#late and redundant as usual but how could i resist

[chinzhilla]

It's a silly romantic idea I built up. I want to keep my first kiss for the person I truly love.

[sserpente]

Synopsis: After his lucky escape, the Tesseract takes Loki on new adventures--but unfortunately, his journeys through space do not go unnoticed and he soon ends up on TVA’s radar. The deal is a simple one: Become a recruit and help the Time Variance Authority fight time crimes to earn your freedom again eventually or die. Loki accepts the challenge. It would not be long until he could use their own weapons against them, after all. If only that, however, were his only concern. Least of all did he expect that with his reluctant arrival at TVA, a woman would step into his life and wreak havoc in his heart. He does not know what it is about her that he seeks her presence like a bee hunting for honey--but he is determined to find out.

A/N: Gaaaah, I haven’t nearly pre-written as many chapters as I would like to have pre-written before starting to post but I just can’t wait any longer! I finally want to share this story with you guys, I am so hyped about it! So, without further ado--enjoy the first chapter of “Pastel Blue”! I hope you like it! ♥

Chapter 1

Tick Tock. That clock on the wall was driving her crazy, it had been ever since she had been assigned to this dull office. She spent most of her time in the lab, working in midst of dangerous and highly sensitive equipment and delicate devices.

Tick Tock. She was going to smash it—with a big hammer, perhaps, or even better, a jackhammer. It was ugly too. Made of wood and obviously antique, late 18th century probably. What had Mobius been thinking?

Oh yeah, him. Mobius M. Mobius, her I-am-not-your-father-but-I-will-treat-you-like-my-daughter supervisor and babysitter, thank you very much. Granted, he was old enough to be her father, taking into consideration that in her mid-twenties, there wasn’t much need for a parental figure in her life anymore.

Tick Tock. She sighed. The pile of paperwork she had been handed this morning had seemingly not shrunk by even an inch. She could swear she had not been stalling today. Breakfast, work, lunch break, work… Tick Tock. She rolled her eyes. No. This was unreasonable. Grunting a few not so decent swear words, she gathered the spreadsheets and dozens of handwritten notes, sending the calming ruffling of paper through the air and exited the room without so much as thinking about what Mobius would think about her wandering places around the TVA during work hours again.

Besides, the kitchen and common room right around the corner of her desired destination was equipped with the best coffee machine modern technology had to offer. Hot chocolate with mint and a hint of vanilla? Oh yes, please!

At this time of the day, the lab in question was deserted. Pens, pliers and other small tools lay scattered all over the metal tables as if someone had just finished their work for the day. Some of the devices in here could cause major damage if activated accidentally or even at the wrong time. Now there was the thrill, the proximity to endless possibilities.

After turning a few laps around the tables to see if anything had changed or improved at all since the last time she was here (which would be yesterday), she eventually made herself comfortable at the huge desk fully equipped with a cup holder, sockets and a fancy table lamp. The chair was the best part, enabling her to swirl around whenever she felt like she needed a refreshing spin.

She had just pulled out her burrow from her hair, having twirled it around one of the lighter strands. Her guess was the sun had bestowed its warm kisses upon her chocolate brown hair in the summer. Leaning over her papers, she got back to work.

But it was only five minutes until she heard the heavy metal door with the see-through glass panel being pushed open, followed by someone clearing their throat.

“Jess, do you have a moment?” Mobius asked. Jess tilted her head, the slightest frown accompanied by a gentle smirk decorating her face. What, no chastising for changing work locations today? She swirled around on her chair, expecting to see the man in question in his grey suit and the signature scar across his nose stare her down with arms akimbo. Instead, he was holding on to the door tensely, right next to him, seemingly out of place in the threshold, a man with raven hair and the most stunning pair of blue eyes she had ever had the pleasure to lock her gaze with. Her eyes were blue as well—Loki’s, however, seemed to shimmer green in the artificial light of the lab. She didn’t get much daylight, all the way down here.

“M?” Jess smiled. She rose, ignoring the slight trembling of her knees as she approached the two, keeping a safe distance. Her heart skipped a beat with every single step, her chest resembling a magnet pulling her towards Loki like a powerless needle.

“I’ve told you, repeatedly, to stay in your own office.” Ah, there it was.

“I have asked you, repeatedly, to re-locate my office here.” She retorted with a smug expression, eyes darting over to Loki. Mobius shook his head. “An introduction is probably redundant. Jess, this is Loki.”

He was wearing the orange prison clothes TVA had manufactured a few years back. She had to admit, orange suited him rather well, bringing out his cheekbones and the dark hair framing his flawless face. His lips were thin, his jawline to die for. She would be lying if she denied his attractiveness. Loki was a god, after all. Most prominent to his appearance, however, were the shackles around his naked wrists and the metal collar hiding most of his long neck—a chunky but firm reminder his powers were all but a myth as long as the light was blinking bright red like a traffic light screaming stop at him like a sleep-deprived police officer.

Loki lifted his chin, allowing pride and confidence to flood his aura. Out of all the people he had encountered in this strange place so far, alterations of his very own self on an old-fashioned projector included, she was by far the oddest. Jess, so he learned, wore a colourful choker around her neck as well as two bracelets of the same kind. They reminded him of sugar pearls. If he had asked her about them, she could have revealed to him that they were indeed candy necklaces—and that she wore them because Mobius had stressed there were no edible snacks allowed at work. The elegant pieces of jewellery hanging down her earlobes, however, appeared to be non-edible. Two delicate silver charms, holding what Loki identified to be moonstones. They suited her, complementing the long brown hair and the outstanding colour of her eyes. Blue—just like his.

“The God of Mischief.” She completed, the fraction of a second after he had studied her conspicuous appearance. She added a court but polite nod. “I was kind of hoping to meet you one day.” And so she was. The rumours had spread across the entire facility like wildfire, reaching even the Minutemen based in different timelines. Loki, the Norse God of Mischief, had stolen an Infinity Stone and escaped his respective timeline—a timeline reaching all the way back to 2012—creating a new branch of reality entirely. Unsupervised, he could have caused serious damage to the very fabric of time and the multiverse. He had to be stopped, had to be captured, had to be persuaded.

Mobius had expressed his interest in getting the infamous Trickster to work for him frequently. Loki was skilled, intelligent, witty, a talented fighter and most of all, one of the most capable users of magic the multiverse had to offer. His stories of victory and defeat were known to most of the TVA and yet, they resonated with her to an extent her colleagues could never fathom. Above everything Loki had had to experience—above all Loki will have had to experience—there was a thick layer of loneliness clouding his aura like a blanket of ice-cold snow. It was a suitable comparison, given his heritage.

“I didn’t just hear that.” Mobius intervened. He sized her up like an unpredictable teenager. “The God of Mischief has retired. Loki here has just agreed on working for us.”

“With you,” Loki interrupted. “Not for you. Reluctantly.” That would leave her wondering what exactly it was Mobius had offered him in return.

Jess chuckled. “Now that is a matter of opinion, trust me. I would know.” Raising an eyebrow, she gave Mobius a challenging glare.

“I need you to cover a shift.” He responded matter-of-factly. Jess’ eyebrow rose even higher. “Reese just jumped back from 1792.”

“And?”

“He almost made his personal acquaintance with the guillotine. They’re patching him up in the hospital wing right now.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jess took a step back, realising just what kind of favour, no, requirement Mobius would ask for. Reese had been in the TVA for more than three decades—he had not aged a day since his accession as a matter of fact—and his experience and excessive excitement over the Avengers had made him the perfect candidate to keep an eye on Loki while he was still not to be trusted—if he was ever going to be trusted, that was. He was the God of Mischief, after all.

“I’m on probation, remember? What makes you think I should cover for him of all people?” Loki rolled his eyes and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for excluding him from a conversation that was clearly about him.

“Call it an experiment. Prove to me that we can rely on you and I’ll end your probation.” Jess resisted the urge to shake his hand off her shoulder when he leaned forward to touch her in a fatherly manner.

“Sir, do you have a moment?” A Minuteman had appeared behind them. Jess had never quite figured out how they moved so quietly. Their shoe soles must have been made of feathers. In turn, the stilettos she usually wore to smuggle a few more inches to her height were loud and made satisfying noises ricocheting through the hallways when she walked, emitting confidence and even smugness. She needed that boost every once in a while.

Mobius nodded. As he released Jess’ shoulder and pushed past Loki—who did, much to her amusement, not move an inch for the senior manager—he pointed a finger at him. “Behave.”

The lab door fell shut behind him, drowning all noises from the outside like a soundproof recording room. Jess gaped at Loki for a second, her body once again threatening to overwhelm her with the magnetic pull she felt towards the Trickster, fascination setting her veins ablaze.

“You do not look human.” Loki suddenly said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Jess pouted.

“Excuse me? I am hoping you meant that as a compliment, I am as human as I’ll ever be.” Loki frowned, then responded with a hum.

“I take it you hop timelines for him too then, fixing the damage others have done.”

“Me? No.” Jess shook her head. “I am not a Minuteman. I wish I was, trust me, but I have got nothing to do with that, unfortunately. I work in the linguistics department, spending all day translating protocols and time recordings from all sorts of languages. Now I know what you’re thinking. With its technology, shouldn’t TVA be able to translate everything using a smart computer program?” She shrugged. “Well, technically you’re right. But there’s a bunch of languages out there that simply don’t exist either here on Earth or any other known realm. We’re only human—and a computer program is only as smart as its creator. It can’t translate a language that does not consist of words, for example, that would go against the very human comprehension of its programmer.”

“Then how do you speak them?” Loki probed.

“That’s my superpower. I don’t know why I can understand them, I just… do. And what did it get me?” She raised her hands in a dramatic motion. “Paperwork. Lots of paperwork. The only way for me to get in on the real action is this place here. Take a look at this.” Loki watched her move towards what resembled a toaster, shaped like a metal suitcase that had been left open. Smiling, she reached for a shining red apple on the table and placed it on the black surface before activating the switch. She had seen the scientists do this dozens of times before. In fact, she was sure she could handle most of the devices in here in her sleep. As the small machine hummed to life, it sent a deafening vibration through the room and then, just like someone had hit fast-forward with a remote, the apple shrivelled and rotted.

“Pretty cool, huh? It works the other way around too once it recharged. They haven’t figured out how to make it work for living beings, including humans, just yet, though. This is just a prototype anyway, the real thing is supposed to help re-animate the dead for a short amount of time to solve time crimes and shit. I swear I’d get a major in science if I lived another life. My father was one. Before he died, that is.” Jess wasn’t quite sure what made her open up to the God of Mischief and tell her about her personal family drama. She usually babbled when nervousness got the better of her but this was a new level of openness entirely. They all knew her story, after all, but apart from Mobius, they all pretended they didn’t. “You see? TVA is not all bad, even if it may seem so at first. M can be an arsehole sometimes, I know. He calls our main timeline in which everything began,” Jess continued with a dramatic voice, “the Null-Time Zone. I never figured out why and he won’t tell me.”

“Because you don’t listen, Jess.” Mobius answered, holding the door open with the Minuteman who had asked for his advice impatiently but mutely waiting for his turn again behind him.

“So?” She probed, pointing at the God of Mischief with her chin, her arms crossed. “If I am to play babysitter for a while, where am I staying? Where is Loki staying?”

“Your place.” Jess blinked, incredulousness spreading on her face like a clean swipe of butter on warm toasted bread.

“My place?”

“Your residential unit is supervised and equipped with modern alarm systems, just in case you decide to make trouble again, remember? We’ll position security outside the door in addition to that, killing two birds with one stone. Besides, it’s only temporary. Reese should be up and on his feet again in no time. The blade only grazed him before he made the jump back.”

“That does not sound reassuring!” Jess stood up straight to prove her point and yet, even compared to Mobius, she was nowhere near tall enough to make an impact with her body language at this time.

“You can take the rest of the day off as compensation. Show Loki to your unit. Make yourselves acquainted. I’ll send security to collect him in five minutes—to the second!”

 ~*~

She seems familiar almost… like part of me has known her forever. It was a thought which jumped into Loki’s mind and implanted itself in his head like a parasite. A mere mortal, how could there possibly be a connection between them? But it wasn’t just magnetic fascination and intrigue. Loki felt a need to keep her in his presence much like she was about to be his cherished bride. Irritation crept up the back of his neck as he followed her through the branched corridors and back to the modern lift he had had to use upon his arrival.

