she is 45 and her husband is a 19-year-old stranger. You probably know what it’s like to have a father, to have a man much older than you who changed your diapers or watched your diapers being changed. Who taught you to speak or ride a bike, who helped you develop as a human from an animal from a larva from the simplest, squirming wad of meat into an adult. That father will always be a father, not a friend, not an equal, a father. You probably do not know what it’s like to see a father at your age, to talk with your father when he is also barely an adult. To have your father lonely and inquisitive think of you as his only friend in the world, while you look to him for guidance and love. But he is incapable of both, at least not in the way you need to be guided and loved.

It took two years for Fakir to open up about the war and it still makes no sense to him nor me. The Blood Space War requires constant shifts through time, through worm holes to change lost battles into won battles, to undo what has already been undone thousands, millions of times over. The future does not look like a blank page, it looks like a tattered sheet of paper, grayed and frayed from countless transcriptions and erasures of history. Battles are won and then undone through time travel. We lose our lives and then regain them by traveling backwards and fighting again. We are winning the war by perpetuating the war. Last month, the Polonians attacked our earth, I am sure of it. The only evidence is our broken moon. I believe the general undid this attack with time travel and this has changed our reality, changed who was born, who ever lived in the first place. People are disappearing because they will have never existed.

People think we’re crazy for protesting. I’m 20 and my father is still 19. I’m not crazy. My mother Tahira is not crazy. We are angry.

Our next protest is scheduled this afternoon at the corner of Earl and Somerset by the Dog Park near the Ralphs.

Cecil: Not sure what Basimah was referring to. That’s an empty lot by the Ralphs. There was word for a dog park to be built there many years ago, but it never materialized.

[clears throat] Let’s have a look now at local news. Earth sciences professor Simone Rigideau announced today that she is scrapping all text books and lesson plans at the community college in favor of organized prayer to a god named Huntokar. Several students and parents argued against such an extreme divergence from core curriculum in favor of French religious practices, but college president Sarah Sultan supported her staff member by saying: “Cut Simone some slack. She doesn’t even teach classes. She’s a transient who lived in a storage closet inside the earth sciences building for 20 years. The only reason she has the title of professor is because of antiquated squatter’s rights laws.” Rigideau donned rabbit furs and an old bicycle frame wraught into the shape of antlers, and began spray paintin the Fibonacci sequence on the cars in the college parking lot, all the while singing a ballad about clocks.

The intergalactic military headquarters released their first quarter earnings statmenet this week. Investors were displeased to see that each of the board members of the privately own space defense contractor had purchased a 125-foot yachts and NFL franchises. But those fears were quickly allayed by the announcement of layoffs of more than 5,000 employees. Stock prices for the intergalactic military soared to an all time high this afternoon, at 490 dollars a share. Senior strategic advisor Jameson Archibald said the intergalactic military has no actual earned income. 100 per cent of their gross is from venture capital. Archibald said: “Some investors keep asking how we plan to monetize our military, which is a stupid question, man! I mean, look at this Patek Philippe watch I bought. It’s encrusted with 10 pounds of diamonds, and the watch face was made using an actual piece of the Sistine Chapel. We are doing fine.” Archibald added that the intergalactic military is developing an app and a subscription service that allows people to engage in celestial war fare any time they want for only 12,99 a month.

Alright, listeners, I heard back from Basimah, and she said I was right. There is no dog park. Of course I was right. If I knew there was a dog park being built in this town, I would have reported it immediately. Carlos and I have a dog. His name is Aubergine because he’s purple and European, and Auby is adorable and we love him dearly. I mean, I wasn’t into the idea of having to care for a dog, but Carlos strongly urged this case one morning over breakfast when he said, “I think we should get a dog”, and 20 minutes later, we were leaving the SPCA with our adopted pet. [clears throat]

Basimah said she was positive there was a dog park next to the Ralphs, but when she arrived at the corner of Earl and Somerset, it was all empty lots. To be honest, I don’t remember her mentioning a Ralphs before, because I would have corrected her. There’s never been a Ralphs affiliate in Night Vale. This is what Basimah had to say. Um, hang on, let me just insert the tape I used to record her. And there we go.

Basimah: If a person never exists, did they disappear? If you never knew them, can you miss them? My father spends most of his days playing basketball with friends he made at the rec center. He is 19 years old and trying to escape a decade of inescapable drama from warfare. Asked him who my mother was. I grew up with only my uncle Omar and did not know my parents until my father returned from war. Fakir did not remember my mother. He did not remember his marriage or my birth, because it has not happened yet in his timeline. Asked what if mother didn’t exist at all. What if the general’s time traveling has altered our lives so much that my mother was never born and you can never meet her. My father, the teenager said: “If I never met a woman, I do not know I will not miss her. But I’ll meet another woman.” I asked: “What if I was never born?” My dad said: “Basi?” He hid his tears and then he hugged me, but it was not the hug of a father and daughter. It was the hug of a son and mother. He buried his head into my shoulder and sobbed, repeating: “Basi! Basi!” And I comforted his heaving head with my palm. I said: “Father, Fakir. I think I shall no longer exist soon. [voice fades] I think I-

Oh OK, sorry for the dead air, listeners, I was playing a recording of an interview I did. Wait, nope. I just checked, there’s no tape in the player at all. I thought I had been talking with… Ugh. Aah! Who have I been talking to? Maybe it was my husband Carlos reporting on his findings about the damage done to our moon or, mh, or maybe it was nothing at all. [clears throat] Well, let us forget that we forgot, and go now To the weather.

[Shake” by Wednesday’s Wolves https://www.wednesdayswolves.com]

We have an update on the Blood Space War, Night Vale. John Peters says his brother has returned home again. When he left a month ago, James Peters was 22 years old. But he is now in his seventies, which is the age he should be. John held his brother tightly, crying in gratitude and relief that his own family could return to some kind of normalcy. James at first was heartened to see John again, to see his home again, and to learn that he and the general had thwarted the Polonian attack on our planet. But his tearful smile drifted slowly downward, an evening shadow overtaken by night. Upon James’ face now was the sudden knowledge that he had made a grave error. James looked around Night Vale seeing empty lots and homes, abandoned buildings and sparse streets. According to James, thousands of people have gone missing from Night Vale, because they never existed or never moved here in the first place. The general had leapt in time to successfully stop the Polonians from ever reaching Earth, but the change in the timeline caused Night Vale to change too.

Listeners, this may seem strange, but perhaps there are people you once knew, family you once lived with, places you were in, all of which are gone, and without your knowing. I have tried hard to think of any memory of any experience or person I have lost in the last month, but I can think of none. I told James Peters that perhaps the change in timeline did not matter if no one knew what they had lost, if no one noticed any change. James said: “Cecil, I just don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe if we had a scientific perspective on this, we could better understand how this is affecting us as a community.” And I said I didn’t know any scientists, not personally anyway. There’s the strange woman who lives in the storage closet at the community college, I suppose we could ask her.

The important thing is that we are safe, and that another veteran has returned home, and it is another beautiful day in Night Vale.

Stay tuned next for “Conspiring to Love”, our new relationship advice show, which as a lifelong bachelor sounds like something I should check out.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: “Nothing lasts forever” is a phrase with two meanings, and they’re both true.

[racingtoaredlight]

Marshall Amps

This is Slayer’s backdrop for some recent tour of theirs.

If you’ve followed rock music at all, the “wall of Marshalls” is so iconic, it’s hard to separate the subject of the imagery from the backdrop of Marshall speakers.  Jimmy Page, Slash, Zakk Wylde, Eric Clapton...to name a few...but the man who made Marshalls the “greatest amps of all time” is none other than you know who...

So what is it with Marshalls?  Why did they become the “greatest amps of all time” yet seemingly don’t have a place in today’s guitar world?

***

What defines Marshall amps?

They have “Marshall” written on them.

Kidding aside, you will never hear about Marshall amps being called “versatile.”  “Clean” is something they do out of necessity, not design.  They are stupidly heavy.  They are a pain in the ass to maintain.  They only sound good at volumes that would peel the enamel off your teeth...and that’s just the 50w models, let alone the big boys.

Marshall amps really do one thing well...overdrive.  If you’re in a band that plays loud, plays dirty and plays aggressive, then Marshalls are likely right in your wheelhouse.  Bonus points if someone else is carrying your gear.

Any level of dirt...from bluesy hair on the note to full out metal grind...a Marshall is right at home.  When you overdrive the tubes in a Marshall and they start to produce those beautiful overtones and harmonics, it’s truly a sound of beauty that prickles the hair on the back of your neck.

***

Historical Context Part 1

To define Marshall amps, we need to start with their history.

Remember how when I used to actually write, I’d talk about putting things in historical context?  Lets go back to the early 60′s.  There is ONE amp company doing business on both sides of the Atlantic, Fender.  And, despite being primitive and archaic, those early Tweed Fender amps are still today some of the best sounding amps money can buy, which is even more impressive considering that a 10 year old who can use a soldering iron could build one.

But in America, it’s easy to source parts for an American company’s amp like Fender.  It’s right there in the country, stupid.  But for a company...shit, that’s not even accurate given they weren’t a company yet...for a Brit like Jim Marshall, you had to get creative.

Marshalls, at their very, foundational core, are almost a direct plagiarism of the Fender Bassman amp.  I mean, it’s exactly the same amplifier except for one key difference...the tubes.  The Atlantic Ocean thing mentioned earlier is a big deal...the 6v6 and 6L6 power tubes that Leo Fender used, nothing more than run of the mill military-spec electrical tubes, weren’t available.  Tubes might not be the lifeblood of an amp (the circuit is), but different tubes have a hugely variable presence in practical settings.

Given that most tube amps are powered by tubes that came from either the US, UK or Russian military industrial complexes...and there not being the internet or a secondary market for any of this shit...Marshall used, first, KT66 Russian tubes, and later British EL34 (big bottles) and EL84 (little bottles), depending on use.

As Marshall’s blew up (and it happened quickly), and musicians started playing bigger and bigger halls, Marshall took that Bassman ripoff and housed it in larger cabinets allowing him to add more tubes, and therefore, more power.  It was the perfect storm...

***

Historical Context Part II...the important stuff

So I linked to a bunch of pics above...famous dudes standing in front of walls of Marshalls.  The one I really want to hit on is the Eric Clapton one...

I just mentioned this a couple paragraphs above, but it bears repeating...there was no secondary market for things like tubes, caps, speakers, etc.  That pic of Clapton?  In each of those cabinets housing four speakers, maybe one was fully operational with half of another adding a bunch of fizz.  During Cream’s final show at Royal Albert Hall, he had only one speaker installed in the entire cabinet...the rest were just empty.

Now, that’s not to say there wasn’t any sonic benefit from having cabinets project sound waves with four speakers.  Rather, if one went down, at least you could still play.

Which leads us to the important stuff...

Primitive PA systems were not only garbage to begin with, but they were typically operated by burnouts who didn’t have the first clue of how to properly EQ a room.  This was true as late as the mid 80′s.  As shitty as those PA systems were though, guess what?  That’s still how Cream’s sound got shot through Royal Albert Hall.

Given the choice though, guitarists would rather have a slew of speakers doing the work rather than mic’ing up smaller amps.  Even with this option though, there’s a long history of...behind those walls of Marshall speaker cabs...there being a single half stack with just one speaker being mic’d.

Here’s a dirty little secret...Eddie Van Halen has not just endorsed multiple amps from multiple companies, but been heavily involved in the design of a lot of those as well.  BUT, when you hear him in the studio or live, you’re not hearing any of those amps...you’re hearing this.

Despite all the noise and propaganda regarding Van Halen’s wizardry with guitar and amp parts, the sound he’s most famous for and has relied on his entire career is produced by a relatively stock Marshall 1959SLP, known as the Super Lead.  The “Brown Tone” he’s famous for isn’t due to anything special in the amp itself, rather using something called the Variax to run the 100w amp at 90w, thereby making it warmer and more efficient (Marshall’s imported to the US still made to run at 110 volts despite most American outlets being 120 volts...the Variax reduced the electrical load to the amp, while also being an accidental signal buffer, allowing him to use time-based effects like flangers and delays, where running them into the front of a Marshall would cancel out those signals).

Jesus Christ that was a long aside...there was a point here though.

***

What was that point?

When PA systems and quality mic’s and sound guys became the norm, the necessity for stacks of Marshalls really started to go to shit.  Even before the internet boom, the jokes about wannabes hauling Marshall half stacks to tiny bars with no audience were already essentially canon.

I said this above...unless you are a touring artist in a hard rock band with logistical support and no front of house...Marshalls are completely impractical.  We’re not even going to touch on declines in quality (new Marshalls built on PCB have more in common with your phone than a 1987x, even if you buy a “reissue” of a 1987x), questionable marketing and oversaturating their own market...the fact of the matter is extremely simple.  Big iron is obsolete, no matter who makes it.

Marshall themselves know this, and released the “studio” line...which might as well be called the “shit we better make smaller stuff because our sales are getting FUCKED” line.  If you’ve ever had to pack a car full of gear yourself, it takes one gig before you’re looking for smaller, lighter amps.  Those 100w Marshalls?  They sound AMAZING cranked.

But unless you play them cranked, they sound like shit.  Think about it like driving a Ferrari at 25mph all the time...

For regular working musicians like myself, a great sounding tube combo can be found under 50 lbs.  Or I could ditch all that and go with a modeler, go straight into the PA and never need an amp again (PREDICTION...you will not see amplifiers on stage outside of Nashville and niche acts in 10 years).  That’s for a working musician.

For a touring musician, you can save tens of thousands of dollars per year by not having to hire logistical staff.  You might have scoffed at my prediction above...but these days, the majority of guitar sounds you hear are made digitally by a session guitarist sitting either at home or in the control room of a studio.  That 1987x is a digital patch rather than two trips to the car and ringing ears.

Point being...amps are already obsolete.  And if your amp weighs more than 50 lbs. and has more power than say 40w, it’s remarkably obsolete, no matter how cool it is.

***

Competition

I don’t have to tell you that Marshalls’ legacy was formed in the harder forms of rock.  Take one look at those monsters and you can tell they roar.  “Roar” is an interesting concept though...

Marshalls were made before hard rock really existed.  Guitarists almost ubiquitously came from a “clean” learning point, and even what we consider small amounts of dirt like this (and during the instrumental part of Ramblin’ Man) back then were FULL-THROATED.

Personally, that’s my ideal of the Marshall sound.  That Tweedy breakup that puts a shaggy head of hair on each note.  But to just about 90% of the music-enjoying public, this is the sound that immediately comes to mind when you think of Marshalls.

Definitely more dirty than Duane Allman’s version no doubt, but if you really listen to the guitar, the edge is more due to phrasing and Slash’s ballsy attitude than the guitar tone itself.  It’s still something I’d describe as more crunchy than full on distorted.

Which brings us to the clones.  Now, what better product to copy than a style that’s been obsolete for like two decades now!

We talked about Van Halen’s supposedly modded (but really quite stock) Marshall above...well, here comes one of his amp tech buddies Michael Soldano bringing a hot-rodded Marshall to the masses.  Then Bogner follows right behind.

Slash’s tone might not be that distorted, but plenty of metal guys absolutely were, and Marshall JCM’s were their weapon of choice.  But the time the calendar turned to 1990 though, Mesa Boogie’s rectifiers were already kings of the metal scene.  Almost as much as the Telecaster dominates country music, the Mesa Boogie Rectifiers own metal.

What was the common denominator in the competition?  MORE, sure.  More dirt, more quality, blah blah blah.  The biggest reason was Marshall, the company.  Unlike Fender, Marshall never got bought by bigger companies.  While that might keep them more “genuine” you have to realize that this guy was making amps in a tiny drum shop still when he was making stuff for Hendrix and Pete Townshend.

***

While Fender’s soul got twisted in a series of corporate takeovers, what it also eventually received was outside guidance from people with business AND music knowledge.  Fender was always forward thinking, from the day Leo Fender started the company.  Jim Marshall didn’t have that same type of vision.  The idea of a Fender amp being built on PCB is something Leo Fender would have embraced.  But to Marshall, it’s killing the amp’s soul.  Fenders never were BIG IRON...i.e. huge transformers fed by big bottle tubes...they never got into the size game.

To begin with, Marshalls were a stolen design.  That might sound harsh, but it’s not being unfair either.  They were never known for quality, rather known for quirks and unreliability.  They weren’t even that unique of a sound...you can get a very similar sound from a Fender Tweed cranked...you just cant take a Tweed to a huge hall and project the sound.

We can do that today.  Easily.  Like an $80 mic and a mic cable easy.  And now you have a true, pretty much genuine Marshall roar in a 30 lb. package.

Back in the day you couldn’t demand flawless point-to-point wiring, proper voltage and ohm specs, and wide-sweeping EQ bands.  Soldano and Mesa Boogie offered these as stock parts of their offerings at the same price points.  If you were a lead guy, Soldano was your choice...if you were a metal guy, it was Mesa...and in the two niches of the guitar world Marshall absolutely dominated, they were now second class citizens.

Or maybe even worse...new poor.

***

“Marshall” is a descriptor these days.  It’s describing the sound of a tube amp with a good-sized transformer being fed by British tubes, typically EL34′s.

If you want a “Marshall,” Marshall is probably the fourth or fifth company I’d recommend.  There’s a lot of debate about this, but I do not believe amps built on PCB are worth more than $1k...shit, that’s generous because I would not personally buy an amplifier using PCB.

This is the power amp section for a new Marshall JCM.

For all you IT guys out there, you probably know that PCB ain’t exactly the most receptive thing to changes in temperature.  Hey!  I got a great idea!  Lets put power and preamp tubes, that heat the fuck up, straight on some cheap ass PCB with janky copper wiring and automated solders!

Literally the only people who will tell you PCB is fine are people who build amps for a living.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t give a shit about making your job easier when you’re still charging me full price and plus some.  The only people saying that there’s no reason to do a point-to-point amp are those who are too lazy to, because there’s a big boutique market for this very thing.

Lets do a real apples to apples comparison here...

The top pic is a restored 1972 Marshall 1987x.  You can buy these used for under $2k...but let’s use $2k...plus $200 restoration (just the guts, who cares about how an amp looks).  We’re at $2,200.  And this electric shit is so simple a vacuum repair shop could do it.

The bottom pic is a brand spakin’ new Marshall 1987x reissue, modeled after...you guessed it...the 1972 Marshall 1987x.  That’s some clean wiring on that particle board!  But...wait...why am I paying MORE for a less desirable model, that took exponentially less work on Marshall’s end?  Why would I subsidize their profit margins for an inferior product with less resale value?

Furthermore...the 1987x is a one-channel, stupid simple amp.  Why do you need PCB to begin with?  I get it for a Soldano or Rectifier that’s multi-channel, with huge sweeping EQ sections, reverb, etc...but this is a plug-n-play.

Marshall...the company...has been doing that to their customer base for decades.  Back in the day, you knew what you were getting...a thunderous machine that likely would fail at some point, necessitating multiple amp purchases.  Literally the instant better, higher quality alternatives hit the market, it ripped into Marshall’s market share.

Today, if I were recommending a Marshall, the first place I’d recommend is George Metropoluos.  Second would be Friedman.  I’m currently deeply in love with a Friedman amp that’s a single-channel, point-to-point 40w amp that’s essentially a Tweed Bassman with EL84′s and a switchable gain stage...adorably named the Dirty Shirley.

***

Conclusion

Despite all that, I have a romantic love of Marshalls that overrides anything to do with quality or practicality.  It’s kind of like my love for the Gibson Les Paul grotesquely compounded...

You might think that I have a negative opinion of Marshalls based on everything I’ve just written.  Not true.  All of that stuff, it’s nothing in comparison to just how fucking incredible these things sound in person.  Again, neither of these instruments are in my wheelhouse, but if you asked me what the platonic ideal sound an electric guitar makes, it’d be a Les Paul through a cranked Marshall 1987x.

And even if you’re not into this kinda shit, trust me you’ve heard more than your fair share of Marshalls in the past.  They’re that great.  So great, it doesn’t matter how shitty they may or may not be.

PS...I wrote this in 3 different sessions, didn’t edit or re-read, and just posted away because something is better than nothing.

[krinsbez]

GI Joe: Remixed, the Stygians

Another set of OCs by the brilliant Night_stalker, this time of the Baroness’ elite personal black ops goon squad, the Stygians:

Team leader:

Name: Waylon Calthrope Codename: Obelisk DoB: Classified Orientation: Homosexual Former Affiliation: Force Research Unit Bio: Waylon comes from a long line of military men, so when he was picked for the FRU, eyebrows were raised. Yet, the hardened NCO had been chosen, so he went into it eyes open. Needless to say, by the time he was transferred out, he had picked up quite a few unsettling habits. Needless to say, these habits weren't what Her Majesty's Armed Forces particularly liked, so he was sent down to Gibraltar, in order to cool off. Alas, he was involved in Operation Flavius, which was the final straw for many of the brass. Come 1990, he was handed his kit in a box, told to leave, and politely reminded of the Official Secrets Act while on his way out the door. Naturally, he did what anyone would do in such a time, and went off to join ArmorGroup, a PMC, where he actually was doing very well for himself. Well, nobody doubted his skills, stories are still circulating throughout their barracks of his daring deeds, the problem was, stories were circulating. Including one or two that showed he hadn't quite lost those habits that had gotten his discharge papers in the first place. In an attempt to avoid losing such a highly valued member, AG just had him rotated into a training position, figuring that he could be far less harmful there then in the field. A reasonable argument, it failed to consider one possibility. Namely, that he would occasionally be called up as a Floater (Guard used to fill temp holes in schedules), which was exploited once the people in charge of staffing realized the potential gold mine they had on tap. Then the company was acquired by G4S, and one of the changes they made was letting go of personnel who they deemed to be unfit to have under their umbrella. Waylon was one such person, but this time, he had done some prep work. As he walked out the door of his old office, a worn cardboard box with the few personal belongings he had inside it, he pulled out a business card, and dialed it. The phone rang twice, before a woman with a Eastern European accent picked up the phone. "Baroness? This is Waylon, are you still looking for another member of that outfit you're setting up?" Hobbies: Knife Throwing, Weightlifting, Fantasy Football, and Homebrewing.

Members:

Name: Matsui Yunosuke Codename: Goryō DoB: June 19th, 1979 Former Affiliation: Inagawa-kai Specialty: Close In Protection Orientation: Het, Married to Console (see below) Bio: Born into a Yakuza family, Matsui grew up with the ethos of the movement as his nursery rhymes. However, he didn't seem to fit quite in. Despite his best efforts, the only things he seemed to be good at were keeping silent, and when keeping silent wasn't enough, cracking skulls. As one would imagine, while it makes him a great bodyguard and enforcer, when it comes to stuff that requires a bit more of a business mind, he didn't fit in. The local boss, seeking to capitalize on his talents, assigned him to guard his beloved sister, who was responsible for handling the books side of the business. However, even he couldn't protect her from an full sized hit squad sent by a angry rival. While in hospital, his boss tried to silence him, which failed horrifically. Once he was done recovering from some torn stitches, he was contacted by one of the Athenes, and made a very appealing offer..... Revenge for service, in essence. Stricken with rage, he agreed, and the boss was soon killed in what was described as "A gangland deal gone wrong", and what was described by a police offical off record as "The single biggest bloodbath he'd seen in his career". Hobbies: Kendo, Spider keeping, listening to punk rock, and watching trashy romance anime.

Name: Balbina Krajewska Codename: Baba Yaga DoB: Classified Former Affiliation: Medi-Vipers, before that, [REDACTED] Orientation: Asexual. Specialty: Medical/Interrogation Bio: Much of Balbina's life before Cobra is left blank. Mostly as she comes from the Medi-Vipers, and that stuff is kept classified as hell, and also because well, nobody wants to look too deep into the Abyss. That said, it is known that she's a combat medic par none, winning several commendations for her life saving methods, as well as managing to uncover a organ theft ring. Totally unrelated, according to her. That said, she did ruffle some feathers, as well as other parts of their bodies, so a sideways transfer was in order. Hobbies: Cosplaying, Ballet, Medical experimentation, and Medical Cosplaying (Don't ask. Seriously.).