He would only love to know just what it was that had gotten her on probation. Abuse of machinery for her own selfish purposes, perhaps? A prank which had gone too far and done damage to the organisation? Murder? No. Despite her toughness, he could not imagine the delicate mortal standing next to him in the elevator being capable of killing anyone.

When the elevator doors slid open again, the young woman gave him an almost sheepish smile. She hardly appeared worried by having to escort him all on her own, across empty hallways which were only too inviting to overpower her and escape. Something held him back. She did, so he realised with another wave of irritation electrifying his body.

“…the most dangerous missions they usually leave to Justice Peace and Death’s Head. Ever heard of them? They are like celebrities around here.” He heard her say just then. But Loki couldn’t possibly take less interest in this so-called Time Variance Authority. All he needed to know was that it was yet another, partially human-led secret organisation imagining with the naivety of a child that they held power over him. SHIELD had made this mistake in the past and they had paid the bitter price. TVA would be no different.

“The units here are labelled with our initials and the department number. This one.” Jess pointed at the first door coming into sight to their right and quite apparently, Mobius had not made any empty promises concerning Jess’ safety and surveillance. As they turned around the corner, they were greeted by a grimly looking security officer clutching one of those small devices Loki identified as a Taser, one which of the like Darcy Lewis had once used on his brother. He kept a straight face even as Jess unlocked the residential unit using her fingerprint and entered but gave him a provocative smirk before following her.

His own chambers back on Asgard—another life entirely, so it seemed now—were a reflection of who he was with their green accents, the countless books, the tidiness and the ancient parchment rolls on his dark mahogany desk from Vanaheim. If anything, analysing her personal living space to the very last grain of dust would satisfy his need to learn just why he felt so drawn her, perhaps.

The first item of furniture he took in was the long bookshelf towering all the way up to the ceiling, every inch filled with clearly read books about as thick as his wrist. He made a note to study the titles later. A coffee table full of empty peanut shells and a new package of peanuts still sealed neatly in their plastic bag, a caramel sofa on which he found more sealed peanut bags as well as a golden cushion with cheesy pom-poms. A drawer, a TV with large speakers and another electronic gadget resembling a fridge and two separate doorways which led to a bathing area, so he presumed, and her bedroom. Even with the overall lack of more furniture in the room, Jess had somehow managed to add her very own personal touch to the sterile residential unit.

“The bathroom is to the right, you’ll find refreshments and snacks in the fridge next to the TV. My bedroom is out of bounds. I hope you enjoyed the tour.” She chuckled, grabbing a blue leather jacket from the hook on the entrance door behind them. “Big meals are eaten in the cafeteria at certain times of the day though. Mobius wants to strengthen the team spirit but the cooks never say no to a late breakfast or a midnight snack if you ask them nicely.”

Loki narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t you feel like a prisoner in this place?” A lackey for someone else to take the credit for your hard work, he added silently. He knew two of that kind—one being his brother, the other his alleged father. Loki suppressed a begrudged growl. Just in that moment and before she had a chance to reply to his provocative remark, there was a vigorous knock on the door.

“That’ll be your cue.” Jess announced. Loki had to force himself not to turn his head and catch one last glimpse of her as the grimly looking security man escorted him back to Mobius and, other than Jess, kept pushing him forward like cattle and yet, he was convinced he could feel her curious gaze resting on his back long after he had turned back around the corner, stepped into the elevator and even when he was reluctantly reunited with Mobius near the lab where they had first picked her up.

He was speaking to the same Minuteman who had interrupted them earlier—quietly, vividly and so engrossed in the seemingly heated conversation that he noticed Loki and his new bodyguard approaching only after his exceptional hearing had picked up shreds of information he made another mental note of using against them, sooner rather than later.

“You do realise that they’ll come after us with a vengeance, right? That could be the end of TVA once and for all, you know very well what he is capable of.”

“Let that be my concern. This is just a temporary solution—one which I am very curious about.”

“But it already—“

“I realise it already happened and that’s exactly why I’m doing this. All we need to do is stop it from happening again by observing the situation intently, stitch up the loop and we’ll be safe. This isn’t my first rodeo, Dave, you of all people should know this.”

“And what about the Tesseract? Wouldn’t it be smarter if we—“

The security officer cleared his throat, announcing their arrival.

“The Tesseract,” Loki interrupted with a glare, strutting towards them like the king he was born to become and despite his shackles, “belongs to me. It called out to me, it is mine.”

“You’ll find a lot of people in this facility who will disagree with you on that. Trust me. We’ll make sure you won’t get your hands on that cube again.” Dave snorted. “I hope you like your new lodging. Now come on, mischief maker. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

~*~

A/N: And Scene! So what do you think, what do you think, what do you think? 🤯 I’m so excited to dive into this story! I literally recorded myself on my phone in the middle of the night a while back when all the ideas I had finally came together so I hope I’ll be taking you on an exciting journey with me!

Chapter 2

[ihatetaxes99]

THE YAKUZA AND THE PHOENIX - A BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA FANFICTION

"See, the problem with people like you," Commented the cool, sanitised yet utterly terrifying voice of Kai Chisaki as he kneeled down just in the very corner of the hero's peripheral vision. "Is that you relied far too much on that disgusting disease that plagues every last vein in your Godforsaken body. Maybe if you had just thought ahead a little… Has this illness robbed you of your senses, too? Left you as useless as a newborn? Not that it matters. It's far too late by now for any part of you to begin thinking about what could have been. I mean, just take a look around." He raised one hand to adjust his mask, while using the other to gesture to the scene around the two, one filled with flame and destruction. "If you had thought to bring police, tried to corner me with rifles, well you might have had some sort of success. I'm not stupid enough to resist against live bullets. But no. Your sickening Quirk has left you with such delusions that you thought you could stand to take me on alone."

The young woman's eyes filled with nothing but pure steel as she looked up at him. There was no fear to be found in the glare she delivered the man known as Overhaul, in spite of the terror bubbling in the pits of her stomach, constantly threatening to rise to the top. But she would not let it. Not in front of this Chisaki bastard, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he had won.

"No words?" The man sighed, poking her lightly in the head as if to provoke a reaction. "Like a kid who doesn't get their way. Stubborn to the end. What a pain you are. The worst kinds of people are the ones who don't realize they're infected. They have no true redemption in their future. It's kind of weird when you think about it. What a shame… Not that it's any of my concern. I'm more interested in just why you and your ridiculous headgear have been following me around all day. Do you have an answer for that?" He grabbed her by the back of the hair, and pulled her face up to look at his. "I'd prefer an answer as soon as possible, so I can minimise the amount of contact made with your disgusting body."

There was only one way the woman knew she could respond to this and that way landed directly on the suspected Yakuza's forehead. "Why would I tell you anything, asshole? You won't get anything out of the Phoenix."

The man actually audibly growled, like a feral wolf, as he slammed her head into the asphalt. She felt her nose break as blood streamed from it onto the road. It was probably one of the lesser injuries she had incurred that day. Chisaki got to his feet and produced a spotless handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his face of the hero's saliva. "How childish." His voice was full of pure, deep contempt. "How filthy. Were you never taught manners? Are you mentally deficient? Hmph. Not that I should expect any more from a hero who calls themselves the Phoenix. How cliché." With that, he returned to his kneeling position over her limp body, she practically felt his shadow drop over her as the smell of burning embers filled her nose. Were those sirens she heard? They were faint, but what else could they be? Were they coming in her direction? One ear was completely busted up, so she couldn't tell. Looking up to the man who supposedly went by Overhaul, her peripheral vision severely limited by her complete and total lack of a right eye, she found her mind drifting away to the beginning of the day. When things had seemed oh so simple. When she still had all her limbs and when life had generally been more preferable when contrasted against her current predicament.

When had it all gone so wrong?

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

"So, all I have to do is follow the bugger?" Twenty-three year old Misa Kawajiri enquired into her phone as she took small, meticulous sips from her large Coke, sitting atop a rooftop in the very heart of the city, occasionally reaching into the bag next to her to dig out a fry or two and jam them into her mouth. This was the life, no doubt about it. The young woman, who went by the heroic moniker of the Phoenix, was elated whenever she was sent on surveillance patrols by her agency. Most other pro heroes would consider such work to be beneath them, it mostly consisted of hounding tax evaders, low-rent rank-and-file grunts and conmen, there was almost certainly never a tang of excitement to be found. This was the reason most heroes preferred more interesting work and it was the reason why Kawajiri adored such jobs. For her, it was a chance to slow down, chill out and enjoy life at a bit of a slower pace than usual. She definitely was not above having time to unwind and take things at a more reasonable pace. Of course, today's surveillance was already beginning to sound more interesting. It had started out with monitoring some basement-dwelling Otaku who shared anti-hero sentiments on internet forums, so not exactly a thrill ride there, as evidenced by the fact that Misa had left halfway through to get herself a McDonald's. But her new target, as assigned to her by her employers at the agency…

"His name's Kai Chisaki." Rang the cool, clerical voice of Phoenix's supervisor. "Mid to late twenties, germaphobe. He isn't often seen out and about, instead residing largely in the Shie Hassaikai's compound."

"Hassaiaki?" The hero of the sky's ears perked up at that. "He's Yakuza?"

"As far as we know, yes. We can't trace back any records of a family, except for Kazama Chisaki, his uncle, who was also associated with the organization before his death, although not as a full member."

"Interesting…" The girl pondered. "So, why are we following him, then? The Hassaikai have a good reputation, right?" Her words were slightly muffled as she jammed more fries in her mouth at that moment than was probably reasonable.

"That they do, Phoenix. They're underground. There have been search warrants on the premises before, but nothing suspicious was turned up. They're a Yakuza group in name only right now, nothing worth worrying about. But Chisaki? He's different. You're going to be following him for reasons unrelated to his activity within the clan."

"Oh?" Misa cupped her free ear with her hand so that she could better hear the man on the other end of the phone.

"In short, we have reasons to believe he's been peddling Trigger behind the backs of his bosses. Obviously, I don't need to tell you about that."

She nodded, although that was a tad redundant, considering the voice on the other end could not see her. The experimental drug known for its Quirk-bolstering properties was nothing to trifle with, and it had only grown more popular in recent time. "Why do you think he's doing so?"

"Money, probably. Who knows with these criminal types? The point remains that we have reason to believe he's out and about today. I've sent you an image of him on your phone. Follow him, see what he's up to. When a hermit like him comes out of the woodwork, it can never be good. Not for anybody." And with that, her superior hung up, leaving Misa to her own thoughts. In being left this way, she dug her knees up tucked under her chin and sulked for a bit, confident that nobody could see her act in such a childish manner, taking the odd glance at the image. He was a shockingly handsome young fellow, with sharp yellow eyes, ruffled brown hair and a suit, he looked the part of any well-meaning businessman. The only weird aspect was the steampunk-esque plague doctor mask clamped around his mouth. She shrugged it off as probably having something to do with his Quirk, whatever that was.

"This sucks." She groaned as she reached for her helmet, which mostly served as a fancy shell to hold the visor that shielded her eyes from the wind. "I don't wanna have to pursue Yakuza drug dealers, it's just no good. Give me a fat, tinfoil hat loser ranting about conspiracies any day. Surveillance is supposed to be a break from the hard stuff. But nooo, it just has to be more of it, doesn't it?" She sighed, the air whistling over her lips, as she tossed aside her empty bag. Stretching upwards, allowing her skintight suit to hug her body, she felt her wings extend from her body. It was always a glorious sensation to be felt, the pure rush of it all. She adored it beyond belief, the best part of the job. With a cheeky grin, the young hero spread her arms…

… And let herself fall from the building's roof.

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

Filthy. The very lot of them, surrounded by filth and dirt and all manner of unpleasantries. It was enough to break young Kai Chisaki out in hives, it truly was. Absolutely repulsive. How horrendous to have to walk amongst the common people, all of them no doubt inflicted with that despicable illness. As he made his way down the crowded high street, bumping into the occasional commuter, he felt the irresistible urge to lift up the sleeve of his green coat and scratch at the lumps on his arm. Urgh. The very lot of them, disgusting. He was rapidly remembering why he vastly preferred to remain indoors. And yet, he had to do this. He couldn't entrust mere goons with carrying out the mission, not even the Eight Precepts of Death. This had to be done by him and him alone. He felt the cold metal rub against his stomach from the inside pocket of his coat. What depraved things that guns were. Alas, they were a necessary evil, and still far better than Quirks. As he walked, he had no clue of the eyes following him as he did so. Misa Kawajiri worked fast and had found him in mere minutes. Was he aware of this, he would almost have applauded her.