Name: [REDACTED] Codename: Console DoB: Unknown Former Affiliation: Cyber-Vipers, before that, Unknown Orientation: Het, married to Goryo Specialty: Heavy Weapons/Cyberwarfare Bio: While little is known about Console's previous life, given the usual Cyber-Viper "Welcome Basket", what is known is that she's got a fondness for heavy weapons, in particular DShK's, a hatred for GI Joe that seems rather intense, implying a personal connection to them, and finally, some very interesting tattoos on her body. Or at least, the remains of some tattoos, implying the Cybers laser removed them before her conversion occurred. Hobbies: World of Tanks, Knitting, Trolling forums, and deadlifting weights.

Name: Romeo Moretti Codename: Gaucho DoB: Unknown Former Affiliation: None Orientation: Single Target Sexuality, believed to be Baroness Specialty: Long Range Threat Neutralization Bio: Growing up in the Atacama Desert on the compound of a former Argentinian military sharpshooter and his wives, Romeo's childhood wasn't really the best. Between the daily marches to toughen them up for the impending apocolaypse, the hard shooting conditions, tight rations, and the annual tradition of being dumped someplace to find their way back, well, the fact that it took Romeo until his 16th birthday before he finally put a bullet through his father's skull could be taken as a sign of how patient he was. Or how long before he was allowed live rounds and some trigger time. Fleeing the compound with a old Mosin-Nagant rifle on his back, a canteen of water, and his favorite horse, it wasn't expected he'd show up anytime soon. Yet he survived in the wilderness, becoming a poacher, and on occasion when hunting was lean, a hitman. His natural charm and skill with a rifle somewhat impressed the locals, a fact which he started exploiting, trading animal pelts and teeth for ammo and other nescessities. However, soon the heat became too much for him, both figuratively and literally, so he started looking for a way out. As luck would have it, Baroness had heard rumors about this daring man's skills, and made him a offer. It's rumored he accepted as soon as he saw a photo of his new boss, but there probably isn't any truth to them. Hobbies: Horseback riding, hunting, meditation, collecting stuff for his secret shrine to Baroness. 

Name: Goktas Muhiddin Codename: Askari DoB: March 5, 1983 Former Affiliation: Special Forces Command, Turkey Orientation: Het Specality: General Combat Bio: [REDACTED] Hobbies: Wargaming, Baccarat, playing Overwatch (Reaper Main), and cross country running. 

BONUS: The leader of Athene, The Baroness’ personal paramilitary unit (because her boyfriend has the Iron Grenadiers and she can’t stand not being having an army of her own)

Name: Moira Burns Codename: Lozen DoB: December 19th, 1980 Former Affiliation: 1st Marine Battalion, A Company Orientation: Gay, currently engaged to a Track-Viper and a Rock-Viper at the same time. Bio: Why Moira left the Marines is a matter of some debate amongst her new command. Some claim that she was forced out before Don't Ask was repealed, and held a grudge over the matter. Others make the argument that the "Apricot Incident" was the last straw for her military career. And then we just have people who think she joined out of true love. The answer may never be known, as all parties involve remain silent. What is known is that she left the Marines with a bit of ax to grind against them, which made her rather appealing to the Baroness. Why she picked Moira for the Athene unit's lead isn't as concealed. According to Baroness: "Moira's professionalism and aggressive leadership style made her a perfect fit for the Athene Unit", which has been accepted as the gospel truth. Or at least nobody feels a desire to really push matters much further past that. Hobbies: Burning down Apricot trees, movie reviews, dog breeding, and weight lifting.

[tactyl-ymon]

dnd session recap - Dragons and Divinity

Straight into it this time, because ya boy prewrote most of this just after the actual session which was still like a month ago. Score one for excessive note taking in advance for once.

We open the session with everyone exhaustedly rallying together between the centre portal and the camp to buy everyone time to secure the civilians and Sukaren shouting for all her men to evacuate back to the camp as the portals shudder back to life for the second time in a day and spews forth a new threat in the form of a Manticore and a Chimera that explode out towards the group blisteringly fast. A thrilling battle that I don’t have the energy to transcript ends with Septima having shifted into a giant anaconda and systematically breaks each of the chimera’s necks while Tornur ends the Manticore with a well placed firebolt as it was trying to escape, everyone silently watches as the Manticore drops from the sky and bounce off a nearby cliff into the ocean below. With everyone on edge, we worriedly wait for a couple minutes to make sure the portal is properly closed as Sukaren orders some of her men back out to pick up and begin harvesting the creatures that came through for parts. Eridol asks if they can get in on this because he has a burning need to take trophies and after a heated exchange Sukaren begrudgingly hacks off one of the chimera paws and throws a couple of Manticore barbs towards Emmi and Whisky as personal trophies and orders us all to get the hell out of her camp and not come back. Eager to not annoy the commanding dragonborn anymore than they need to everyone starts hobbling back towards their horses to head back to the keep, Septima confirming he saw what he needed to calculate how everyone fights together. As we make our way towards the large wooden gate that separates the military complex from freedom, we find ourselves surrounded by guards with several extremely large siege weapons pointed at us. With a collective shrug because of course this would happen, we are barred from leaving by several guardsmen who recognised Veiraen as a butcher who murdered multiple people on coming out of the portal so obviously we’re all criminals for being with him and need to face justice. Despite our pleas to just let us leave before Sukaren notices we’re still here and kills us, Veiraen is put into chains while we contact Core and ask if he could come out to confirm that we work for him. Core arrives, we get squared away while Sukaren takes notice of the only person she currently hates more than us and stomps over to totally not try to choke Core for entering her camp and after our customary prodding she confirm that something is happening with the portals, they let something else in. This gets Core's attention and him and Sukaren go to talk in private while we are finally let go to gather the horses and wait outside. On the way outside, Septima slows down from the group and animorphs into a gecko to go back to listen in on the conversation between Core and Sukaren, seeing Core try to appeal to her that they're working towards the same goal before the sorcerer notices the out of place gecko watching them. He tries to throw a magically imbued rock at the lizard but only succeeds in beaning the angry, armor plated dragonborn directly in front of him. Core feebly apologises before pointing out the lizard to Sukaren as well and with something that she can finally murder without getting a stern talking to from the council she draws her sword and starts advancing towards the gecko Seeing his chance to escape, Septima books it around a corner and into the dark tunnel out towards where we all are as he shifts back into himself before a hasted Core and Sukaren burst into the scene screaming something about a lizard and asking if anyone had seen it. A round of no's come back before Sukaren returns to the camp muttering things best not repeated and we all head back to Principium for various errands and to sleep. Whisky and Tornur head out to continue work on branding for the ale they're making back at the keep, Septima and Emmi return to our old barracks to rest along with Eridol's dog, Veiraen goes to make more poison with his new brewing partner and Eridol goes to speak with the owners of the city fight pits, the brieg brothers about a necklace he received as payment for his last fight along with questions about how it was made. Veiraen finds his brewing partner has expanded from just making poisons to also brewing elixers and potions for anyone who can pay. They discuss the fine art of business and killing people while finishing an elixer for an elderly couple and then another vial of bloodfire poison with the remaining materials Vaeraen had on him Eridol learns that one of the brieg brothers is also a follower of Tyr, one who sports an impressive gnome sized back tattoo of Tyr's holy symbol and scripture. This brother, Doug, is responsible for enchanting the death wards necklace that he received and after Eridol mentions that he had broken a connection to Bhaal on one of his travelling companions and was looking for a way to hide them from any future divine interference Doug takes him down to his workshop to begin the prayers and rites to change a ring of mind shielding that Eridol had taken from Drackuss into something that would also hide him from the divine. It takes four days of non stop prayer to layer the needed divinity into the item, ensuring that it would soak into the wearers soul as a shroud of protection. With that, we jump another 6 months into the future, Septima and Veiraen have created a viable and sustainable potion brewing company called "Gone today, here tomorrow" to outfit the military manning the portals, Whisky and Tornur have been selling their ale to anyone who would buy it as well as creating a mostly automated process that any of the keep staff could handle to maintain production for when we are away, Emmi had spent her time fishing and training with her new swords and Eridol spent his time refining his new ability to enchant divine magic into mundane items. Working with infusing divine light into glass rods to make what is basically fantasy glowsticks. In a dark prison cell somewhere in principium, for the first time in 13 months, intelligence and understanding return to Drackuss' eyes. Taking in his surroundings and the burst of memories that he can now process, he begins trying to break the chains holding him which alerts the guards who come to investigate. With a softly growled "Get Core" Drackuss informs them the feeblemind spell he has been under is broken, the guards tripping over themselves to get away from the prisoner and inform Core of what happened. Core arrives to talk to Drackuss, they discuss how Drackuss fell to Bhaal's incessant whispers and promises of power and that what he had done was still his choice to make in the end. His choice to kill a former ally to deepen the connection, his choice to listen to the messages Core and Eridol sent to try and get him back and not kill a child as bhaal wanted, his choice to try and kill another ally. Core mentions that Eridol had severed the connection to Bhaal and had been working on a safeguard to stop this happening again, they both agree that Eridol cares too much and that's what they like about him. Core leaves temporarily to inform the rest of Tacty'l Ymon and gets one of the guards to bring some stew for Drackuss as he hasn't been able to eat anything that wasn't baby food for the past year. After receiving the confirmation, Eridol gears up and goes to tell Veiraen that Drackuss is awake and wanted to speak, Eridol wants Veiraen to come as well before informing everyone else and they all set out for Principium. They all arrive at the cells Drackuss is being held at to see Core enter and remove the bindings from Drackuss' arms and while Eridol slinks to the back of the room, everyone else has their fill of berating Drackuss for the attempted murder and everything else. Drackuss takes it all in stride. Eridol steps forward and without actually looking at him begins telling Drackuss about how he was too powerful a divine champion to let fall into the hands of an evil god and how he's been working to break the connection between Drackuss and Bhaal before offering a choice, take the ring he helped enchant to make sure this never happens again, hide your presence from the gods to make sure that they cannot interfere with your search for power and be offered a chance to work away your crimes. Drackuss says he will accept the offer with one condition, when the time comes he would seek out Eridol's assistance to kill Bhaal. After a tense moment, Eridol accepts the terms and offers up the ring which Drackuss slides onto his finger, the magics taking hold in his soul and making him practically invisible to anything beyond the divine gate. Drackuss asks about his other rings Eridol took off him when he found them all in the feeble mind stupor. Eridol silently gives the family ring and ring of cold protection back to Drackuss and goes to leave, asking Core if he could see him outside when they're done.  With eridol's departure, Core lays out a rough plan for what happens next. Drackuss will remain in solitary confinement for the next month or two to finish his sentence before being enrolled as a combatant on the front lines to protect the country against whatever comes out of the portals for an undisclosed period. Once confirmed, everyone filters out of the prison and Core goes to talk to Eridol. Eridol tells Core that he's paid his debt to Drackuss and doesn't want to see the dragonborn again, but when Core trusts him enough to outfit him in armor and weapons that he would need something and gives Drackuss' tarnished flametongue longsword to the sorcerer to put with whatever remains of the armaments Core had waiting for him. Core takes the sword and nods as Eridol turns and begins leading everyone back to the spooky fun bone room to talk to the skeleton they all found when the tower arrived. Everyone dings to level seven after a quick break for emotions and they set off to talk to a skeleton loudly proclaiming how much Eridol loves this sort of thing to Eridol's general dismay. After a grossed out eridol casts speak with the dead on the bones they learn more about the Slyph and the world outside Osteria. Namely that of the three destinations they've been told of Jaunted Pillars would be the safest and that the skeleton used to be a wizard named Falfer Osman, this triggers a memory for Septima. He knew Falfer back when they came through the portals together so many years ago with a third. They ask the wizards skeleton what were the names of everyone who travelled with them to Ostaria and receive confirmation that Septima was there along with another, Fulgür. With the magic depleted, Septima begins describing his original travelling companions, he can't remember what Fulgür looked like and when he tries it is just an ever changing mass of features, but Falfer was a halfling with curly hair and glasses which matches the description of the local shop owner who had disappeared several months ago from one of the magic shops Veiraen and the rest would frequent. But he's been dead for centuries so the standard Tacty'l Ymon freakout begins, was he a ghost all along? Some kind of changeling? 3 goblins in a trenchcoat? we may never know. Septima has the idea to try and cast locate person but with it's limited range and our landlocked speeds, nothing initially shows up. Another idea is had, Septima has the ability to transform into an eagle and with Eridol concentrating on the locate spell they could cover most of the small country in under a week. Eridol protests, mentioning his general fear of heights before someone reminds him of the featherfall ring he's got on that would stop him from becoming a gnome pancake if he fell. With no other defence, eridol pouts before agreeing. Everyone sets back to the keep while Core helps set up the optimal search pattern for Septima and Eridol. The two set out and spend several days with Septima acting like a flying taxi for the terrified gnome cleric before they finally get a ping, near the top of a mountain far to the south of the country. Septima glides in towards the mouth of a cave and they see what had pinged the spell. A large adult bronze dragon frantically carving things into the stone at the back of the cave before it digs its claws into its head and temporarily reverts to the halfling form we were searching for, this happens again and again while Septima and Eridol look on horrified. Eridol asks Septima what they should do, they can't fight a dragon on their own, before they can say anything else the dragon reacts to Septima's name, violently turning and stalking towards us. Septima asks Eridol to not mention what he's about to see to anyone as he drops his hood and mask, showing his wooden warforged face for the first time since joining the group and calling out to the dragon like old friends. This gets the dragons attention and it stops charging towards us before clawing at it's head again and shifting back to the halfling momentarily before returning to it's draconic form. While Septima tried to sooth his friend, Eridol decided he had to do something, mentioning he had an idea and for Septima to trust him. With septima's blessing he announced himself to the dragon and started moving forward, reciting a prayer and asking for Fulgür to cooperate he attempted to dispel whatever magic was affecting the dragon. After failing and realising the nature of the magic was more akin to a curse from the fey Eridol tries again, this time praying for Tyr to help him remove the affliction. Not wanting to see his friend in any more pain, Septima helps guide Eridol's hand. As vines and flowers weave through Eridol's armor from Septimas' connection with nature to help guide the divine energy into Fulgür, Eridol breathes and opens himself up fully to Tyr's divine energy for the third time in his life. Willing it through himself and into the dragon. cleansing the dragons curse and as a reward for his continued dedication, Tyr claims another sliver of Eridol's soul. The magic fades and for the first time in centuries, Fulgür the adult bronze dragon is himself again. He takes flight into the thunderstorm that had set in and enjoys his freedom as Septima thanks Eridol and Eridol, still reeling from Tyr's gift, numbly mentions that it was the right thing to do. They watch Fulgür twist and dance in the sky in silence until he lands, thanking them both before Septima asks why he was using the form of their friend and after Fulgür's prompting, about the tower we had found and the issues with the portals we had witnessed. We settle in for a lore dump. Ostaria was created to be a prison of sorts, located behind a protective barrier outside the material plane, an amalgamation of chunks of different countries with one entrance through the carcare tree portals and a now not so hidden exit should things get too bad. About a hundred years into their stay, a culling of the population was needed, with Falfer doing the deed before dying from the lingering effects of the magic. Unable to find their friend, Septima shut down and Fulgür began using Falfer's appearance as a way to monitor the remaining people trapped here without giving away his nature, over time he began forgetting who he was and believing that he had always been Falfer. With the rituals completed to reopen the tower, Fulgür states that we had set a series of events in motion that required action to ensure that the country does not tear itself to shreds when the barrier drops. With the time we had already taken to complete the rituals, there was little more than 11 months remaining. We all agree that the rest of the group needs to be told and Eridol contacts Core to get to the keep along with anyone who isn't already there and Septima and Fulgür work out the best way to traverse the sizable distance back to the keep. Flying is obviously the best option, but Fulgür being the proud dragon that he is refuses to carry us on his back, to end the discussion he reverts back to his halfling form. A spell is cast to let them all fly, once again against Eridols wishes because at least last time there was something to hold onto and he could shut his eyes to concentrate on the locator spell. After a brief prodding from Septima and Fulgür, Eridol psyches himself up, he just faced down a dragon and helped break it from a centuries old curse, this was nothing. With laughter and vaguely gnome shaped screams, they set off through the storm. Septima and Fulgür deciding to have a race like old times and Eridol not wanting to spend any more time in the air also partaking. They rocket through the air, each trying to slow down or stop the others in their tracks, Septima throws up a wall of wind to stop the smaller two and with a laugh shoots into first place. As they continue to trade spells and places for the winning spot, Fulgür waits will the last moment and dispels the fly spell on Eridol, making him fall short of the finish line by about 20 feet as both Fulgür and Septima secure an easy win between them. We wait for everyone to arrive in our war room and as everyone fills in Fulgür questions Septima and Eridol on how much everyone can be trusted. With a small "I trust everyone in this room with my life" from Eridol and affirmation from Septima, Fulgür mentions he should show them something before continuing so that they will know he tells the truth. Everyone filters outside and in an instant the halfling form is dissipated and the intimidating frame of an adult dragon stands before everyone. Cue the freak outs from everyone, especially Veiraen at the implication that he basically brought a magic hand grenade into a shop run by a massive dragon and oh god that could have ended so poorly. After everyone calms down, Fulgür turns to Core and they share a moment, the gigantic head of the bronze dragon swooping down to rest in front of the Draconic sorcerer as Fulgür recognises something inside Core. Whatever they seemingly shared was too much for Core and our government sanctioned patron teleported 500 ft away and started running back to town, away from Eridol's confused yells about needing to talk to everyone. With the remainder of Tacty'l Ymon still here, Fulgür began explaining what needed to be done next to safeguard Ostaria and to bring down the barrier to the material plane. We would need to enter the portal between realms to find a key and break it. Those of us touched by magic would have no issues using the Slyph, but those without would need something cast on them as a safety to avoid being ... consumed by the Slyph. Emmi speaks up at this point as one of the few unable to cast magic which gets Fulgürs attention, he remarks with a sad smile that she looks a lot like her father, a sea captain of high renown, which Emmi refutes. No, her father was a noble who never spent time on the seas. Confused, Fulgür peers into Emmi and notices traces of the same magic that had kept him a prisoner in his own mind. Asking Eridol if he can break this curse as well. Without hesitation, Eridol moves up to Emmi and asks her if this would be alright and with confirmation he begins reciting his prayer to remove whatever curse is holding Emmi. With Septima's vines and flowers once again creeping over his armor and guiding his hand, Eridol has just enough energy to weaken the bindings enough for Emmi's real memories to come to the surface and shatter the curse that had been put on her. Emmi begins remembering her life growing up on the ocean, with her father, the captain of the Shepard and her Mother, her mentor and now member of the ruling council, Sharona. She remembers the laughter and love they all shared and she remembers when the shepard sank. They had been travelling out to sea, along a thin strip of ocean said to funnel out of ostaria, when it happened. The barrier was coming down on them, with moments to spare, her father had flung Sharona and Emmi outside the effects of the barrier and towards the back of the ship. Like a match, the ship splintered and broke where the barrier forced itself down and in an instant the ships bow is ejected into the horizon, taking her father and several crew members with it. The remaining parts of the boat shot back from the force of the barrier, now unbalanced began to upturn and break away. It is a miracle that any survive at all to make it back to land. Whatever remains of the ship sinks to the sea floor in pieces. Emmi spends the most of her teenage years stealing or commandeering whatever floating thing she can get her hands on, desperately trying to make her way out to find her father despite her mother's pleas for her to stop. Sharona can't bear to lose Emmi as well. In a fit, Sharona calls on one of her friends, a wizard currently residing in Principium with curly bronze hair and glasses to help protect them both from the heartache of loosing the beloved captain. A spell is cast on them both. Memories shift and drift away like dreams, Emmi's family shifted to a noble household that she can acutely remember, a life spent dreaming of adventures and pirates and a calling to the ocean that left her disowned and a runaway. A life then spent working under the tutelage of Sharona, her mentor and definitely not her mother. The spell ends and Emmi unable to process everything stammers out a response and turns back to the keep to drink and collect her thoughts. Fulgür, apologises and starts back towards the city, there is much to prepare if they are to succeed in protecting the country and it's inhabitants. We end the session with Septima walking his friend back through the forest towards Principium, talking of times long past. Tornur returning to his brewing workshop to tinker with the machines and Whisky, Veiraen and Eridol all meeting outside Emmi's room, with booze, distractions and companionship to help their hurting friend.

[shanascarlett]

Thoughts on Hasbro Universe after Revolution

Im big fan of G.I. Joe/Transformers. But when I heard that there are more than 2 franhises in one universe, it blew my mind. So I decided to check out them. One of them I heard when I was kid.

Revolution was big. For some it was epic, other think it was mess. I understand why ppl love and hate it. Personally I love it. There’s conflict and how heroes unite against evil. It was the beggining of massive universe. So, how it turned out?

To be fair.... not so good.

Its my own opinion. You can disagree with me. If you love aftermath of Revolution, thats fine. I just want to tell about the conclusion of Hasbro Comic Book Universe.

Optimus Prime.

I think the writer put a lot of his view on life: disappointment on every religion. I really didnt like how he made that Optimus Prime is always wrong. Even when he listens and he does what he was asked to do, ppl still angry at him. “You should listened to me!” and “You shouldn’t listen to me!”. I love that they put Joes, but here’s the big issue: OOC of Mainframe and Flint with his daughter look similar the same age.

Remember when Trasnformers had the mystery of their religion and mythology? Mix of Sci-Fi and Cosmic Fantasy. Yeah, forget about that. It was all Shockwave’s evil plan. Another big disappointment for me.

I like how they described the ghost of Bumblebee, but Shockwave being one of 13 Primes looks very... confusion to me. 

Lost Light

Lost Light deserves to be called a weak sequel. Remember when in MTMTE was magic mystery, adventure, gore and development of characters and relationships? Here I found nothing. New characters for me are not interesting. And yes about them being “trans”. Im not transphobic and sorry if my opion might hurt you or offend. I just dont see transgenders in Transformers.  I dont see transformers suffering of gender dysphoria. Hell, I doubt they suffer of homophobia, bc they are totally fine with mlm and wlw. If you dont know, hetero relationships are for the population of Earth. And Transformers managed told that they can love each other, but their love is not like Earth’s bc they dont have to have sex to create life. They have strong emotion connection to each other.

Speaking about love. I love Chromedome/Rewind love story bc it was developed. We saw the birth of connection, loss, pain, reunion, fear and happiness. Same with Cyclonus and Tailgate. To be fair I dont ship the last two as romantic couple, but as platonic couple. For me they dont have that emotional connection like Chrome/Rewind but they care each other. In Lost Light nothing. You just accept that a lot characters are couple to each other. Why and how? Just accept it. This is why I dont feel emotional connection to Lug and Anode. To be fair I thought they are friend and Lug looks a lot like a boy. If they’d develop her more better, I think I’d like her. The whole Lost Light is just comics of couples. I was thinking when they’re gonna do the Orgy like in Ancient Rome.

Also here’s another disappointment in religion. Everything was lie. As I told earlier - I didnt like it. I’d rather to rewatch TFP, Bayverse or G1. BC I felt emptiness. MTMTE is masterpiece.

G.I. Joe

Where do I begin? Was written by socialist who doesnt know anything about military, ruined Quick Kick who was nice and gentle, made Scarlett an idiot, turned charasmatic Shipwreck into fat vegan, new characters have no backstory or reasons why they joined to Joes. Also: huge hypocricy. Scarlett says that G.I. Joe is now international team, but they refuse to work with USA. I get it they tried to turn G.I. Joe into Overwatch, but OW was working with every country. Including USA, where they had one of their headquarters. American G.I. Joe was more progressive bc they were helping every country who had deal with Cobra or any threat. They even teamed up with Russian soldiers.

The huge disappointment was no explanation about Snake Eyes rebirth (and no love story of Snake/Scarlett) and Quick Kick being an ass. Just check G.I. Joe ARAH show. There Quick Kick was nice. I miss that one....

The only good stuff was about Rock n’ Roll nightmares and guilt for shooting Grand Slam, grumpy Grand Slam and Doc being half-alien. Thats alll.