Key word: Almost.

"He's carrying some sort of briefcase..." The girl noted to herself as she watched him. Luckily, his mask made him very distinctive for anyone who may be looking for him, so she had not had much trouble. "Is that relevant to whatever he's up to?" The questions were racing through her head in spite of her better judgement. She couldn't help but wonder about the good-looking, well-dressed young fellow with Yakuza ties. It was all so odd to her, and new. She didn't often run into anything so… exciting, was probably the word. And normally, Phoenix abhorred exciting. But something about it just seemed alluring. Maybe it was more the man than the danger, who really knew? Certainly not her.

…

DAMN.

Wrapped up in her own little thoughts, Kawajiri had lost Chisaki. He had seeped into the crowd. That wasn't good, not good at all. Not even wasting a second, Misa once again extended her wings and took off into the air, in search of the fellow she was shadowing. Stupid Misa, she cursed herself. How had she been so stupid? She really needed to focus more. Her eyes scanned the surroundings as she flew over an alleyway that served as a gap between two buildings.

And in that very alleyway, Kai Chisaki now stood, facing a triage. They were common street thugs, Overhaul had done his research. Nothing big, they were unheard of, just worthless druggies with not a thing to their names and a whole heap of desperation for power, power that they had no clue what to do with. In other words, the perfect suckers to lure in.

"Gentlemen." The distinguished Yakuza bowed. The goons showed no such respect in return. Was it really so hard to show the baseline politeness required of a person? These kinds of people pissed him off the most. Fortunately, the mask obstructed his grimace as he set the silver case on the ground and entered in a combination. A few seconds passed and then it clicked open. "Here's your bloody Trigger. Ten vials, enough to give the three of you a bolster in your path- In your Quirks for up to forty-eight hours. If you have any questions, I would advise you ask now."

The thugs all shared looks with one another. They appeared satisfied at the very least, yet the one in the middle, a big guy with muscles to rival All Might- Well, the former All Might- seemed incredulous to some degree. 

"So, what yer tellin' us, Chisaki-"

"I would prefer if you called me Overhaul."

"-Right. Sorry." His accent was just thick enough to get under the Yakuza's skin. "Yer sayin' that we don' hafta pay for any of this?"

To this, Kai shrugged. "Consider it a first-time buyer's guarantee. If you want more later down the line, that's when you'll have to start paying me. Otherwise, take it." He kicked the briefcase, sending it sliding towards the men. "It's all yours." For a moment, it seemed like the huge guy was about to protest, but at looking at the vials, his greed got the better of him, and he allowed a wide grin to overcome his face, no doubt imagining what his improved Quirk would be like. Disgusting animal.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya, Mr. Overhaul." He gloated as he picked up the case, his cronies hovering around him as they sneaked looks at the drug. Now was probably the best time to strike, while they were blinded by their own pathetic delusions of grandeur.

"Likewise." Chisaki responded, reaching into his coat, as if trying to find a cigarette. "Say, you three, have you ever wondered what society would be like without Quirks? How far we could have advanced by now if we hadn't had to restart everything to accommodate the idea of superpowers?" The men stared at him like he was mad, which was to be expected. "It's just something I've been thinking about." He admitted as he pulled the gun from his coat and aimed it squarely at the large man's head. "Let's test it out. You'll survive, of course."

"What the fuck?" The scumbag growled as he dropped the case in shock. "You pullin' a gun on us? Guess what, you skinny prick? It's three on one. Shoulda thought about that before pullin' a betrayal!"

"Probably." Kai noted nonchalantly as he took aim and fired.

The bullet ricocheted up against a wall in the alley as the metallic weapon was knocked from his hand by a kick. And not a kick from one of the steroided-up goons. No, one aimed from above.

"Looks like I caught you boys in the act." Phoenix grinned as she stood, legs firmly apart, eying up Kai. "Trying to betray the dudes you're selling drugs to really isn't a great idea, I must add." 

…

Filthy…

Sickening….

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE??!!" Kai Chisaki screamed, his voice carrying high up into the sky as he stared down the hero, his pupils small and mad in their sockets. "HOW DARE YOU TOUCH ME??!! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU??!!" He was completely enraged, sweat pouring from his forehead as he grasped at his hair. "DISGUSTING, DISGUSTING, DISGUSTING!!" He appeared to be on the receiving end of a full-on breakdown. All this over being kicked in the hand? No, it couldn't just be that. Already, the receivers of the Trigger had fled, stolen briefcase in hand. It really had been their lucky day.

"Woah, calm down, Chisaki-"

"Who gave you the right to call me that?!" He demanded, his voice slightly softer now. "And do you have any idea how difficult those bullets were to manufacture? I simply cannot afford to waste them!" Turning his back on Kawajiri, he picked up the gun, examining it for damages, and then wiped it clean with his white surgical gloves.

"Hey, creep! Stay right where you are!" Misa was petrified. She truly was. Something about this guy just was not right at all. She had been told he was a major germaphobe, but was it this bad? Enough to push him into insanity at a moment's touch? "You're under arrest for possession distribution of illegal narcotics." She was basically reading off the rulebook, saying what she was supposed to say in such situations. But nothing about this felt normal. Why was he so focused on the gun? "Stand down and await for police transport."

"You think I would heed such commands from a filthy piece of scum like yourself?" Suddenly, Kai was cool, clinical, yet again as he calmly pointed the gun in her direction. Phoenix nearly felt her heart stop. "Maybe you'll make a better test subject." His finger tightened on the trigger of the handgun. Misa had no time to think, no time to plan.

She simply ran forwards, charging the villain as he steadied his aim. Another loud bang echoed from the gun. She felt it tear her suit as it whizzed past her, but she managed to just barely evade it. Now, she was too full of adrenaline to stop, as she ploughed towards Chisaki. As she drew closer, she reached out, grabbing for his arm… She had to restrain him and fast.

"DON'T LAY YOUR FILTH-ENCRUSTED FINGERS ON ME FOR EVEN A SECOND!!" Overhaul yelled, back to unconcealed rage, as he slammed his hand down onto the ground. From nowhere, burst large columns of rock from beneath the concrete, sending the heroine flying back a few inches and separating the two. 

"Woah..." Was this his Quirk? She hadn't seen anything like it before. The rock wall stretched all the way up, totally shielding the Yakuza from her. It twisted up into the blue sky, as far as the eye could see. And then, she heard his voice, once again calm, from the other side.

"You made me use my Quirk." The man stated. "I hate this thing, but you left me with no other option. For that, I truly do feel some sort of hatred for you. So, I suppose I really feel no guilt in using you as my little guinea pig." Then, he fell silent again, as Phoenix paced around, trying to look for some sort of opening in the wall. Suddenly, she heard a rush of wind behind her and snapped around her head just fast enough to see Overhaul rushing at her. Now, Kawajiri had no clue just what his Quirk did yet, but she figured letting him touch her was a bad idea, so she took off into the air, hovering out of his reach.

"So, a flight Quirk, eh?" Chisaki sighed. His hair was ruffled, the purple fur on his coat torn in places and his bleach white tie flicking wildly with the motion from his rapid movements. "I must admit, I've never been great with moving targets." Once again, the pistol was out, pointed at her. No, she shouldn't panic. Judging from earlier, whatever bullets he loaded the thing with were very precious and so, he wouldn't waste them unless he knew there was a guaranteed chance of hitting her. She was safe for now.

She realized she had been foolish to think that even as the spiked column of rock dug itself up from the ground and impaled her right through the stomach, sending her back, right out of the alley and into the streets outside. She heard a scream as she slammed into a car, feeling the metal crunch behind her. Her vision was hazy, like that of a drunk, but she could still make out the suited villain walking slowly towards her as civilians fled the area. Well, all except for one man, who clearly realized that Kai was up to no good and tried to charge him. Without even looking in his direction, his gaze fixed on Misa, Overhaul's arm made contact with the brave man's chest and he exploded into nothingness.

"What the hell?!" Phoenix yelled. She felt like throwing up at the man's remains splattered the asphalt So this Quirk… It could erect pillars of rock, reduce humans to nothing, what was it exactly? She couldn't even think straight in her current state to try to decipher the answer.

"Isn't it kind of weird how people always try to act the hero? I've noticed that. I swear, this world has been poisoned beyond belief. Can I even cure it? Is that possible?" She felt cold metal as the bastard jammed the gun into her gaping mouth. "All I know is that I can try my very best. Starting here. You'll be my first patient, my girl. The first to be cured."

"Bite me." She hissed as she aimed a kick at his side, which somehow connected, winding the Yakuza just long enough for Misa to stagger to her feet. It felt like she had multiple broken ribs. Those could wait. "I think I get your shtick now. You think Quirks are disgusting or something, right? Yeah, just like any of those Creature Rejection Clan nutjobs. But you think you can bring an end to them, right?" She coughed up some blood onto her fist as she held Chisaki's gaze. "Well, think again, dickwad. You really think that you're some great saviour. I dunno what you have planned, but it sure as hell won't be anything that won't see you crushed like the pathetic little man you are!" And with that, she took flight again, aiming a kick at his head.

Before she even knew it, another column had travelled right through her left eye with a fleshy squealtch, blood coating the rock as she hurtled backwards, her fall stopped by a large vehicle that the rock pinned her to.

"Jesus… That it?" She spat, as Kai approached her yet again, his eyebrows raised in amusement. Then, he stepped backwards. Then again. Then, he spun around and started walking away. Misa was completely taken aback. "What?! You just leaving, you limp-dicked bastard? That ain't how a saviour acts, is it? Running away from a fight?" Her attempts at provocation did nothing to stop him and when the young woman tilted her head just a little, she saw why.

"Ah-" She started, before the oil tanker she had been pinned to exploded. The shockwave could be felt for blocks to come, glass shattered from the skyscrapers above as the world was thrown upside down. Everything went white for Misa Kawajiri, then black.

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

Damn. That really had escalated quickly. And now, the pro hero lay, amongst the rubble, with one eye, a busted ear, no legs and a stump of an arm. The Yakuza stood above her. 

"I'll be willing to overlook your blatant lack of manners." Overhaul growled as he resumed his kneeling position. "In fact, I'll let you be saved. I'll be the one to save you. Isn't that something? A sickening power-infected freak like you, given a second chance by a humble Yakuza. And after everything you've done to me. You have been one hell of an annoyance. But, I guess you'll have started to make it up to me if Eri's little bullets end up working." The girl felt metal press into her side. Why was he so eager to shoot her? It must have something to do with whatever he was planning. The last thing Misa Kawajiri heard was the crack of a gunshot, the last thing she felt was the pain of the bullet entering her body, and then, she fell still. A second or two passed before Kai hovered his hand over her head.

"All going well, you have been deprived of your filthy Quirk." He noted, more to himself as the hero was now deeply unconscious. "Now, just to fix you up." He pushed his hand down on her and the woman's body blew apart in a spectacular show of blood and gore. Just a few seconds later, it reassembled, all limbs, eyes and anything else re-attached. With a satisfied nod, the man got to his feet.

"You'll live peacefully for the rest of your days." He told her, turning his back on her and walking away from the destruction that lay sprawled out like the play area of a particularly deranged and angry child, as if it had just been another day at the office, adjusting his tie. "No Quirk, no heroics, no excitement. I hope you're cut out for a desk job, Phoenix. It's all you have in your future. You're welcome."

[thistangledbrain]

I’m writing when my schedule allows! Sorry I’m having to lump days together- but here’s 14 & 15. ☺️

Autism Acceptance Month

Day 14!

“Routine”

Good topic!!

We love routine & structure. Breaks from said routine should come with plenty advance warning, usually, because even if it’s an activity we love, if you spring it on us suddenly, we will likely be less than thrilled. (For example, one beautiful summer morning we approached my youngest and said “let’s go to King’s Dominion today!”...he was about 8. KD is one of his favorite places. But he had already started gaming and was *pissed* about the change of plans. I myself only have two scenarios where I take a sudden change in plans in stride: military/high stress situations, and if it’s my idea. Like if I go INTO a situation knowing things might change on a whim, like chaotic times or what to do on any given vacation day, I usually roll with it really well.) Some auties are better with this than others - remember, we’re all different - if you’ve been reading along since the beginning, you’ll remember I said we all sort of have a “mixing board”, and specific traits are at different levels in different people...and it also tends to ebb and flow as we age.

“Routine” also encompasses what we expect in our immediate environment, to me. I remember when I was a kid and my Momaw (grandmother who mostly raised me) changed her frames on her glasses from those black hornrims to more delicate frames, and the lenses were a different shape, too.