Revolutionaries

It was a bit better bc its literally crossover with conflict and backstories. Here they at least tried to make story interesting. And brought a lot interesting references. Especially to 90s: KLAW, Slaugther and even to original Action Force.

M.A.S.K.: Mobile Armored Strike Kommand

At 1st they tried but then it all felt down. I wouldnt call it horrible. You can check out 1st issues. I can say that only villains were interesting. While main heroes...  here’s the problem.

Original Matt Trekker was an engineer, millionaire, helped ppl and white. Why the last important? BC in reboot he became boring black guy who seeks vengeance for his father death and the main bad guy is white man. Im not racist bc I like how it was done in Spawn, but it wasnt so obvious who is the bad guy who just wants to take over the world. I get it you hate Trump. He is a clown.

Also original Trekker raises his son alone. So he is widowed. It could play in reboot: lost all, but tries to keep his son safe. So much potential for drama of lonely father. But we got what we got. I just go to rewatch Spawn animated series.

If they wanted “diverse” why they didnt put more poc characters from MASK? You know there are actual canon black man and indian man? Even native american man?

ROM

It was boring. 1st issues were interesting and brutal bc of alien invansion. You wouldnt know who is the enemy and who is the friend. But drama...

Whole Rom’s drama was about losing his humanity. At 1st we see him as cold-hearted alien. Then they all forget about it. Original Rom from Marvel was losing his humanity until he met brave girl Brandy who made him to remember his loss of homeplanet and love of his life. He was afraid to be alone and to be complete machine. And yes, in reboot his old girlfriend is alive. But I felt nothing with this. I prefer to read original comics bc I felt sorry for Rom.

Micronauts: Wrath of Karza

It was boring. The only thing I can remember is Larissa being Baron Karza’s daughter. I dont compare reboot with original series bc I havent read yet. I liked the new one bc of Baron Karza and his wife (and their fetish).

First Strike

Hoo- boy. It was bad. Preety bad. Not bc villains tried to destroy Cybertron. Not bc TF thought its gonna be war of humans and TF. No, it all was good. The main villain is Joe Colton who wants to destroy Cybertron to save Earth. And that he was bad from the beginning. His motivation sounds like Miles Mayhem from M.A.S.K.. That shock effect of surprise villain doesnt work here. It looks like disrespect to Joe fans. They managed to ruin Scarlett’s character who was turned into G.I. Joe not bc she was the best. She was in Joes bc she didnt do 50 push-ups. If you dont know, G.I. Joe is elite guard where they take the best men and women bc they do a lot dangerous work. So the whole story arc is full disrespect to Joe fan. I dont know about you, but I was offended by that.

Was there smth good? Team up of villains and the easter egg of Visionaries.

Rom vs. Transformers: Shining Armor

I almost forget about the plot bc it was boring. Rom was rude like every commander (yeah, for someone “losing humanity”). New character was boring. So everythng was boring. Even Autobots didint save the situation.

Rom & the Micronauts

Well, they at least tried with characters development. I really liked how characters interact with each other. But the whole story was “meh”

Scarlett's Strike Force

It was very short and cancelled. BC that writer Sitterson wrote offensive tweet about Nine Eleven. I get it what he was trying to do: to make comics based on cartoon G.I. Joe. This is why Quick Kick and Spirit fight against Storm Shadow. Personally I thought it was racist bc “only asian fight agains asian”. And Storm Shadow has the worst redesign I’ve ever seen. Theres nothing to talk about the comics bc its unfinished and cancelled. So theres nothing.

Transformers vs. Visionaries

This comic had potential. But the ending ruined it. The story is about colonization to save living race. But it will kill another nation. Its interesting theme. And how they managed? Nothing. For some reason everyone in peace and safe. The ending is just weird. I think writer didint know how to end that conflict so she wrote “everyone safe and in peace. Colonization is bad”. Not the ending is the problem. Main characters: Leoric and Virulina redesigned very strong. Leoric looks like total different character (why not to create new character? He looks good). And Virulina looks like student from art-school, not the villain. The redesigned I like are Cryotek and Arzon. And the art was very good.

The last 2 ones I havent finished yet. I can tell this: TAAO isnt look so bad, but I’m ready for disapointing ending, like TF Unicron.

In conclusion:

I dont tell that it was done horrible. Its just explains why IDW decided to reboot TF and G.I. Joe. Low sales. BC I’ve noticed a lot easter eggs in those comics for future story plots. I think they’d made it good if IDW would give them chance.

If you love them, thats fine. I’ll enjoy my own version of Hasbro Universe.

[weirdstuff-blog]

Me and stephanie dancing up Christian

"ROB SIMS presents KellyMBentley.Com in 2008! "

Female 26 years old ATLANTA, Georgia United States

Last Login: 4/13/2008

I love models and everything to do with the glamour industry. I am seriously into photography. I love to dance and I am currently learning to sing. I am crazy in love with my American Pitt Bull Terrier "Layla" and I love spending time with her playing freesbee with her and my loving fiance Django. I love fast cars preferrably American Muscle. My favorite would be a Trans Am. Long live Cassondra

Music I love all types of music, but my favorite is Classic Rock including the Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, Doors, Def Lepard, AC/DC, Primus, Nine Inch Nail all kinds of artists. I love dancing to hip-hop, but I really don’t have any favorites.

Movies I love chic flicks and cartoons. I’ve never really been a fan of horror flicks. My favs include Notebook, Ratatouille, Sweet Home Alabama, Youve Got Mail…you get where this is going.

Television I love reality shows. I was on the Coyote Ugly Reality Show but I hated it. My favorites shows include Pussycat dolls, ANTM, Ghost Hunters, Dirty Jobs, Rock of Love, Make me a Supermodel��.well all of them except American Idol…hate that shit!!

Books I dont read anything but war books and Cosmopolitian magazine. Oh yea and the Bible of course. Heroes All of our American Military men and women especially those close to me….Andrew Goldman, Jason Edmondson, Chris Willis, and my sweet uncle Kurt. Love and appreciate you guys. If you have a friend or relative serving I send me their name and I will post it here to show my appreciation.

The Kelly M. Bentley ‘s Details

Status: In a Relationship Here for: Networking, Friends Orientation: Straight Hometown: Alabama Body type: Slim / Slender Ethnicity: White / Caucasian Zodiac Sign: Libra Smoke / Drink: No / No Education: College graduate Occupation: Model

The Kelly M. Bentley ‘s Schools Southern Union State Community College Wadley, AL Graduated: 2002 Student status: Alumni Degree: Associate’s Degree Major: Computer Science

2000 to 2002

The Kelly M. Bentley ‘s Companies NOPI Motorsports Atlanta, Georgia US Nopi Chic Model

Construction Cuties Atlanta, Georgia US

M Bentley Productions Atlanta, Georgia US

The Kelly M. Bentley is Taking Over the F*cking World!

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Rob Sims and Kelly Bentley 2008 (view more)

RIDE FOR LIFE…..Relay For Life Charity Event (view more)

Coyote Ugly Episode 5…Thank God its Over! (view more)

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Coyote Ugly Episode 4 (view more)

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The Kelly M. Bentley ‘s Blurbs About me: Its hard to describe myself because I am constantly changing. So to start, above all else, I am a bad ass bartender. I bartend at OPERA Nightclub here in Atlanta, Geogia. Its the biggest and hottest club in Atlanta. I also bartend at the Irish Bred Carrollton where I can fulfill my bar dancing passion to AC/DC, Buckcherry (Crazy biotch!), and Def Lepard. I love serving up cocktails with a little sassy shake some come by either place and check me out!!

Second, I am a model and one of the hottest female entrepreneurs on this planet. In modeling, I specialize in glamour, fitness, and promotional modeling. I always have something going on somewhere. I’m partnering up with NOPI as a NOPI CHIC for 2008. I love doing charity work so keep updated on my events and help us out. As an entrepreneur, I own half of a calendar production company with JM Polsfuss that is responsible for the hottest calendar coming out in 2009 Construction Cuties. Watch for it!! I also just teamed up with get this…yes…The Rob Sims….which we will have my website launched by the end of Spring to help heat up the summer for you. Also watch for all the magazine covers, layouts, spreads, etc. coming soon…I told you guys I’ll be taking over the WORLD!! Lastly, I am a regular girl that had a dream and am still forcing it to come true come hell or high water. I’m from a small town, but I’m working hard to fulfill my big city dreams as well as those of other girls who want to be models with MODELICIOUS. So if you want to try modeling, don’t listen to people when they tell you that you cant do it, they said I couldn’t, and I look at me…so don’t listen, contact me and lets see what we can do. I DONT DO ANYTHING FOR FREE….so don’t ask. I have a small network of professional models I use and promote because they have become friends. Don’t ask for my contacts, because I work hard in promoting and networking myself so why should I just hand over my hard work to you. If you want my network, you pay for my network.

THINGS YOU WOULDN’T GUESS ABOUT ME: No one would ever guess that I used to be in the Army National Guard. I used to be on Active Reserve as the RA for SFC Robert Cornett. I got out in 2005. I also used to wiegh 170 lbs. I gained a huge amount of weight when I quit drinking and smoking. Yea a lot of you thought it would never happen. I quit cold turkey and the turkey went to my ass. I lost 50 lbs. on the Subway diet. I was recently on the Coyote Ugly Reality Show on CMT and hated every minute. I also have a degree in Political Science and Computer Science with a minor in Military Science. Just some cool quirks about me. TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF – The Survey Name: Kelly M Bentley Birthday: October 7th Birthplace: Anniston, Alabama Current Location: Atlanta, Georgia Eye Color: Green Hair Color: Blonde/Brunette..hell I don’t know Height: 5’5" if I’d stand up straight Right Handed or Left Handed: Right Your Heritage: Irish/German &..39;The Shoes You Wore Today:’ My beloved flip flops Your Weakness: Your Fears: airplanes, elevators, and scurrying vermon Your Perfect Pizza: cheese/pepperoni without any sauce Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year: Be at 8% Body Fat by the end of the year Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger: I dont even know how to set that shit up… Thoughts First Waking Up: What in the hell are the Backyardigans? Your Best Physical Feature: My big ghetto booty Your Bedtime: When ever my mind decides to quit thinking Your Most Missed Memory: No clue..too much memory lost Pepsi or Coke: Caffeine free coke MacDonalds or Burger King: both are some nasty shit…I dont put it in my body! Single or Group Dates: Cant remember my last date… Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: I don’t drink any tea Chocolate or Vanilla: Just hand over the chocolate and no one gets hurt Cappuccino or Coffee: Caffeine free Coffee Do you Smoke: hell no Do you Swear: I swear I cuss too much Do you Sing: Did you catch my show? Think I’ll stick to the shower. Do you Shower Daily: more than once Have you Been in Love: Only twice for sure Do you want to go to College: Been there done that Do you want to get Married: Umm….when I’m too old to know better Do you belive in yourself: more than anyother person besides Roy Do you get Motion Sickness: Do you think you are Attractive: No but others tend to disagree Are you a Health Freak: Absolutely Do you get along with your Parents: depends on the day of the week Do you like Thunderstorms: love them Do you play an Instrument: In the past month have you Drank Alcohol: don’t drink alcohol In the past month have you Smoked: I quit when I was 20 In the past month have you been on Drugs: hell no drugs are for weak people In the past month have you gone on a Date: I havent gone on a date in the past few years In the past month have you gone to a Mall: No..I hate the mall..I’m in need of another personal shopper In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos: yea right…my trainer would shoot me In the past month have you eaten Sushi: I don’t eat fish In the past month have you been on Stage: too many times In the past month have you been Dumped: No In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping: I wish In the past month have you Stolen Anything: No but someone stole two of my damned portfolios Ever been Drunk: Plastered on many occassions Ever been called a Tease: What girl hasnt Ever been Beaten up: No but I got launched off some steps one time Ever Shoplifted: no I only steal hearts How do you want to Die: at 200mph on the Autobahn What do you want to be when you Grow Up: I’m doing it but not grown up yet What country would you most like to Visit: Ireland In a Boy/Girl.. Favourite Eye Color: Any that don’t lie Favourite Hair Color: any that I can run my fingers through Short or Long Hair: either Height: all heights Weight: weight doesn’t matter Best Clothing Style: clothes dont make the man Number of Drugs I have taken: Don’t do drugs Number of CDs I own: not too many Number of Piercings: ears and belly button Number of Tattoos: 1 Number of things in my Past I Regret: only 1…if you know me you know what it is

CREATE YOUR OWN! – or – GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

Myspace Layouts – Myspace Editor – Image Hosting

Who I’d like to meet: TO ALL MODELS AND PHOTOGRAPHERS: Now that I am partnered up with Robs Sims who is the most published photographer on the planet also owner of FitBeauties and FitModels International Magazines, photographer for Oxygen, MuscleMag, InStyle, American Curves, Maxim, FHM, Mens Health…okay I’m tired already. Too many to list. Google him for the rest…lol. Rob and I will be offering photoshoots to ambitious models with the guarantee to be published. Yes there is a catch. 1)like I said I don’t do anything for FREE 2) Neither does he 3) you have to be approved by me first. Sorry ladies…I have to be picky. Feel free to submit to me for shoots with Rob. I will be honest and give you feedback. WE ARE THE ONLY ONES THAT CAN GUARANTEE YOU PUBLICATION IN MAJOR MAGAZINES.

Posted by dcsmith2752002 on 2008-06-23 13:19:11

Tagged: , KELLY , M , BENTLEY , IN , ATLANTA , GA , NIGHT , LIFE , BASIC , BLACK , FORMAL-WEAR , AND , CASUAL , -WEAR , ATTIRES

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[nikkalia]

Gotta Get It Right, Chapter 12

TITLE: Gotta Get It Right

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 12

SUMMARY: Aleksa lived as an Inhuman at SHIELD's beck and call, but dreams of another life have her questioning everything she’d ever known. Just when she settled into a life of peace and quiet, she's called back to duty. Enter Loki.

PAIRING: Loki/OFC RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: A bit of implied violence  

Tumblr masterlist  Also on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409323/chapters/42587357

Feedback is always appreciated (just being an attention whore screaming for comments/reblogs)

Tags: @christy-winchester @whovianwookie86-captainxev  @wolfsmom1 @fadingcoast @fandom-and-feminism @igotloki @MischievousBellerina @odinsonobsessed @mrshiddleston-uk

Raised voices echoed down the halls from the council room. Lord D’Varst was naturally the loudest among them, once again attempting to assert his dominance over the others by volume alone. Loki paused just outside the open doors, listening to the old ambassador bluster about how he’d handle things if he were in control. The blatant disrespect never ceased to amaze Loki and made him wonder why Odin trusted the old man so much. He waited another few moments before entering the room with a flourish.

“I see you’ve begun the meeting without me,” he monotoned. “Again.”

“If your Majesty would care to pay closer attention to the time,” D’Varst sneered, plopping down in his usual spot. The others bowed as Loki passed, taking their seats after him.

“Yours is not the only council I have to attend to, my lord. What, precisely, has you enraged now?”

“You know, precisely, what has me enraged...”

“As does half of Asgard.”

Others around the table chuckled while D’Varst fumed. “If you had any respect for the mantle you wear, you would not...”

“And just how do you demonstrate your respect for your king, hmm?” Loki snapped. “You have done nothing but contradict and condemn every word that’s come out of my mouth since I accepted the throne. Odin would have you executed for the level of disrespect you’ve shown me, had it been him! So, my lord, perhaps you should better respect the mantle I wear.” A slow exhale followed as the council members blanched. “Now, on to other matters.”

A softer voice spoke from the end of the table. “Your Majesty, we are understandably concerned about the human that remains your prisoner. Surely, you are aware that she poses a threat to the security of this realm? And, to your Majesty’s person.”

“I am, Gefn. But, like all those who are just coming into their Seider, the threat can be mitigated with the proper training.”

“With respect, Majesty, she is not a child that is simply unaware of her gifts. She is a human woman that has demonstrated a willingness to do whatever she must to achieve her goals. Goals that may or may not involve your death.”

“She is not human.” Loki corrected. “How she came to be a resident of Midgard is still a mystery, but she is of Asgard. That much is certain. And, she is of the utmost importance to the security of all the Nine Realms. I will not see her destroyed when she could become our greatest asset.”

“You mean your greatest conquest,” D’Varst mumbled.

Before Loki could respond, Enji spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would remind you all that Asgard has flourished under his Majesty’s rule, and that our relations with other realms, while tenuous, are greatly improved. So I am confident that our King has considered all pertinent factors in the matter of this...woman.” Loki nodded in Enji’s direction. “However, I share your concerns. And, with your Majesty’s indulgence, I would pose another question.”

“Being?”

“What is to become of her if she refuses to receive training in the use of her seider? Surely she can’t be released unless she agrees to remain on Asgard. And if that happens, what is to keep her loyal to us? I’m told the military group she once worked for is notorious for demanding an unwavering allegiance to their country. She may see this as an opportunity to bring Asgard down in retaliation for,” Enji’s voice caught in his throat. The stare coming from the end of the table bore into him. “For New York, your Majesty.”

Loki’s gaze focused elsewhere, memories of Thanos’ torture rising to the surface. It wasn’t my fault... Aware that the entire table was staring at him, he cleared his throat, steepling his fingers as he pondered Aleksa’s fate should she refuse. His response came in slow, measured words.

“My lords. My ladies. I believe the incident in the vault to be strongly impacted by the effects of the Tesseract on the mind. Prior to that, the woman’s goals had been merely to escape, with the Tesseract, if possible. If her intentions toward us, or Asgard, had been malicious, I believe she would have caused catastrophic damage to this palace and the surrounding city. As that was not the case, I don’t see her as an active threat against us. However,” he paused as D’Varst wound up for a protest, “if she should refuse our offer of guidance in the use of her abilities, I will sign the order for her execution.”

“I believe this to be an acceptable plan. Is there dissent among this council for His Majesty’s proposal?” Gefn proposed. All eyes moved to the silently chafing D’Varst, waiting for the outburst that never came. “Thank you, my King, for your wisdom and understanding.”

Loki nodded, wondering how he’d convince the woman not to refuse.

Far below the council chambers, Aleksa sat against the wall of her cell, fingers brushing against the golden field that kept her inside. The tiny surges slowed her racing heart and eased her pounding head, helping her to focus on the calming techniques she’d learned ages ago. She didn’t dare sleep for fear of the terrors it would bring. Instead, she meditated on relaxing individual parts of her body, starting with her toes and working upward to the top of her head. Her eyes fluttered closed only to fly open again at the slightest noise, ruining the meditation and forcing her to begin again.

The other prisoners had long since given up their taunting. She’d been brought to this new cell screaming hysterically and barely aware of where she really was. Far from her fellow captives and ventilation systems, she’d begged for death a thousand times, throwing herself against the force field only to be knocked unconscious. Enemies of Asgard laughed and jeered at her weakness until they grew bored of her cries. A few even encouraged the guards to kill her so they could sleep. None dared approach her, however, They feared her more than the nobles arguing her fate above.

Aleksa began the cycle again, taking a bit of energy from the force field while she willed the tension in her feet to release. The smell of burnt flesh caught her nose as her eyes finally drifted closed.

The Crusaders had been thorough. Every statue, every mural, every indication of devotion to the old gods had been destroyed. These followers of the “prince of peace” weren’t willing to listen to the storykeepers, the librarians who knew that icons were just as much based in history as they were faith. Nothing was left of their culture now, except memories that would fade into legend.

Aleksa walked through the smoldering ruins of the village, stopping at every body on the ground to see if they survived the massacre. Those few that had had already been hauled off by soldiers, tossed into carts so they could be taken to priests to “heal” them. She prayed that they would be welcomed into Valhalla regardless of any oaths made to end the misery.

When she finally arrived at her home on the cliff, Aleksa collapsed. Only timbers remained of the cottage she’d shared with Modir for a century. The rest had been reduced to ash, blown into the sea raging against the rocks far below. Her mourning turned to thoughts of her mother and mentor.

Modir had been taken as she attempted to heal the wounded. Aleksa heard her screams but couldn’t reach the old woman in time. She could only watch as the woman who’d raised her was loaded into a carriage and taken away. Aleksa finished off the soldiers that dared to remain in a frenzy of fury and sorrow, tapping into power she’d long forgotten she possessed.

The rains began as Aleksa made her way to the caverns at the base of the cliff. Deep within the maze of rock, she lit a tiny fire to warm herself and dry her clothes while she healed. Modir would demand she sleep if she were there, but Aleksa couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. Instead, she meditated on the memories she’d plucked from the minds of soldiers as they died at her hands. Camp locations, plans for the survivors, even their regret at ending innocent lives. A plan to rescue them began to form as she stared at the small chest across the cave.

“No, child.” Modir’s voice whispered. “Do not sacrifice yourself to save lives that have already ended. I will soon join them, condemned as a witch.”

“Then I shall meet you in Valhalla.”

“Stubborn to the last. Have you forgotten your oath to me, to the child I bore?” Aleksa sighed in protest. “No? Good.”

“I can’t let you burn,” Aleksa whispered. The warmth of Modir’s arms wrapped around her.

“Only my body will burn, little one, and the smoke will carry me to the ancestors. There will be no pain. You will be the last of the Exiled of Asgard.” Aleksa closed her eyes, allowing tears to fall again as Modir’s presence faded. “Never forget who and what you are.”

“What if I’m made to forget?” came the whisper to no one.

Loki watched Aleksa in rapt fascination as she sat in meditation, faint images glowing above her hands while tears rolled down her face. He desperately wanted to tap into her mind, to see what she saw. He stiffened when the images dissolved and her eyes opened. She stared through him for a moment before speaking.

“What?”

“I must admit, it is good to see you...calmer, Colonel.”

“Do me a favor,” she blew out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t call me that.”

Loki was taken aback. He feared that the Tesseract had caused more harm than he’d previously thought. The woman watched him closely as he considered his next words.

“As you wish... Aleksa.”

[spectralarchers]

Pietro as a ghost visits Clint after events of IW to ask what happened to his sister, because he no longer can feel Wanda in the world of living, but also she didn't join him in death.

(also on Ao3)

It’s been a long couple of days. Nights, too.

Clint hasn’t slept for at least a week - he’s been able to get a minute here and there, but never more than absolutely necessary for his body. Whenever he catches himself dozing off, he wakes up again, because he can’t allow himself to rest. He just can’t. Not after-

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about the smell of ashes in his nose, the feeling of her hands falling apart, of her presence just disappearing as if she had never existed. He’s afraid that if he closes his eyes, he’ll wake up and have forgotten about her.

About them.

He struggles for a moment, pulling out the used and scratched picture of his family he keeps in his vest. He hates himself that it’s been folded so many times, because now there’s a line across Laura’s face and there’s one across Lila’s face, and the top of Cooper’s head too. He’s afraid he’ll forget how they looked if he- if he allows himself to stop, even if just for a second.

It had all happened so fast - they’d been watching the news, making breakfast, as everyone did, when the battle over Wakanda had broken out. With the time difference, what was broad daylight in Wakanda was still early morning and Clint had been busy beating the pancake dough.

There had been news, and even his SHIELD pager had made a sound. He’d heard it from the kitchen, because he knew that high pitched noise from anywhere - it was different from the mosquito repellents, and all the other loud sounds there were in his home. The loud screech of the television when the plug wasn’t entirely pushed in, the mosquito repellent device, the sound of electricity around the neon light in his office. No, his SHIELD pager vibrated at a loud frequency enough that he heard it.

But he ignored it. They got this, he had thought to himself, as he’d continued beating the dough, waiting for his kids to wake up, so they could go to school. He’d spent the morning folding clothes that had been thrown all over the floor, and he’d set a wash over, so he could hang the clothes out to airdry as soon as it was done.

Laura had come down, fresh and pretty from the shower and after applying make-up, followed by Cooper who was wearing a hideous Walmart Spider-Man themed hoodie, and Lila, in a pretty floral dress, with her two front teeth still missing, but a smile that could melt anyone’s heart. 

Nathaniel had been sitting by Clint’s feet, on his plaid, laid out with his favorite toys, and playing as he listened to the sounds of the kitchen. 