Oh. My. God. I hated it. I HATED it. To this day, I scowl when I think about it. It upset me so badly. She was my rock, my steady - and when her appearance changed, I had a very visceral reaction. I don’t remember if I was ever able to articulate what was wrong, but she must have figured it out, because from there on out when she changed her glasses, I was involved in picking new ones. (That made it SO much easier to accept.) On the same topic, my husband has kept his head shaved since well before I met him. He was still in the Marines when I met him (I had just gotten out 3 months prior), and the man I fell in love with had a shaved head and clean face. Since he’s gotten out, I get uncomfortable when he lets his hair get too long...I’ve gradually come to accept and even appreciate his goatee, but when the rest of his facial or head hair gets long between cuts, it makes me squirm. I am usually more distant when he’s all shaggy - it’s not that I think he looks bad, it’s just that it’s not my familiar guy. (Oh and it *is* a sensory issue. I hate the way facial hair feels when it touches my face - mustaches are particularly offensive.)

But back on “daily routine”....this intense love of the structure *again* comes in handy with the behaviorally challenged and traumatized dogs I work with. (Oh yeah - it came in handy raising two autie boys, too, obviously.) I’m hyperobservant of dogs’ behavior & realized early on that disruptions in routine caused upset or even chaos. Dogs who were not destructive became destructive. Dogs who were calm and measured became frantic. So even when *i* get more relaxed about routines, I am cognizant of the fact that it upsets *them*, and we make adjustments for that. Structure and routine are the bedrocks of working with a “broken” dog. Predictability is key until trust and confidence is gained.

Our love of routine and structure also comes in handy in the military. Of course there are times when a lot of unexpected shit happens, but like...you still have a *mission*, if that makes sense, so shit that happens while accomplishing that mission is whatever (again, same with dogs). Adapt and overcome.

But let’s talk just daily (civilian) life, right?

If I don’t set my alarm early enough to drink a good bit of coffee (slowly and undisturbed) and get used to the idea, for about an hour, that I’m awake and now must Person, it’s a bad day, ‘tater. I don’t care if I have to get up at 3 am to have that hour before work or travel, I NEED that hour. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through motherhood...(I guess once again, when it’s important enough, you just suck it up, buttercup). I also have my evening routines that are important, as did my kidlets, growing up.

Screwing with those routines usually means short tempers, hatred of everything around you, sometimes meltdowns, and just an all around bad time for everyone involved.

So if you have auties in your life, understand that they may *need* that nap during that *specific* time of day, meals should be in certain timeframes, and so on. We all have our little rituals, too, and when those are disrupted, we get disgruntled. We tend to resist changes...even introducing a new food dish or, say, not having spaghetti on Tuesdays when you usually have spaghetti on Tuesdays, your favorite mug not being available for use/lost/broken & now you have to use a different one, not getting to shower before work if that’s your usual, things like that can cause MASSIVE anxiety. I don’t know about other people’s Autie kids, but I know MINE handled routine disruption/change *so* much better when *involved* in the change. Like, sorry that it’s bedtime, but you have choices in what jammies you want to wear, what story you want read, and so on. I know I’m making a new thing for dinner tonight - how about you come help me make it? Stuff like that.

So...I’m ending this post rather abruptly awkwardly & I’m aware it’s a little redundant and scattered, but it was written over the course of 2 days because I’m busy with a dog and a stressed out teenager lately. ���🏻‍♀️ Sorry about that!

————————————-

Day 15!

“Everyone should know”...

I could probably keep adding to this post daily. Sigh.

Everyone should know even nonverbal autistics have something to say - you should read their blogs & find out. Everyone should know it offends and hurts us when you treat us as lesser somehow - especially if we know we’re smarter than you, to be frankly honest. Everyone should know autism is a *developmental* “disorder”, NOT an intellectual one - the weirdest, hand flapping, rocking, screeching, seeming mess of an Autie might be one of the most brilliant writers you’ve ever read - I’m dead serious. Everyone should know we all have a voice but sometimes do need some help finding it (and “voice” doesn’t mean just speaking.) Everyone should know talking about autism like it’s an “epidemic” that needs to be “eradicated” invalidates our very existence, and I don’t think I need to expound on what that must feel like, yes? Everyone should know that most (maybe all, idk) of us *would not change* the fact that we are autistic - we aren’t “suffering” with it, YOU are, apparently. We’re occasionally *frustrated* with our brains, but a whole lot more comfortable with how we are than a lot of neurotypicals seem to be. Everyone should know that if someone seems “mildly autistic” (which is what is said about me by people who don’t KNOW me 🙄), know that YOU experience my autism mildly - I don’t. We KNOW you don’t approve...we either hide (mask), or we flip you the big middle finger and say “too damn bad” - and both are usually true with autistic women. (Lots of us start off trying to fit in, but really run out of patience with it. I’ve noticed most of the boys don’t seem to give a flying shit about “fitting in” from jump street LOL...) Everyone should know a LARGE percentage of us are NOT heterosexual. Everyone should know neurodivergence has always been within the human species - it’s just we have more names for shit now, and it’s a little more more socially acceptable to be different, so there are more people “living out loud”, as it should be. Everyone should know that lots of delayed autistic kids grow up to be brilliant scientists and engineers and contribute massively to society - look at Einstein. 🤷🏻‍♀️ Everyone should know we’re human beings, and should be treated as such. xx

[zdbztumble]

GUNDAM WING review

For how much of it appears on this blog, Pokemon is more “comfort food” entertainment than a great passion of mine, and the same was true when I was a child. Back in my late grade school days, the two shows that dominated my thought, my viewing schedule, my play and my early writing were Dragon Ball Z and Gundam Wing. Like a lot of kids, I can thank Toonami for that. But while I’ve checked in on Dragon Ball, off and on, since those days, I haven’t seriously revisited Gundam Wing since it left Toonami years ago. Sharing OPs with a friend on Discord led to the Wing openings coming up, however, and with the series being free to view on Crunchyroll, I thought I’d give it a rewatch.

There’s no subtle way to put this - Gundam Wing does not hold up to my childhood memories. It’s a mess of a show that frequently falls short of its own ambition. But it remains an enjoyable - even admirable - mess.

The single biggest reason that Gundam Wing is such a mess - the single biggest reason for nearly all of its flaws - is that it’s too short. At 49 episodes (two of which are given over to a clip show recap halfway through), the show isn’t long enough to contain all the story it wants to tell. By way of demonstration, and for those who don’t know/remember the series, I tried to summarize the basic plot of the series in just a few paragraphs here.

Look at that. Look at all that text in a basic outline. That was me paring away all but the most essential details needed to understand what happens in the series. Now imagine trying to fit all of that into 47 episodes while also including character interaction and development, action sequences, aesthetic elements, and a good chunk of essential information being revealed via backstory and vague insinuations only fleshed out in the OVA and manga series.

Things start out promisingly enough, with the action beginning on Operation Meteor and the initial conflict emerging gradually. But it doesn’t take long for the brevity of the series to work against the intrigues happening within it. To say that the show falls into “tell, don’t show” would suggest that it gets across more information than it actually does. Narration opens most episodes with some degree of recap, and occasionally within episodes, but this device is established from the first episode and is usually effectively used in the context of ongoing action. The problem spots are where the show neglects to tell or show almost anything.

Because the series is so short, and because all screentime is spent with either the series leads or the major supporting characters, there’s never an opportunity to showcase the state of world and colonial affairs, and little opportunity taken to describe them outside of the opening narration. Consequently, any feeling of oppression, subjugation, or desperation for the colonies - and thus, a sense of what the Gundams are fighting for - isn’t present at the beginning of the series, and doesn’t ever really emerge. There is some sense of danger towards the end of the series, but it results from the various conflicts that happen within the show, not the state of affairs from the initial premise. Earth’s condition is similarly underdeveloped; if anything is showcased on Earth, it’s beauty. Characters will occasionally talk about the desperate straits of the Gundam pilots, and the pilots themselves will take developments like the targeting of the colonies or their betrayal to heart. The VAs and the animation are strong enough to sell such developments, but the lack of world-building to support them does hurt the series.

But it’s the developments around the Sanc Kingdom and Relena’s relevance to the story suffer the most from the show’s failure to show or tell. After Zechs liberates the kingdom, Relena’s installation as its ruler is set up but never depicted. Relena’s outreach to other nations, and her building up support for total pacifism, is also never shown, and barely discussed. She and Zechs are never even seen to have a conversation until near the very end of the series. There’s plenty of discussion of how inspiring and charismatic Relena is, and why she should be heeded and protected, but with none of the work behind that charisma shown and little of it discussed in detail, there’s little emotional resonance to be had here. Relena’s efforts as queen of the world are slightly more fleshed out, but when Zech’s declaration of war against Earth happens in the same episode - happens, if memory serves, less than a second after Relena makes significant inroads - the notion of Relena as an effective spokeswoman for pacifism is severely undercut by the series’ own haste.

Beyond the plot, all of this naturally damages Relena’s character. Relena begins the series as a somewhat bratty, somewhat depressed girl often neglected by her family due to her stepfather’s job, who finds Heero’s sudden presence in her life a vicarious if dangerous thrill. The murder of her stepfather and the revelation of her true identity further shake her out of teenage ennui and move her to take part in the great events of her time. Like the show itself, it’s a promising beginning, but because Relena’s greatest achievements are glossed over - and because, being a pacifist and a diplomat, she can’t be involved at the point of action - Relena ends up spending a lot of time on the sidelines, looking grim or worried. Worse, when the final conflict between Treize and White Fang emerges, Relena is completely ineffectual at trying for peace with Zechs, and any opportunity for her to use the soft power of her (brief) reign as ceremonial monarch to further the cause of peace isn’t taken, leaving her largely irrelevant to the finale. Relena is less a full-fledged character in Gundam Wing than a solid concept for a character that couldn’t grow to fruition in the time allotted.

The same could be said of the series protagonist, Heero Yuy. In his case, there is at least a bit more told; his scientist mentor describes him as a kind-hearted young man whose devotion to his mission has rendered him a dangerous assassin, Relena instinctively latches onto what kindness and idealism she can sense in him, various characters are inspired by his skills and his devotion to his mission. But there’s little to no evidence of the kind-hearted young man underneath the child soldier, at least not in the initial episodes. We only see the cold-blooded Gundam pilot, and that pilot has the worst starting luck out of any of them, from his Gundam being brought down to his attempts to destroy it failing. His willingness - even eagerness - to die for his cause comes up so often in the beginning of the series that it ends up losing its punch. But being the series lead, and getting more screentime by dint of being a Gundam pilot, Heero does ultimately get fleshed out more than Relena. His remorse over inadvertently killing the Alliance pacifists and his blunt but pragmatic advice to the other Gundam pilots do let his softer side emerge later on. His struggle to find a reason to keep going in the fight in the middle of the series - something multiple characters go through - is rather muddled (not helped by some obtuse and stilted dialogue, another major fault in the series), but he comes out of that mess resolved to protect Relena and defeat White Fang - so much so that he not only unites with the other pilots, but designates Quatre Raberba Winner as their leader instead of himself because he recognizes what’s best for the team. The series ultimately benefits from his being the main character because of developments like this, but the journey is more awkward and choppy than it needed to be, and his romance with Relena and rivalry with Zechs are never fully convincing even if their basic mutual interest in one another is.

Stilted dialogue more than absent material is what most works against series antagonists Zechs and Treize, though Zechs’s lack of scenes with his sister and an abrupt jump from Sanc Kingdom spokesman to genocidal avenger are an issue. The philosophical notions that pepper Zechs’s and Treize’s monologues and conversations - the nature of war, the value of soldiers’ sacrifice, mankind’s natural proclivities, the possibility of peace and what it would take to achieve it - are all fascinating, and I’m still amazed that a show that spent so much time on these subjects was put in an afterschool block bound to attract younger kids back in the day. But for every speech that’s thought-provoking and emotionally resonant, there are three that are a chore to sit through and a puzzle to comprehend. Granted, the Crunchyroll subtitles for this series aren’t the best, so that may partly explain and excuse this problem. But especially in the middle of the series, where allegiances shift and motivations collapse, having the principle antagonists be so difficult to understand isn’t ideal.

Then there are the plot holes - mostly characters who somehow survived apparent deaths with little to no explanation - and characters who just don’t work. One of them is unfortunately a Gundam pilot - Chang Wu Fei, an arrogant misogynist wrapped up in his own ideals of combat who resists any teamwork or even temporary alliances with his fellow Gundams until the very end of the series, and is an unreliable partner even then. None of this would make him a bad character - one hardly needs to be likable or relatable to be an effective and compelling presence in a story - but Wu Fei has virtually no chemistry with the other Gundams, or any character, when actually does interact with them, except for ex-Alliance soldier Sally Po. His standoffishness and stoicism are traits shared by Heero and Trowa Barton, making his seem redundant, and his professed ideals of combat are muddled by bad dialogue. His great rivalry with Treize is also on shaky ground; they only interact twice in the entire series. But Wu Fei is at least comprehensible; Dorothy Catalonia, a Romefeller spy who takes an almost sexual delight in war, is not only obnoxious and intrusive when she appears in the second half of the series, but her motivations seem to swing wildly, her allegiances impossible to follow, and I sorely wish she had died by the end of the series.

With all of those faults laid bare - I did say the show was enjoyable and admirable in spite of everything, and indeed it is. Wu Fei may be redundant and Heero only a partial success as a character, but the other three Gundam pilots are well-realized, so much so that I’m baffled to see various critiques of this show imply that they’re static and one-note. Duo Maxwell is essentially the same person at the end of the series as he was at the beginning, but he’s a wonderful source of levity in the series, and he does have his trials and his low points that contrast well with his typical personality; his moments of anger and despair are some of the best in the series for selling the stakes of the conflict in the absence of proper world-building. Trowa, while much less emotive, goes through a significant journey, with his sibling-esque relationship with circus performer Catherine far more emotionally satisfying than either the Peacecrafts’ bond or Heero and Relena’s romance.

And then there’s Quatre, my new favorite character from this series. I didn’t take a great deal of notice of him as a kid, but rediscovering his story has been my favorite thing about this rewatch. A bright, gentle, and friendly personality, disdainful of violence but prepared to fight for a worthy cause, driven to despair and madness by the loss of his father and the ZERO system, only to emerge as the repentant leader of the Gundams, instrumental in bringing them together as a unit and binding them to Relena’s ideals; of all the pilots, he sees the most growth and change, and all the essentials to his story actually make it on screen. He also has the allegiance of the Maganac Corps, a group that doesn’t have a great deal of importance to the series...but they do have a cool name and cooler mobile suits.

And if Relena is somewhat lacking as a female lead, Gundam Wing does have Sally Po, military doctor turned guerrilla fighter and stalwart Gundam ally, and Lucrezia Noin. For a character that could easily have just been Zech’s love interest, Noin sees a degree of growth throughout the series to rival Quatre’s, moving from OZ instructor to Sanc Kingdom defense captain to the instigator of the Gundams as a unit, working to defeat the man she loves. The show also avoids sexualizing any of its female cast, so - a point for that, I guess.

The designs of the Gundams are all unique (as are their abilities), and some are downright beautiful. The other mobile suits are varied as well and easy to identify, making combat easy to follow. The quality of the combat - and the animation in general - is hit and miss, but it’s never atrocious, and when it’s solid, the end result is some great shots and action. The series also boasts a fantastic soundtrack, with lovely instrumental themes and two great opening songs (though why “Rhythm Emotion” was brought in with only ten episodes left to go on the series still baffles me.) 

All this contributes to Gundam Wing being enjoyable, but what makes it admirable is actually the stilted dialogue and overstuffed story that bring it down. To attempt a series that ruminates on the nature of war and the various philosophical positions around its necessity or lack thereof, of the chances for real peace, for the evolution of humanity if were to move into the stars, and the interpersonal conflicts between various characters, would be a tall order for any series, and not the easiest thing to make into visually compelling animation. That Gundam Wing made the attempt at all shows ambition and aspiration on the part of its writers and staff. As I’ve said at length here, it was frustrated by its short running time and the weaknesses of story elements and characters, but an ambitious mixed bag - even a failure - that aims high is a much more admirable (and interesting to watch) affair than a success that aims low.

And, in its failures to get certain elements across, Gundam Wing shows enough of what it was trying to do that I, at least, can forgive some (not all) rough patches. Characters like Heero and conflicts like the Gundams’ basic fight for the colonies still work despite their flaws. And the final run of episodes, where White Fang and Treize clash and the Gundams work around the battle to save the day, are incredibly strong. It’s a finale that surpasses much of the content preceding it, and if it would’ve been improved by that content being better, it still works because the intent of that earlier content can still be perceived.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed rediscovering Gundam Wing, and I’d like to check out the dub again when I’m in a position to renew my Hulu subscription. For now, though - there’s a certain waltz to attend to...

[queenitn]

The more I think about it, the less sense Steve's ending makes

I know I'm way too late, but I'm not over it yet and I'm assuming there's other people who aren't either. So I'm just gonna feed the flames of resistance.

First, let me just say that I do think Steve would save the alternate timeline's 40s!Bucky and Natasha from Red Room (and probably kill the fuck out of Zola). That's not the problem.

Also, I read a post somewhere about how Steve essentially being a Time Traveller is pretty much a gift, and how he could be doing literally anything out there. I agree. I'd much rather believe he's at some rave in the 15th century than believe he's living it out in the 40s. But unfortunately, that's purely hypothetical. As far as canon is concerned, the implication to the GA is that 2023!Steve returned the stones and then decided to try persuing a relationship with Peggy. That's what I don't buy.

The thing is, this is an emotional ending. It makes you feel. That's why it works with people at all. It's mimicking a soldier's homecoming. It's poetic. But when you start bombarding it with logic....it gets fucked.

What about the 40s!Steve stuck in the ice? According to the Russos, he gets rescued too. What then? How do they explain the Two Steves thing to people? Do the Steves sit down and go like, "You take Peggy, I'll take Bucky?" No, they fucking don't.

What does Steve tell Peggy? Does he tell her the truth? Does he say, "Hey I'm from an alternate timeline where I woke up in the future where you were old and married and now I've gotten tired of my timeline's bullshit so I wanna start over with you." Doesn't seem like something Peggy Carter would accept. Or does he lie? In that case, that doesn't seem to be a very happy life he lived.

How do they get past their differences?

Here's the thing, 2023!Steve is not 40s!Steve. He's ten years older. He's seen shit 40s!Steve can't yet imagine. And he's done. He's tired and he wants to go home. Peggy does not. She's just getting started. She's got shit to do. They're in two completely different stages in life, and that's not easy to handle. Can they work it out? Probably. Maybe Steve becomes her trophy husband. It's possible...but doubtful. So the point stands.

Not to mention, this makes Steve the man out of time twice over. He may not entirely belong in the future, but he doesn't belong in the past anymore either. All those memes about him slipping up and mentioning Google or something aren't just shitting around. They bring up a legit concern. He's a guy from the future. Any tiny slip he makes can change the course of this new timeline entirely. But no pressure.

And in the end...isn't it just plain redundant? He woke up in the future and mourned the life he could have lived. He got himself a new family and a home. Don't tell me he didn't. What was it Steve said in IW? "Where to? Home." Yes, the Avengers ARE his home. Natasha and Sam and Bucky and Wanda. They're his family. They're the people he'd spent the past two years with between CW and IW. How is his time with them any less meaningful than his time during the war? Why would he leave the found family he already has (albeit minus Natasha) for a vague idea of what could have been? Why put himself through that again? And make no mistake, his coming back an old man isn't him coming back for them. That was abandonment. And I just can't see him doing that.

Because Steve is SMART. You could even say he's a stone cold asshole sometimes. There's no way he wouldn't have thought of all this and more. And knowing all this (and all the other stuff I'm forgetting) I don't see him making this choice. It's just....going in circles. It's pointless. I can't see it providing Steve with any real comfort or peace.

What I think should have happened? He should have gotten his dance with Peggy, and then he should have come back, given the shield to Sam and then gone to truly get that life Tony told him to get.

Here's the thing. I do believe Steve had already moved on from the 40s. That locket? Seems to me he was drawing comfort from it. Usually you don't really seek comfort from the thing causing you grief. His locket can, arguably, be seen as a sign of him having let go of the past. So could he have "moved on and gotten a life" with Peggy? Maybe, but considering all the shit I just spouted, the chances really aren't all that high.

So why put yourself through unnecessary pain, leave behind the people you'd been trying to mourn (he never mentioned any of them ONCE. Silent sufferer anyone?) to....go back to something you've already made peace with?? That's just. Bullshit.

So yeah, I call bullshit. My Steve is smarter than that.

This isn't about Steggy or Stucky. This is about Steve. My boy deserved better.

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which a secret comes out which Lion would much rather have kept from the rest of Rainbow. (Rating T, angst + happy ending, ~2.4k words) - written for @big-r6s-fan!! Thank you very much again for commissioning me 💗 I enjoyed myself writing this :)

.

Lion was 15 when lying became a necessity.

Before, it had been a fancy, a brief display of power: he could deceive people if he wanted, but it was no more than a trump card he was never forced to play. When he went out with his friends, his parents hardly showed enough interest or worry, making a lie redundant, and his peers didn’t really care either about his religious upbringing or other interests. He felt being the younger sibling keenly, and Sophie oftentimes reminded him of all the things she wasn’t allowed to do at his age, unaware of how much he actually took advantage of this freedom.

Many things happened at 15 which interfered with this dynamic, deeply disturbed his relationship not only with his family but also his friends. He stole his dad’s car for a joyride and ended up getting caught. The parent of an ex-friend he long ditched for being a teacher’s pet saw him drinking together with older kids. He snuck into the school’s chapel and pissed in the holy water. He started smoking, lost his virginity, and shoplifted. His parents didn’t find out about all of it, but they did find out about enough, gathered clues from half-hearted responses and all the details he omitted, saw it in his face. He had to get better at lying, if only to trick their system of regular texts and calls, checking homework, rigid curfew.

Not only that, he learnt to keep secrets to prevent ridicule. Just like most of his friends, he claimed to be an atheist since they were the loudest group and often harassed others for believing – in truth, he doubted yet hadn’t faltered. Church involvement repelled him as did the strict moral code, but he never fully gave up the idea of a higher power. He kept quiet about liking some of the catchy songs on the radio, about his crush on the prettiest girl in his class, about enjoying some of his classes, about his reading habits. He didn’t want to be uncool, so he went along with his peers, easily agreeing and keeping most of the things he truly held dear close to his heart instead of on his sleeve.

It resulted in fewer problems. His parents thought him converted, his friends thought him amiable and he started to enjoy telling lies.

One of his friends was already 18, owned a car and lived alone – in Lion’s eyes, he was the pinnacle of maturity, something to strive towards. It didn’t matter his vehicle was on the verge of falling apart and that his flat stunk of stale weed and had no wallpaper and that he worked in a supermarket; he could stay up whenever he wanted, had his own money, and could go wherever he pleased. Not only that, he also never took no for an answer. No matter how hare-brained the plan, he was on board, no matter how unachievable the dream, he gave support and encouragement. The little word which Lion had heard one too many times from his parents lately was missing from his vocabulary.

At some point, his friend told him to take his clothes off. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. This, too, Lion never disclosed to anyone.

Just like the fact that he liked it.

.

Years took their toll on him. One of the very few things he kept from his adolescence is his taste in music which he doesn’t readily share with others from his church. He doesn’t speak about his faith with his colleagues. The extent of his escapades has never reached his parents’ ears. Not once has he told any of his girlfriends about the men with whom he fooled around. At times, it eats at him, every little secret, every little lie another bite out of his conscience, and though he’s trying his best to follow the commandments, it’s a habit he simply can’t kick. It spares him so many intrusive, difficult questions that it’s just not worth giving up.

There’s one man in particular who seems keen on testing his limits, however. There’s no reaction from him when Lion attempts to change the topic, every excuse merely makes him dig deeper, every wall that’s thrown up causes him to redouble his efforts of scaling it – once he’s identified an issue, he refuses to let go until he’s received a satisfactory response and his bluntness frankly intimidates Lion. He has trouble dealing with it, walked off a couple of times instead of opening up but with time realised that judgement never followed. That his concessions were never met with disdain. That his bareness was reciprocated in kind.

It’s hard to accept that the one person who carefully dismantles the web of lies, half-truths and excuses he weaves as protection used to be his enemy.

But by now, he’s starving for affirmation and takes what he can gets without seeming desperate, and when Doc refuses to back down even when confronted with some of Lion’s unsavoury past, he eventually gives in. Hands himself over. Allows Doc to rummage through the myriad of memories he usually keeps under wraps, and watches helplessly as the other man treats it more like a historical museum than contemporary art – he reassures Lion that while all of it contributed to his personality, he’s greater than the sum of its parts. He sees something in Lion no one else does, and so he fiercely, jealously guards the emotions shared between them from the rest of the world. This is his. He will not risk ridicule. He will not let it wither in sunlight where it flourishes in darkness.