Picking up Nathaniel, Clint had picked his youngest up and sat him down in his high chair, before quickly applying a kiss to Lila’s forehead and one to Laura’s lipstick clad lips. She was going into town to meet with the bank about Nathaniel’s college fund, there had been a deposit and Clint suspected it was Stark meddling, but he didn’t want to go look for himself. He was never good with the big words and the small writing at the back of contracts, so Laura would be the one to go.

The news were muted, so Clint didn’t realize what was happening. He had been pulling Laura in for a hug, grabbing her from behind and putting his hands on her belly, as he kissed the crook of her neck and told her how pretty she looked and how good she smelled, was that his perfume? He’d asked with a smile nestled on his face, and she’d laughed and Clint had thought that it was the most beautiful morning he could wish for.

Right up until he’d looked down when she had tensed. 

Right up until the scar on his chest had flared up, burning across his body, as if the mind stone itself was burning its way through his body yet again. 

She’d said his name. Then Lila had too. And, before Clint knew it, they had gone. Blown apart, into tiny little particles, gone from where they stood. Cooper took a second to take it all in, looking paler than usual, asking his dad what was going on, before the spoon he’d been holding fell into the bowl of cereal too loud, dropped from where his hand had been moments before.

Clint looks up. He remembers it clearly. He’d looked around, at a loss for words, and before he knew it, he’d gone to check the pager. Something was wrong. Fury had activated the Marvel protocol, and that meant things were wrong. Oh so very wrong.

He’s stopped alongside a road, in the middle of nowhere Minnesota. He’s on his way to New York, to commandeer one of Stark’s jets. He has to get to Wakanda. He has to- he has to figure out what’s going on. Why his- why-

He looks over at Nathaniel who’s sleeping in the portable crib he’s secured him in and Clint sighs. At least his youngest is still here. At least he’s- at least none of it was a dream. He’d packed the car with a his bows, his guns, his swords and his knives, and all the toddler things he could think of. He’d found his stash of cash, American currencies, Euros, kroners, pounds and all of it. He had no idea what was going on, and in the early hours of the following morning, he’d set out.

The world had been chaos: whatever happened to Laura, Lila and Cooper had happened here too. People had disappeared, he found out, in the middle of their tasks: trains had crashed when the drivers had gone, planes had fallen from the skies when the pilots disappeared, ships had sunk, and everywhere around the country, people were in a survival frenzy. Employees around Nuclear Power Plants were trying to shut them down to keep them from going into a reaction, the military had found itself halved down with planes, ships and helicopters grounded because pilots had gone and staff and-

It was chaos. He’d had to fight off a mob when he’d reached the city, at Walmart, to get some food. Everyone was biting, hitting, and someone even brought a gun to the supermarket. Clint had wrestled the shooter out of it, and gotten smacked in the back of the head by one of the school teachers who had been out for as many cigarettes as she could.

Clint had made it back to the car bleeding and bruised, but he’d handed Nathaniel an apple juice box and had sat behind the wheel, contemplating the barrels of extra fuel he always kept under the backseats of the truck. He’d never thought his plan for world collapse would ever come into action.

He’s fallen asleep, and he knows he’s sleeping because the world is bluer, darker, grayer. He knows because ever since Loki, he can tell when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake because there’s a blue edge to everything. 

He’s learned to control it over time, but now he isn’t entirely sure what it means. He can’t force himself to wake up. Maybe his body finally gave it, and he fell asleep in the car, next to Nathaniel.

He opens his eyes in the dream world and looks around - it looks familiar, but he it takes him a couple of minutes to recognize the place. It’s the old church, from Sokovia. Where the core of Ultron’s machine was. Where he’d fought off sentient robots, side by side with the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. He frowns, and pushes himself up - there is no dust on his hand when he pushes away from the floor. He turns around when he hears footsteps and goes for a punch.

His fist only meets the empty air, as his eyes lock on the figure.

“You didn’t see that coming?”

“Pietro?” Clint exclaims, as he takes a deep breath, looking around. There is no sign of anyone else, and Clint closes his eyes. “Am I dead?”

“No, you are not,” Pietro Maximoff replies, in that accent of his Clint first had hated, and then come to love when he had gotten to know Wanda. Wanda? Clint looks around as Pietro bites his lips. He looks older, and his hair is silver in the moonlight that is travelling down from above. 

“You are in my world,” the Sokovian boy replies and after a couple of minutes, Clint finds himself hugging Pietro. With his whole body. It is so nice to see him, even if this world- this dreamworld isn’t real. He hasn’t dreamt of Pietro in months. So he takes this as a nice sign of destiny.

“Why am I here?” Clint asks as he lets go of Pietro, and watches the young man. He looks so good. He looks alive and well. Clint feels a bit jealous, but he doesn’t let it show.

Pietro sighs, before pursing his lips. “What happened in the real world?” he asks, and Clint frowns. “I cannot see- I cannot see beyond the horizon, and- and-” He pauses again, and takes a deep breath. Clint looks to where Pietro was looking, and recognized the edge of the rock Ultron had sent flying. A peaceful moon and sky light up the universe, and he understands the quiet Pietro found here.

“I cannot feel Wanda anymore,” Pietro finally admits. “She is not dead, for she is not here,” he comments, and the look he gives Clint makes Clint want to cry. “I could always feel her, and she me,” Pietro explains. “Even in death I could sense my sister,” he goes on, before he frowns, looking worried, looking so much like Clint would when he was worried.

“What happened?”

Clint purses his lips, unsure of what to answer. The truth is, he doesn’t know. 

“I don’t know,” he starts, and he has to take a moment to find the words. “There was a- there was a fight, in Wakanda. Wanda was there. I think- I think we lost,” Clint admits, and looks over at Pietro.

Pietro doesn’t look surprised, and Clint wonders if Pietro knew. He wonders if this is a test, and if this is a way for him to accept what happened, but then Pietro motions for him to follow him and Clint does. They walk among the rubble, the remnants of the Battle of Sokovia, as Clint had fought side by side with Wanda and Pietro, protecting them as much as he had could. 

He gazes over at Pietro and realizes Pietro still wears the same clothes as the day he died, and that his wounds are still visible. Pietro brings Clint all the way over to the edge of the island, of the rock, of the meteorite and shows Clint. All around them, there are lights. Different worlds and universes, Clint understands. 

“The dead come here,” Pietro explains, quietly, as if afraid of waking up the spirits around them. “They come here when their time in your world is done, like mine was.” Pietro points to a soul, not too long from there, shrouded in purple and anger. “This one came from Wakanda,” he explains. Clint looks, and knows in his heart. Killmonger.

“But my sister has not come here. And your wife and children have not come either,” Pietro says.

Clint looks over the edge, and thinks about what it means. He looks at Pietro, his eyes trying to figure out what the meaning of this dream is.

“You will find no answers here,” Pietro finally admits, as he pushes Clint over the edge. Clint doesn’t scream. He doesn’t say a single sound as he falls, surrounded by lights, near and far. He falls for an eternity, as he thinks about what Pietro said. 

Clint wakes up with a jolt. There’s a bobcat on the hood of the car, sleeping in the morning sun. The mist is clearing around them, so it must be early morning. Nathaniel is still sleeping.

Laura isn’t dead. Lila isn’t dead. Cooper isn’t dead. 

Clint knows this, in his heart. He pulls his shirt up, and looks down at the mark Loki’s scepter left. The mind stone. The one that Vision had held on his forehead. The mark glows a slight blue, as if confirming whatever it was that Clint had just realized. 

Wanda wasn’t dead either.

Pietro had shown him the world of the dead, and his family wasn’t there.

And if they weren’t dead, it meant they could be saved. 

[aldigond]

Acnologia’s Legacy Chapter 9: The Butcher of Regaza-La

tag for people who might be interested in this or I asked if I could tag: @marumigamer @theupcomingstorm19 and @chychymazzu

As Jonathan walks back to the door, he’s greeted by two very familiar faces. Both Wendy and Gajeel are astonished by Jonathan’s power, taking attacks from Blue Note like it was nothing.

“How did ya take that old guy out?!”, asks Gajeel very irritated.

“That’s what I also would like to know”, adds Wendy in a little angered confusion, as she adds, “And how did you withstand his magic? Didn’t it affect you at all?”

Jonathan looks at the both of them for a few seconds. Then he lifts his arms and crosses them holding one hand to his chin.

“How should I explain this...”, he starts, “...it’s like this. Blue Notes Magic is powerful but his arsenal is almost completely composed of gravity-based Spells. Meaning, that I could counteract it with either brute strength or with a magic spell that cancels out his Magic”, Jonathan explains.

Wendy thinks for a moment and then nods at Gajeel: “It makes sense”

Gajeel looks at him for a moment, sceptical: “Listen here, Punk. After this mission I want you to fight me! Got it?!”.

The blue haired Mage looks at him a bit concerned and then looks back at Jonathan. He looks back at her, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes and as he snaps out of it he turns to Gajeel: “Alright. I’ll fight you”.

He holds his hand out to the iron Dragon and waits for his reaction. Gajeel seizes the opportunity and squeezes the young man’s hand with almost all of his strength, waiting for Jonathan’s reaction. To his surprise Jonathan doesn’t seem to feel any change at all. Rather than that, he just smiles at him very friendly.

As they loosen their grip, Gajeel goes back to the bar and starts talking to the owner.

“I’m really glad to see you again, Wendy”, says Jonathan.

“Likewise”, she responds.

“How was your meeting with the council?”, she continues.

His friendly smile disappears almost instantly. The man’s green eyes look down on the ground. His entire posture changes and his all so friendly and happy behaviour swaps to one filled with sadness and frustration.

“Not good, to be completely honest...”, he answers rubbing his neck with his hand, avoiding any kind of eye contact.

Wendy slowly takes his hand and looks him dead in the eye: “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to”.

Both of them look their eyes into one another and slowly draw closer to each other. Suddenly Jonathan turns away with a little blush on his cheeks. As Wendy realizes what she was doing, she turns away immediately with a very red face.

Gajeel walks up to them and says annoyed: “Alright, I got the reward. Now let’s go. I want to be home as soon as possible!”.

At their departure the local civilians wave at them and wishing them farewell.

Walking on the path back to Magnolia Gajeel steps back a little bit from Jonathan and pulls Wendy back to him, a bit further away.

“Be careful around him”, he whispers to her.

“What do you mean?”, asks Wendy him.

“The entire year I spend at the councils police force, I have never seen or heard of him”, he musters his mind quietly.

“I don’t think that he’s a bad person, Gajeel. Nor do I believe, that he’s spying on us for the council”, Wendy responds to him in the same tone, “...and I also trust him that he’s being honest to us”

“Still. I’ll keep my eye on this guy”, he tells her.

“What are you guys doing back there?”, shouts Jonathan to them.

They continue their travels and reach Magnolia after a short while.

As they enter the guilds building, Lucy and Luna great them.

“Welcome back. How was the mission?”, asks Lucy, not paying attention to Jonathan.

“It went well, we finished the job. Although I don’t know if we would be so successful, without Jonathans help”, tells her Wendy, with a smile on her face and points at Jonathan.

Jonathan only raises his hand and waves at Lucy.

“Ok now we can go at it, PUNK!”, shouts Gajeel at the top of his lungs, waiting for the Grand Wizards response.

Jonathan immediately takes of his big cloak and folds it together.

“Shall we take that outside?”, he asks politely.

“You go first”, says Gajeel.

Both of them enter the backyard of the Guild and stand a few meters away from each other. Wendy, Lucy and Luna follow them and sit down on one of the benches. A few newer members gather around them. Natsu, Gray and Laxus also take a look at the two combatants.

“Are you ready to get beaten?!”, asks Gajeel very loudly.

Jonathan stretches his arms and legs: “Ready when you are”.