Which is why he’s overcome with dizzying nausea when Dokkaebi walks in on them.

They were cautious, both of them averse to endangering this fragile understanding between them, and though they began living in each other’s skin outside of work, they avoided each other in Hereford. Not obvious enough to draw suspicion but rigorous enough to resist temptation. This day, it just so happened that Lion had lab results to drop off at the end of his shift, and Doc was still around, and so they exchanged a few words. Maybe stood a little too close. Doc said something soothing, Lion reacted with a rare smile, and warm fingers found his own, lips neared his.

A quick peck. No more. But Dokkaebi bursts in just then and clearly realises what’s going on and though Lion scrambles to revert back to the persona which can lie like it breathes, he’s gotten used to not needing it in Doc’s presence and is therefore too slow.

Awkwardness settles in his bones, guides Dokkaebi’s stilted words and stiff movements, laces Doc’s curt response, causes Lion’s face to burn and him to take an unnecessary step backwards. It squeezes his heart until it desperately pumps against the iron grip, blackening the outside of his vision, and with a formal excuse, he leaves. He nearly misses the doorknob on the way out due to shaking fingers.

She knows.

And if she knows, so will everyone else the next day. His and Doc’s feud spread like wildfire the moment he joined Rainbow and there’s no doubt this tasty bite of news will do the same. They will all know.

His phone starts buzzing before he’s even home. Composure is a virtue and he thanks the Lord for gracing him with it or else he might’ve swerved his car into a ditch. Teeth chattering, he stops by the side of the road and turns the device off – he doesn’t need this unconditional compassion right now, even if he’s unsure what else he needs. All he knows is that he’d break down if the calm voice on the other end asked him whether he’s alright.

Intrusive thoughts haunt him almost like a badly edited narration over a bleak independent film. You don’t deserve him, and he’s fairly sure he’s hungry, so he puts a slice of bread into the toaster. Doesn’t it contradict your faith? He hasn’t even taken off his shoes, so he unlaces them by the couch, leaves them lying in the way. Believe me, you two aren’t gonna last. Coffee sounds good right about now, even if all he has is instant. Fucking coward, hasn’t even come out and probably blackmails Doc. Kettle, water, cup, spoon, powder. The metal in his hands feels too smooth. Wasn’t his kitchen a little bigger? He could’ve sworn it wasn’t dark out when he arrived. He’s still an arrogant twat. Great, his toast is cold now.

The voices of the people he’s forced to interact with every day are merciless.

It’s like he’s run a marathon and, despite being wholly drained, the residual adrenaline fires up his mind in uncomfortable bursts. Sitting down for longer than ten minutes is impossible and he finds himself going through his qualifications at one point. He’s good at his job. He’s sure he can find another one elsewhere.

Now and then, faces flash before him. The priest he told to go fuck himself when he tried to talk to young Lion about responsibilities. His parents after being informed about his fatherhood. Claire when she realised he was serious about the abortion. His own son upon seeing him the first time. And, lastly, Doc. The day his colleagues’ blood added to the crusty mess already on Lion’s hands.

He won’t be able to bear more. He’ll break if the rest of Rainbow adds to this embarrassingly long list of shocked, appalled, disgusted expressions, especially since it’d be over something so dear to him. So crucial to his survival. He can’t stand them shunning him for having found his heart’s desire.

Already resigned to a night of no sleep, he jolts upright at the sound of his doorbell. Sits there, motionless, paralysed in indecision. He should let him in. He doesn’t want to.

It still rings now and then five minutes later, every noise running marrow-deep. He trusts Doc fully, but he doesn’t trust himself.

For once, his mind comes up with a reasonable objection: isn’t he a little old to be self-sabotaging like this?

Doc doesn’t mention the wait once he’s crossed the threshold. He won’t get it, not with how supportive his family has been, not with how popular he is, not with how little he encountered rejection in his life. And yet simply seeing him helps.

“I don’t want to lose you”, Lion breathes into his hair and the reassurances convince him that his lover genuinely doesn’t understand – he whispers the words which usually soothe Lion, promises him to stay by his side and remains unaware of the real problem. It matters not that he’s loyal when no one will talk to them. It’s irrelevant how supportive he is when open hostility will make coordinated teamwork unachievable. The tension will carry over until it either permeates their entire relationship, leaves them irritated and frustrated with each other, or until Lion is reassigned. Or potentially leaves of his own accord.

Both would be the end of them.

In exposing their feelings, they have killed them. And though Doc’s fingers will eventually grow tired of brushing away wet streaks, there will always be more tears.

.

Needle pricks in his back. He feels them wherever he goes, head held high and seemingly impervious – but the gazes riddle him, erode his self-control and he’s sure that eventually, there’ll be more holes than substance. Wandering through the base is nightmarish, an omnipresent sense of dread unshakeable. None of the people around him dare to speak anywhere but in their minds, and so he’s powerless to defend himself. They all know.

Every smile is malicious, every bout of laughter directed at him. Today, the universe has assembled to judge over the mockery that is his life and finds it lacking.

Doc’s words are etched into the back of his brain, not as encouragement but as a reminder of how naive his lover is. Doc desperately holds onto this fundamental trust towards humanity, ignorant of his privilege, ignorant of how revered he is, how the seas part for him, how no one dares to speak ill of him. He blindly assumes his experiences are universal. It’s easy for him to confuse his own brightness reflected back at him with another source of light.

Lion isn’t so lucky.

Whenever anyone approaches him, he expects the worst, flinches pre-emptively and stumbles his way through conversations which should’ve gone a lot smoother. They shoot him more and more odd looks the further the day progresses, and it’s not just the albatross around his neck they see. A glance in the mirror confirms he looks like death.

Montagne is a good friend and Lion values his opinion, yet conversing with him is like nails dragging over a chalkboard. He inquires about Lion’s well-being and lies like this one hardly count anymore. The brief talk has him sit down or else he might’ve started swaying, and the deafening roar of his thoughts almost makes him miss Montagne’s parting statement: “I’m happy for you and Gustave. I wish you two all the best.”

He -

He can’t mean it, can he?

A day later, in passing, Buck says with a smile: “You’ve snagged a good one. Don’t let him get away, eh?”

And Ash, at the end of the week: “I’m very glad it’s working out with you and Doc.”

Lion has never received this many friendly words. Most of the team captains send him on errands which carry him past Doc’s office. Hibana assigns him and Doc together for an exercise without a second thought. Twitch begins buying one coffee more each morning.

The burden lifts. The queasy feeling dissipates. His future brightens. It’s an incredible experience, and the more he adapts, the warmer the others receive him. It’s a mutual thing, glowing and strengthening his confidence, and eventually he even admits Doc was right from the beginning.

“They don’t treat me any worse”, he adds when sharing his observations with a wholly relieved Doc, loose and content and not at all shy with his displays of affection.

“Of course not”, comes the gentle reply. “Everyone deserves happiness, Olivier. It’s time you start believing it.”

Lion has to concede that here, by Doc’s side, looking forward to a good night’s sleep and a challenging job with supportive co-workers, it’s a lot easier to trust in these words.

[soysaucevictim]

Time for me tor try one of the new programs that was just released a few days ago.

-

Jan. 4

I woke up a bit before 1PM, today.

After a bit of YouTube, I decided to try to get right into my exercise.

First, today’s DD. 50 forward lunges with EC. This was pretty winding and tough. But pretty doable, doing some conditioning work with the knees helps a bit. :U

Second, Day 1 of the Baseline Program. I’m going to be using this to round things out, in continuing the KCP.

Upperbody work. I managed Level 3 without rests (except a couple seconds to track sets) and long counts. I’m pretty sure I can shoot for Level 3 this entire run, but we’ll see if I can get away with making the workouts a single superset, too. Just to make things more challenging! :D

Third, 5′ warmup. I just did march steps. For the record, I’ll do this whenever BLP is not going to involve leg work - KCP takes long enough on it’s own. Pffft!

Last, Day 7 of the KCP. Active day. I managed to get this workout time to be a bit under 1 hour and 40 minutes. Up until after #9, I kept my rest periods close to non-existent between exercises and side-switching. I did keep the rests in between sets (on same side) at about 30″.

...

-

Jan. 5

I woke up a bit before noon.

After a bit of the usual, I went for today’s exercises.

First, today’s DD. 20 basic burpees with a jump, with EC. I decided I would jump into and out of the plank, despite thinking about stepping into and out of them. Pretty winding, but my knees seemed to cope well enough!

Second, Day 2 of the BLP. Lower body work, Level 3 + no rest in between sets. Pretty breezy work and I think a good enough warm-up for the next thing.

Third, Day 8 of the KCP. Active day. Similar approach to yesterday, except I didn’t extend the rest periods between exercises and side switching. Other rests were kept at 30″ or so, however. Still time consuming and pretty challenging- but mission accomplished.

Last, Day 1 of the Get to Bed on Time Challenge, again. I dropped the ball as soon as I finished the last run. So I think I’ll see if doing this a few more times consecutively will help me get control back. I meant to start in sync with the KCP, but I did get to bed in the yellow zone.

...

-

Jan. 6

I got up shortly after noon, today.

Spent a few hours figuring out how to install a digital to analog converter so we can have stereo coming out from TV/FireStick. Increasingly frustrated, I fiddled with tv settings, removed caps on TOSLINK cable, updated the TV firmware... to realizing that the (old) receiver we were using probably was incompatible. Then, used another receiver that had TOSLINK ports (probably the newer of the two).

It finally WORKED... only prob is finding out the cable was the only part of that amazon order that I actually needed. Oh well, I’m just happy it worked.

Them after eating some food, did my exercise for today.

First, today’s DD. 40 squat hold side bends with EC. I still really like this exercise, had fun with it.

Second, Day 3 of the BLP. Level 3, kept my arms up and made into a superset. That definitely get the arms tired - sagging a little by the last few sets. But still very doable.

Third, 5′ warmup. I just did march steps.

Third, Day 9 of the KCP. Active day. I sis manage to get this done in less than 1 hour and 50 minutes - which I’ll count as a win. Mostly did it the same way as yesterday. Stopped tracking by exercise - since I remembered the sequence... mostly. Did accidently swap the calf raises with the leg extensions - but it doesn’t matter that much. Everything was accounted for.

(After doing some of the usual and watching “Old Boy” with pops...)

Last, Day 2 of the G2BC. Got to bed barely in the yellow zone, but I’ll take it.

-

Jan. 7

I woke up a bit after 8AM.

Got to the facility, attended Seeking Safety, chatted with my case manager, went to the diner, and socialized some more before heading back home.

First, today’s DD. 1′ raised leg hold with EC (supine). Despite being somewhat sleep-deprived, I'm glad I could manage. Had to keep the breath steady to get through it.

Second, Day 4 of the BLP. Level 3, one superset (<10″ rest in between sets). This was overall good stuff - digging the forearm work, I feel like I could very much use that!

Third, 5′ warmup. Just some march steps. Felt like I needed to do more leg work before the next thing.

Fourth, Day 10 of the KCP. Rest day. So just that heel cord stretch and the one legged calf raises. My sleep-deprived ass is grateful it was only that, today.

(After some YouTube and Twitter stuff...)

Last, Day 3 of the G2BC. I got to bed barely in  the yellow zone. But I’ll take it. I was p damn tired at that point, anyhow.

-

Jan. 8

I woke up proper just shy of 1PM, today.

Watched a few vids and whatnot before getting into today’s exercise.

First, today’s DD.  40 plank leg raises with EC (20/20). This was pretty doable and fun work! :D

Second, Day 5 of the BLP. Level 3, one superset. Not much to say, other than I found it breezy and enjoyable work.

Third, 5′ warmup. I did 1′ each: march steps, step jacks, march steps, seal step jacks, and march steps.

Third, Day 11 of the KCP. Active day. Things are getting somewhat easier - I may start using weight or increased resistance for some of it in the next week.

(After a bit of the usual and working on some art...)

Last, Day 4 of the G2BC. Barely in the yellow zone again.

...

-

Jan. 9

I woke up a bit after 8AM.

Went to the facility, did some socializing, art work, and attended WRAP Group.

Got home, sent hours on the usual stuff, before

First, today’s DD. 2′ punches with EC. I counted 218 punches by the end and I had a lot of fun! I did think about trying it with wrist weights but I decided I wasn't confident about the safety of it. :,D

Second, Day 6 of the BLP. Level 3, one superset. Probably the only thing that was particularly awkward to execute were the torso rotations, but everything else went pretty smoothly. I rather like this program’s chill!

Last, Day 12 of the KCP. Rest day. Breezy, if a bit redundant to BLP’s calf/heel-cord stretches.

Failed to get to bed on time, despite being pretty tired. :/

-

Jan. 10

I woke up a bit after noon.

I barely got anything done, today. I did a bit of email housekeeping, made some dinner, did the DD, and a little bit of drawing.

As for that today DD. 40 butterfly dips with EC. Been really distracted and somewhat hazy - this kinda helped me get back in the now. :P

Bad time management and distractions made me get to bed too late again. orz

-.

I’m going to go ahead and post this now and draft the next one

[just-an-anxious-mess]

Two-Faced (Part 2)

Part 1

Trigger Warning: mentions of suicide, self harm, blood, panic attacks, angst

I looked over at Deciet and mumbled "I think he's fallen asleep."

"Well don't wake him, he might bite us if we do." Roman commented from beside me and I shook my head.

"Should we leave him here or try and get him back to his room?" Patton asked and I shrugged.

I turned to Deciet and decided to wake up him up so he could go to his room if he was tired. "Deciet?" I asked and nudged him.

He didn't respond and I narrowed my eyes. He was usually a light sleeper, unless he'd changed so much since we were on good terms that his sleeping situation was different.

I leant over and tapped him and still got no response.

"Deciet! Wake up!" Roman shouted and I jumped in surprise.

"What the hell Roman?" I asked in annoyance and turned to see if Deciet was glaring at him only to find he hadn't woken up.

"Uh guys, not to live up to my name of anxiety or anything but somethings not right here. Deciet used to be a really light sleeper." I said, worried now.

Patton stood up and walked over, having extracted himself from Logan who looked annoyed at having their cuddle interrupted.

"Deciet?" Patton said and gently pushed the snake faced trait and got no response.

I pulled Deciet towards me and his head flopped to the side limply so the non scaled half of his face was now visible.

"Holy shit is that blood?" I exclaimed as I noticed the red trailing down from the corner of Deciets mouth.

Patton gasped and shook Deciet which did nothing but make his head flop uselessly.

Logan quickly went into analysis mode and said "Someone lay him on his side so he doesn't choke on his own blood, I need a little more time to figure out what's happened."

We did as Logan said and backed away as he began to search for the source of the blood.

"He seems to have bitten his tongue but the only possible explanations for that would be something akin to unbearable pain which he was attempting to hide. Obviously whatever caused him to bite his tongue hard enough for it to bleed like this, is also the same thing rendering him unconscious."

Logan pressed his fingers to Deciets neck and his eyes widened, causing me to ask "What is it?"

"His pulse is still there but it's slow and sluggish, not a good sign. My best guess is that he's ingested something he shouldn't have. That would explain the unconsciousness, the presumable pain that caused him to bite through his tongue and his dangerously slow heartbeat."

"He was in the kitchen looking for something to eat when I encountered him earlier, he seemed a bit off and he's been acting slightly differently today." Patton said with his eyes locked onto Deciets still form.

I frowned and tried to recall anything I noticed that could help Logan figure out what was going on.

"As the third film began his eyes looked slightly glazed over and I thought he looked a bit out of it but then he snapped at me." I said, unsure exactly how that could help.

"Patton, go to Deciets room and see if whatever he ingested is in there, Roman go to my room and grab the medical bag from under the desk and Virgil you can help me keep an eye on Deciets pulse." Logan ordered.

The other two ran from the room as I knelt next to the couch where Deciet was and put my fingers against his neck to check his pulse.

There was a slow feeble beat and before I knew it there were tears rolling down my face. I'd hated Deciet for years because of how much he'd messed with my mind and told me the others hated me but, as Deciet himself had pointed out, he was the only person I used to be able to go to.

He was there for me when I had my panic attacks, he explained how things worked in the mindspace when no one else would and he was right when he said I went crawling back to him.

When I decided to duck out I'd gone to Deciet, telling him how he'd been right about the others not accepting me and he'd sighed and given me a hug, telling me that he did try to warn me.

If it hadn't been for the others tripping the alarm I'd set up just in case someone was in my room, I wouldn't have noticed they were in my room. I would have just spent the day with Deciet.

I frowned as I suddenly remembered something. That day when I'd gone to Deciet, I'd found him in the inactive part of Thomas's mind, hence why I stopped effecting Thomas.

The thing was I had no idea why Deciet was in there at the time. He'd seemed tired or something and I was sure I remembered him wincing when I hugged him.

I was drawn out of my thoughts by the sound of feet running into the room.

"He.... He....." Patton panted, waving something around in his hand as he tried to speak.

Logan got to his feet and took the object from Patton with a small frown.

It was as Roman came in that I put everything together and exclaimed "He did it on purpose."

Logan wasted no time in grabbed the medical bag from Roman and grabbing things I had no name for.

I barely paid attention to what he was doing as I struggled to understand why Deciet would do this. He always seemed so unaffected by everything, from Romans insults to when he used to hiss abuse at me.

"If you're squeamish look away." Logan said as he began feeding a strange looking tube thing down Deciets throat. "I'm trying to get the medication out of his system by pumping his stomach, it is not a guaranteed solution as it's usually preferable if this procedure is done within the first 4 hours of a person ingesting something but it's the only option we have."

I got to my feet and turned away, unable to watch what was going on.

A pair of arms wrapped around me, pulling me into someone's chest but for once I didn't resist, instead I slumped into them and sobbed.

A hand was rubbing my back and a quiet voice whispered "It's alright, Logan will save him. Everythings OK."

Roman was trying to make me feel better but I knew everything was far from OK. I didn't say that though, I just continued to sob into his chest.

After a while Logan let out a sigh and I pulled away from Roman to see why.

"I've done all I can, all we can do is wait for him to wake up and see if it's caused any lasting damage."

"How long will it take for him to wake up?" I asked and Logan sent me a sad smile.

"Anywhere between an hour from now or even days. That is if he wakes up at all. There's always the chance I was too late and... We'll just have to see what happens."

Patton, who'd been incredibly quiet the whole time, let out a small sob and whispered "This is my fault. If I'd just picked up on his feelings better I could have stopped this."

Logan pulled Patton in for a hug, trying to comfort him but Patton continued. "I could have done something today, I knew something had changed yet I told myself it was probably not too important. I only ended up talking to him because I couldn't sleep without knowing what had changed. What would have happened if I hadn't?"

I shuddered at that thought, tears running down my face as I looked at Deciets unconscious form. All those times he used to tell me I was unwanted, unloved by the others, it was all just a big front to hide the fact that's how he felt about himself.

I felt helpless knowing I couldn't do anything but wait. I took a deep breath and said "I'll sit with him while you guys sleep, just in case."

"Virgil you need to sleep too." Roman immediately protested and before I could argue back Logan spoke up.

"We'll take it in turns for however many nights it takes for him to either wake up or...." Logan quickly cleared his throat and continued "Virgil can do it tonight if he so wishes."

Roman sighed "Fine, but you have to sleep tomorrow night."

I nodded and sat on the floor next to the couch where Deciet still lay. Logan escorted Patton out, whispering words of what I assumed to be comfort and reassurance.

Roman hovered slightly for a few seconds then shook his head with another sigh and walked out, leaving me all alone with the unconscious form of Deciet.

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[besidemethewholedamntime]

everything you wanted (and everything you don’t)

For @whistlingwindtree who told me I could do it.

Summary:  There are decisions she wouldn't make again no matter the consequences, and yet somehow those consequences have given her the things she loves now.

(Read here on Ao3)

                                                           -x-

May never says, rarely even allows herself to think it, but sometimes she wishes for a simpler life.

To say she loves the life she has now would be a bit too far, would be a bit too simple, but all in all she’s usually quite satisfied with how everything’s played out.

There’s pain. Of course, there’s pain. And there are regrets and there are things she wouldn’t do again no matter the cost. And lately there seem to be more and more of them, softly stacking up that she doesn’t notice until she really thinks and oh wow suddenly it’s like she can’t breathe.

But she’s okay. She’s Melinda Qiaolian May and she’s fine.

There are, however, in those moments before sleep that revelations appear, thoughts of how her life might have turned out and, tentatively, she allows herself to follow the thoughts and see where they go.

What if she had stuck to ice-skating?

What if she had never joined SHIELD?

What if she had never gone to Bahrain?

Logically, she knows there’s no point in wondering for these things that cannot be changed – thinking of them and of what if will only hurt her more.

Though sometimes she cannot help it and falls into the downward tumble that only causes pain.

Sometimes, however, she is able to resist and instead she allows herself to think of a life beyond the broken loop.

Maybe a life with Phil, maybe a life where she could just simply grow old and do Tai Chi every morning because it keeps blood pressure low and not because she needs to maintain her flexibility for a life of constant fighting.

A life where she gets to be content and watch her bus kids heal and grow and be the future.

It’s not as though she says it out loud. It’s a tightly kept secret, something she doesn’t admit even to herself. That’s not to say it’s not there; it’s always in her mind but she actively tries not to think about it.

Because they are not children, and they are not hers. They do not belong to her, they are not things to be claimed as her own. She can’t, because they all have mothers who brought them into this world and shaped the people they are today in various ways. She can’t, because it might be the end of her to take another child.

That, of course, is not to say she doesn’t love them.

She loves them so much even though she tries not to think about it, tries not to allow her brain to go to those forbidden places. Loving them will not save her. Loving them will not save them.

There’s little pieces of herself in each of them, perhaps in some more than others. The way Jemma fires a weapon, the way Fitz is much less afraid of the field. The way Daisy fights, the way she controls her powers. She taught these things to them, she left a lasting impression and perhaps that was the beginning of her descent into love.

When she first met them, they weren’t children then either, except they were. They were wide-eyed and young and looked to her and Phil to guide them and to lead them (and to keep them safe). They all wanted to so desperately believe that these agents in the levels above them, these veteran SHIELD agents had everything well in hand, and that they only had to worry about what they were told to worry about, do what these older agents, these ‘experts’ told them to do. Because they knew everything and they could save the world.

Sometimes she looks back at those wide-eyed children and misses their naivete. It meant that nothing so bad had happened yet that wasn’t reversible, nothing irredeemable had taken place that meant they had to harden and wisen up or risk not making it.

These children needed her, and maybe in a way she needed them too. She needed something to fix, needed something to put back together since she couldn’t do it to herself.

If she takes a step back and looks at her handiwork, she’s not sure of what to think.

Fitzsimmons don’t need her anymore. They have each other to call home. And in a way she’s glad, because something’s worked out for them and they’ve come so far from those two non-field agents she met on a plane all those years ago. They have each other in a way they’ve never had each other before, and in a way she’s sad because the job being done means that the job is finished.

Daisy doesn’t need her anymore, or at least not in the way she used to. This girl has a special place in her heart, because, even though she would never utter it aloud, she would be more able to admit this once-girl could be hers in another world. Because aren’t they two halves of the same broken heart? Wasn’t Daisy looking for someone to love her as a mother loves a child, and wasn’t May needing someone to give her love to once again.?

This girl who when they first found her knew nothing of what it took to be a skilled fighter, a good leader, is now well on her way, if they break the loop, to becoming the new face of SHIELD.

And May is not that self-doubting, she knows which pieces of Daisy are reflections of herself, what she gave to her. But lately it feels as though she has given her everything she is able to, and the things she needs to learn now are only what Phil can teach her, only what leaders can pass on to the next generations, only what fathers give to their daughters.

She feels redundant, as though there’s nothing left she can give these pieces of her heart anymore.

If this is what she feels, with those children who aren’t and were never hers who now no longer need her the way they once did, then how do normal mothers survive it? How do they ever let their children go?

Then there is the man who holds a part of her heart she doesn’t ever remember giving, but one day realising that now suddenly he had it even if he didn’t know it. This man, who since day one she has been here to protect, who’s unwavering faith in the organisation which brought them together makes her want to believe, who’s optimism is infectious and who’s love and loyalty give her the strength and conviction to keep fighting what already could be a losing battle. This man who she loves.

As if that already doesn’t say everything that needs to be said.

This is why she doesn’t think of what if’s, doesn’t think of the could have been’s because then she has to ask herself the question of would you give up everything you have now for the chance at what might have been?