And so Gajeel makes the first move. He charges at Jonathan full speed and stretches his arm out, turning it into an extendable iron pillar. Jonathan swings the fingers from his right hand up and a wall made of earth appears in front of Gajeel, blocking his attack completely. But the Iron-Dragonslayer is hardly impressed; he quickly smashes the wall into little pieces with only one punch. However Jonathan flicks his fingers and the shattered pieces of hardened earth start flying around like a swarm of hornets, which surrounds Gajeel entirely. The Iron-Dragonslayer quickly cases himself in his iron to protect himself from the flying rocks and dirt particles. With a mighty roar he penetrates this giant cloud of earth and attacks the spot where Jonathan was standing earlier, But the Grand Wizard is gone. Suddenly he stands right behind Gajeel, holding his hand out on his back. Right before he can land his punch, Gajeel turns his hands into swords and swings them around himself to fend of Jonathans attack. The brown haired mage backs of and makes some distance between the both of them.

As they continue fighting, Levy walks into the party with Mest behind her.

“What is going on?”, she asks Lucy.

“Gajeel is fighting against Jonathan”, she replies.

Mest instantly tells her with a very panicking voice: “We have to stop this right now! Gajeel is in big danger!”.

Lucy shouts out of her seat and looks at Mest very concerned.

“What?! Why is he in danger?!”, she asks confused and scared.

Mest looks at the continuing fight.

“I remember Jonathan from the time I was undercover in the magic council! He started working for them from a very young age. His Magic Power and Intellect far exceeded his age and he was even said to be better than almost all Mages from the council forces”, he tells the two girls.

Levy takes out an old newspaper and shows it to Lucy: “And look at this”.

The newspaper reads: Kingdom of Regaza-La completely destroyed over night!

“That was Jonathans doing. Five years before he joined the Magic council forces he eradicated this small military country in one night, at the age of seven”, she tells her in horror.

“That’s why they gave him the nickname Butcher of Regaza-La! He’s a cruel and monstrous being!” says Mest terrified.

Wendy looks at the three of them. Her eyes filled with conflict and fear as well as despair.

Mest adds one more thing: “at the magic council he asked them to not reveal his existence to the public or to the majority of the council forces!”.

The moment Mest finshes his sentence Levy immediately screams to stop the fight.

Neither Gajeel nor Jonathan has landed a hit on each other.

Jonathan looks at their faces. He sees the terror and fear in their eyes and figures what has happened.

“Is it true?!”, shouts Levy at him, “is it true that you killed Millions of people?!”

He puts down his guard and stands up straight.

“Answer me!”.

He closes his eyes and opens them slowly. A single word leaves his lips after that: “yes”.

Gajeel looks at them confused: “What is going on?!”, he asks angry.

“An entire kingdom, whipped out by you and you alone!”, she continues, completely ignoring her husband who is now looking at Jonathan with confused eyes.

“How could you! How do you sleep at night!”.

Jonathan only stands there and takes her shouting at him for killing men, women and children alike.

After coming closer to him she continues to insult him, making him responsible for the deaths of many. Suddenly she get’s stopped by Cana. She snaps out of her rage and looks at Cana then at Jonathan.

He’s shaking. His hands clenched into fist. His eyes looking down on the ground. His lips shaking afraid to give her an answer.

Wendy walks up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. She looks him in the eyes and as she does, he starts stuttering

“I-I-I d-didn’t I didn’t w-want to. I didn’t. I-It was an a-accident. I didn’t m-mean to”.

She takes him into her arms and calms him down.

Levy slowly walks up to him: “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that this was such a heavy subject for you”.

He slowly starts to calm down and takes a seat on one of the benches.

“No, it’s alright. You deserve an answer”, he starts

And so he starts explaining. 

I thank you all for waiting for so long for chapter 9! and a special thanks to @marumigamer for helping me with some of the errors I made while writing. she’s a really great writer herself and I recomend all of her stories!

The reason why I wasn’t uploading anything lately is because I wasn’t feeling very well. at some point I felt lost and useless. my mental and physical health was going downhill and I was hiding it from everyone because I didn’t want to bother anyone with my personal problems. However I feel better now and I should post more in the future. sorry for giving this post and that it took me so long again but I’ll try to be better then before thanks for understanding.

also I you no longer want to be tagged of if you want to be tagged tell me because I don’t know who would like to be informed when I post it

[canaryrecords]

An unfinished obit for Leo Sarkisian (January 4, 1921 – June 8, 2018): Leo Sarkisian arrived home from World War II as a man in his mid-20s with nine battle stars including a bronze star “for meritorious service” and initiative, energy, and perseverance. He had volunteered straight out of art school in September, 1942 and for a year a half had been a topographical cartographer for the U.S., stationed in Algeria as part of Engineer Intelligence Services. Because he had been tasked with studying overhead photographs of German bases in Salerno, he was sent in with the Commandos in Italy because he knew the lay of the land. He walked in with the assault. A third of the U.S. force died. He had seen that – friends his age. The war over, Sarkisian lived first with his uncle, a dry cleaner, in New York City on 8th Avenue near 24th Street. His uncle got him a job as an illustrator – magazines and books – during the day. Lots of Armenians were engravers and illustrators. At night, he went out and listened to music and drank and blew his wages in jazz clubs in the Village listening to Artie Shaw, Lionel Hampton, and Vido Musso, Benny Goodman’s Italian tenor saxophonist. Leo had always been a clarinetist himself and played jazz. Then there were the “oriental” clubs up and down 8th Ave, where music in Turkish, Greek, and Armenian thrived among the immigrants - The Egyptian Gardens, The Brittania. The music there was close to the music from childhood in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where the older Armenian men played oud, violin, zurna, and dumbek and sang Ottoman folk songs in Turkish, listening to Marko Melkon and “Sugar Mary” Vartanian, and Louis Matalon, Sephardic Jew at whose side Leo often sat, watching him play the 72-string dulcimer, the kanun. That was when Leo wasn’t throwing money at the dancers or ordering another drink. And it was like the fleeting, fun nights in Rabat and Casablanca when Leo had heard Arabs playing the same instruments with bellydancers. There was one night when he had been chased off by the French police because the music “stirred up the locals.” There was another when he had a moment of stardom because he, an American G.I., had gotten up and played oud and rocked the house. A bellydancer had wrapped her arms around him because played a song he knew from back in Lawrence. The nightclubs in New York were for the weekends. Weeknights were all in the New York Public Library. Four nights a week, Leo read anything about music from Asia and Africa. There he saw patterns of expansion of instruments and ideas. The kanun and its scales travel from here to there. One instrument travels to another place. A local instrument replaces it, but the idea of how it’s played remains. There is a connection from the Ottoman Empire to the Arab world. Then, Africa to India and China… There is a deep musical connection among all of these people, including a boy from Lawrence, Massachusetts who feel compelled under the city’s lights to understand how his own feeling of music connects so many other people. “I don’t know why,” he told me in 2014, when he was 94 years old. “I’m reading, reading all this stuff. There was something in me that I had that feeling that whoever wrote those books didn’t really have that feeling… Even if someone does get a degree in music and stuff like that, there’s something between – under – inside of you. They can’t get that.” Leo’s father arrived through the port of Boston from Diyarbekir in present-day Turkey in 1901 with the great wave of Armenian immigration following the Hammidean massacres of 1891-96. A quarter of a million Armenians died in that wave of killings, twenty years before more than a million more Armenians were killed by Ottoman forces. That moment coincided with one of the largest waves of emigration to the United States that the country ever saw with Christians and Jews from Eastern and Southern Europe flowing in to just the port of New York, never mind Boston, San Francisco, or anywhere else, at a rate of 1,000 souls a day, week after week, year after year, decade after decade. Most of them came from Eastern and Southern Europe, meaning that most of them were not from the Northern European counties who were the culturally dominant ethnic stock of the U.S. That wave came only about forty years after the 14th Amendment to the Constitution of the U.S. gave equal protection to all naturalized (male) citizens to the U.S., including the right to vote. The existing Protestant majority of the U.S. took such a dim view of idea that the Catholic and Jewish immigrants might vote that Congress had hearings in which mid-Western eugenicist authorities argued effectively that the breeding stock of the U.S. would be diluted if a serious change in immigration policy were not implemented. With the 1896 Chinese Exclusion Act as precedent, in 1924, three years after Leo Sarkisian was born and nine years after the genocide in the Ottoman Empire, the Reed-Johnson act set quotas for immigrants by country of origin, based on a complicated set of mathematics aimed at keeping the U.S. ethnically stable and exactly as White as it ever was. 51,227 Germans were allowed to emigrate each year. 54,009 from Great Britain and Northern Ireland. 5,982 from Poland. Only 120 Armenians a year were allowed. Zero from Africa or Asia. Living in a room over beer joint in the Village in 1952, Leo showed a friend of his some notes he’d made on Central Asian music at the library. He’d made some smart connections between the descriptions of one imperialist traveler and other, and when Leo’s friend showed them to Irving B. Fogel of Tempo Records, a friend of Walt Disney’s whom everyone called “Colonel,” Fogel knocked on Leo’s door and asked him to move to Hollywood to work for Tempo. “You’re who I’ve been looking for,” Fogel said. Leo said OK and took with him an Armenian girl who had gone to his same high school in Lawrence but whom he’d met when they were both in the military. Tempo was largely a specialty label offering among the first muzak-type sound programs. After a year of luxury in Hollywood and working with great sound engineers, he worked on the hit record “Sweet Georgia Brown” by Brother Bones and the soundtracks of African Queen, and six Tarzan movies. Fogel decided to send Leo and Mary to record music in Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Burma for the label. So, in 1950, still in their late 20s, Leo and Mary went first to Karachi then in Lahore before pushing through the Khyber Pass in a jeep loaded with recording equipment, Budwiser and vodka to Kabul. They were treated as dignitaries, and Tempo released the 10” LP Drums Over Afghanistan from their efforts. That trip was Leo’s phD in listening to people – dignitaries and folks alike – hanging out with them, drinking, talking, digging music, and making friends. There were diplomatic problems with Russians, but nothing he couldn’t handle. On the way back across the subcontinent, he met and recorded Alludin Khan, Ali Akbar Khan, Bismillah Khan. There was a world of master musicians he had access to now for only the reason that he was American and had learned how to travel and to be good guest and cared deeply about music. Leo was learning to be a great ambassador for the U.S. At the same time, he was learning that wherever you go, you meet Armenians. Leo and Mary were greeted on New Year’s Day 1955 at the airport at Dacca, East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) by a delegation of Armenians who took him to the Armenian church and the cemetery, where they saw graves of Armenians dating to the 15th century. “The big guy looks out for me,” he told laughingly. “Because God is Armenian!” In 1959, Tempo relocated Leo and Mary, then in their late 30s to Ghana and then, about a year later to Guinea with an eye to creating African recordings for the American market. A knock came at their door in 1963 in their home in Conakry, Guinea. Incredibly it was Edward R. Murrow, who had been appointed head of the United States Information Agency by President John F. Kennedy. Leo and Mary invited Murrow in to listen to some of Leo’s recordings, and Murrow offered Leo a job as the Voice of America’s broadcaster for Africa. They were allowed two years to travel the continent to learn before Leo first broadcast Music Time in Africa in 1965 from Liberia where they lived until 1969, when they moved close to Washington D.C. For more than forty years, Leo broadcast African music to Africa and made many trips. He claimed to have visited every country on the continent, and he drew hundreds of faces. The Leo Sarkisian Library at the Voice of America now houses not only his LPs and CDs but also 10,000 reel-to-reel tapes that he made on his travels, including early performances by musicians who later gained recognition, Fela Kuti among them. It is for Music Time in Africa that he will always be remembered, among the pioneers of Western recordists of African music including the Opika brothers, Hugh Tracey, and Willard Rhodes. There were fan clubs through the continent in the 70s and 80s. Bags of letters came thanking him for celebrating what was good about being African. His enthusiasm for the music was obvious. He never referred to anyone’s “band,” always an “orchestra.” In D.C., he continued to play kanun with Armenian bands, playing on a couple of LPs as a talented sideman. His Silver Spring, Maryland home was covered in his paintings of the faces of African women. When Mary’s vision failed, he said, “she took care of me for fifty years. Now, I have to take care of her for fifty years.” He donated his personal collection of instruments to the University of Michigan. The defunding of the VOA under the Obama administration such that he could not travel there as he liked troubled him deeply. He had served the United States under thirteen presidents, every one since Truman, and it pained him when at the age of 91, the oldest federal employee, he stepped down from Music Time in Africa, handing the reins to Heather Maxwell.

[wernerhaggai]

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