To never know these people who she now considers to be her family is something that wounds her far more than any weapon ever could. To have never known SHIELD, to have never known her ‘bus kids’, to have never known Phil…

To have a life in which she’d never know these people that, although she would never admit it, fixed what was broken within her, gave her back those parts of herself though to have been stolen from her forever is a life she doesn’t want to know. No matter how normal, how simple an alternative might be.

To say she loves the life she has now would be a bit too far, would be a bit too simple.

But the truth is that while there are things she wouldn’t do again no matter what, she’s here now where she is because of those things that have already happened and cannot be changed, no matter how much she might wish it to be so.

And she can ignore the past and she can bury its pain and pretend as though those decisions made lifetimes ago haven’t influenced every single choice since but in the end, it doesn’t go away.

Because it happened and it hurt but it gave her the things she has today. The things she loves.

It’s time to stop looking to the past, to stop wondering about everything that might have been if only.

It’s time to start looking towards the future, to tomorrow and all the days that come after.

It’s time to let go.

[smkkbert]

Olicity Fanfic Recommendation

Here we go again with another one of my Olicity Fic Reviews. Admittedly, it’s a little late because now we have Arrow back on our screens, but I guess there is always some time to read a nice story. Hence, here’s my review for Can’t escape this now by @callistawolf.

OVERALL PLOT

I think it’s safe to say that the first major topic of the story is about all types of family – the one you are born with and the one you gain during your life, the one you are related to by blood and the one you are related to by law or maybe just bonds you connected in whatever way.

Family or rather family politics is actually the starting point of the story. Readers are immediately pulled into the powerful even if very dark side of the life of the Queen Family. It’s Malcolm Merlyn’s personal problems who actually prompts Moira’s idea that the best idea to protect her family from gold diggers and inappropriate relationships is to get Oliver married to a girl of her choosing. Her plan is very simple – Oliver gets married to a sweet, little girl who just nods along to everything and is not much of an inconvenience.

Of course Oliver’s reaction isn’t characterized by excitement. For the most part, he’s actually quite against the idea. Oliver isn’t a man to get married, so he doesn’t want to. Oliver might not want to do so, but, unfortunately, in the words of Moira Queen, his opinion doesn’t matter. That’s what being a Queen is mean after all.

Anyway, Oliver isn’t the only one opposed to the idea of getting married. Moira’s choice for Oliver’s bride is the daughter of a guy who owns the family a lot of money. Giving his daughter into a marriage with her son is supposed to waive him all his debts. Suffice to say, that our lovely bride Felicity Smoak is not happy about getting married, either.

Just like Oliver, she doesn’t have much of a choice now because, just like Oliver, she is putting her family above her own needs and desires. Her father, Jerry Smoak, might not deserve his daughter’s help, but he is family to her.

The family theme continues as Oliver and Felicity get married and are family, at least legally. Of course the circumstances of their marriage are not ideal to be a real family to each other. Can you love a person you have been forced to get married to? A person you don’t know and don’t want? Can someone who has been forced into your family by your parents be someone you actually consider a family for the connection of your hearts rather than the connection of your legal status? Well, that’s the question that the family-theme revolves around, and the question is actually raised quite soon and prompts a quick back and forth that is exciting (even if at times maddening) to read.

The second theme of the fic could be called The crazy women from Oliver Queen’s past. Honestly, that man has really bad taste in women (Felicity being the one exception), or maybe he’s just attracting these crazy women.

The question you will ask yourself when reading the fic is which of the women from his past is going to create the greater mess.

It’s a lot of fun because, honestly, there is always the excitement and tension of not knowing who will attack at the end. I can spoil someone is going to attack and it’s a really huge BOOM!

TONE OR RATHER TONES OF THE STORY

I’d say there is a little bit of everything. There is dark Bratva-Style.

There is sweet bonding.

There is romantic fluff.

There is even a little bit of smut which, if you ask me, never hurts. 

Oh, and of course there are a lot of moments where you will feel like you want to jump into the story and kill someone… or something like that.

FELICITY

What Moira Queen looks for in a possible daughter-of-law is “someone innocent, respectable and easily groomed […] a sweet, timid girl that she could easily steer and direct and influence.  She would make her the perfect society wife; the sort of woman who turned a blind eye to her husband's infidelities, who looked good on his arm and said yes to everything the family required of her.”

Everyone who has even the slightest idea who Felicity Smoak is will think – well, she’s safe than because that is certainly not who Felicity Smoak is. Since Moira Queen doesn’t know our girl the way we do, it’s safe to say she misjudges her entirely for exactly that kind of girl.

Felicity Smoak is everything but this. She agrees to the marriage to save her father. She selflessly gets into this loveless marriage and agrees to live her life like that. Since Felicity is who she is, she is trying to make the best out of it, though. She connects with her sister-in-law, and, eventually, she even connects with the role of being a Queen.

Things are complicated, though. The life as a Queen is dangerous, not just for Oliver but also for her. Things are destined to go wrong, and, when things go wrong and people are vulnerable, feelings can start to show.

OLIVER

Oliver’s story begins in Russia where he has been sent to more than a year ago after he killed the man who killed his father – Poor guy never gets a break in fics (which obviously is no complaint because I do the same when I write fics, so it’s all good). Though his time there changed him, marriage is just like a little too far out of character for him. Like said before, Oliver has no choice here, though, and so the story started going.

Being in this marriage is no easier for Oliver than it is for Felicity. Since he has no idea what to do with a wife he doesn’t really care for, Oliver does what he thinks is best – he just avoids her as much as possible. Yet, it’s hard to do that when you are living together. Even the most spacious house doesn’t give the room to avoid each other forever. Besides, when little sparks of getting to know the person you are married to already set your heart on fire a little bit, it’s even harder to resist the temptation. 

Despite the messy situation, Oliver starts seeing things from Felicity’s point of view. He understands that she is just as much an unwilling participant in this as he is. The logical consequence is that he starts making things easier and better for her as much as he can. Well, as much as he thinks he can.

OLICITY

I guess it’s redundant to repeat that Olicity does not have the best starting point in this, but usually that makes the best stories.

The way they are brought together is complicated and easy at the same time. Of course, with the framework conditions of their wedding, they are not supposed to have a happy married life like so many normal people do which does sound complicated. Since they agree on this with the same knowledge of what to expect it’s kind of easy on the other side. They are married, but they don’t live as married people – a lovely marriage on the outside, strangers without feelings on the inside. It’s not that hard, right?

To quote Reddington from Blacklist: “You know what’s the problem with drawing lines in the sands? With a breath of air they disappear.”

It’s destined to happen eventually, so, of course, it does happen. The lines start blurring. Feelings start showing – on both sides luckily.

It does not make it any easier. Oliver and Felicity feel it’s complicated as it is. Hence, they are both playing safe again and again, pretending nothing is going on when the other is around. Fake marriage is complicated as it is after all.

Or in the words of Speed (1994): “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.” “Okay. We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

CONCLUSION

I really, really loved the fic. There can’t be enough stories of Olicity in any universe, but fake marriage is something to become particularly fond of. This story just reminded me on why I love this setup so much. Two people brought together by complicated lives and, against all odds, developing feelings is just something to never get tired of.

I particularly loved how early things were starting to shift, but how hesitant they both were on reacting on it. I also loved the threats that were dropped on this lovely not-so-married-yet-married couple all through the story and the action parts of the last chapters. They kept me on my toes.

It was a great read with an amazing story and wonderful writing!

[potterlivesrp]

sample application.

Below you will find my sample application for Seamus Finnegan (FC: Thomas Doherty)! Thank you for your patience as I got this all together. I do want to make the strong point that the freeform section is absolutely up to you. I mean it when I say you can do whatever you want! I have elected to write a bunch of headcanons because that works for my personal character building process; if you want to do something different, please do! Good luck to everyone who is applying, and if there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to let me know.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/alias: Honey

Age (18+): Twenty three

Preferred pronouns: She/her

Timezone: GMT+11

Life responsibilities: 8/10. In addition to being the admin, I am also a newly minted PhD student (yikes!). Between all the chaos that entails, I am actually quite good at time management, so I am here for the long run! If ever I need to duck away for a few days, I will make a post on the main and the OOC blog just to keep everyone updated.

OUT OF CHARACTER - Q&A

Answer the questions in the application here! No, I won’t give away the answers.

IN CHARACTER - BASICS

Full name: Seamus James Finnegan

Age and date of birth: Twenty years old (December 10th, 1980)

Zodiac sign: Sagittarius

Gryffindors born under this sign are exuberant and full of good humour. They are intelligent, but often do not make the best of students, because they would rather be outside enjoying the fresh air or off studying on their own. They aren’t good at diplomatic silence; if a teacher makes a mistake, the Gryffindor Sag will draw attention to it right away, usually loudly and in front of the entire class. At length. These students can get into trouble - their hot tempers make for easy dueling matches, and their impish senses of humour inspire a great many practical jokes. Still, they rarely mean anything malicious. They’re too jovial to harbour malice. These Gryffindors are likeable extraverts, on good terms with practically everybody, and they generally do all right in the end. Many excellent Quidditch players come from this sign. (Source)

Ex-Hogwarts house: Gryffindor

Gender identity: Cisgender male

Sexual orientation: Homosexual panromantic

Faceclaim: Thomas Doherty (if I were an applicant, I would put three FCs here in order of preference!)

IN CHARACTER - IN DEPTH

PERSONALITY TRAITS

POSITIVE: Generous, curious, idealistic, humorous, energetic, adventuresome, enthusiastic, brave, optimistic, confident, flirtatious.

NEGATIVE: Inconsistent, impatient, upfront, brash, undiplomatic, tactless, disorganized, careless, superficial, gullible.

HEADCANONS

Although he would loudly object otherwise, Seamus is a bit of a country bumpkin. His father was a muggle farmer when he met his mother, who was a field officer for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The way they met was hardly romantic: she was there to investigate an outbreak of grindylows; he was about to call the council about the strange creatures infesting the water supply for his flock of sheep. But in a twist that is now legendary, Mary didn’t tell James about her magic until after they were married. This was hilarious to a young Seamus, who never tired of teasing his parents about their mutual deception. “Didn’t she give anything away?” Seamus would demand, laughing, and his father would grin, “Aye, I did wonder why a woman so beautiful would look my way.” Theirs was a happy home, one full of good humor and light-hearted conversation. Both of Seamus’ parents were Irish: national pride was not so much an aspect of Seamus’ upbringing as a permanent feature. Endlessly curious, Seamus would pour over old family photographs, nose nearly pressed to the unmoving faces of his father’s side, fingers tracing the crinkling smiles of his mother’s ancestors. In many ways Mary and James had parallel families, despite being magical and muggle respectively. They had seen famine and hardship, cruelty and poverty. The Finnegans were working stock, all calloused hands and sun-browned skin. Seamus burst with pride when he thought of his family’s blood and sweat that had seeped into the green fields of An Neidín.

Even in the middle of a war, Seamus knows he will return to Kenmare. His childhood was spent helping out on the farm, flying brooms with his cousin Fergus, and playing tricks on the local muggles. None of this was ever in ill-humor, for Seamus has an especially warm approach to all people. At school it wasn’t uncommon for him to apologize profusely if one of his jokes went a little too far (once he’d stopped laughing fit to burst, of course). One of the most important things in life, he reckons, is laughter. Laughter and good conversation. Indeed, Seamus could talk the hind leg off a donkey. When he was a child, Seamus would often ride his bike into the local muggle village on an errand of some kind – the newspaper for his Da, a bottle of ale for supper – and be found some hours later, engrossed in discussion with the shopkeeper over any manner of topics: animals, weather, farming. Seamus has an open, approachable manner that attracts him to farm-hands, milkmen, beleaguered Ministry workers, bartenders. With a vast and rambling mind, he manages to pick up snippets of information that, although often untrue or exaggerated, do mean he can contribute to essentially any topic in some respect. The degree to which his contribution is useful or even heeded, however, is up for debate.

Seamus has no clue what he wants to do after the war. Survival is his priority, as is anyone’s, in his opinion. For some years, however, he and his cousin Fergus have discussed opening up a whiskey distillery. This idea often surfaces after they have had a few too many whiskeys themselves, although Seamus would be remiss to say he isn’t seriously interested in the idea. He likes to imagine himself as the salesmen, the face of the company, while Fergus can do all the hard work. Fergus, needless to say, refutes this distribution of labor, and usually remarks that of the two of them, anyone would be more willing to look at Fergus’ pretty face than deal with Seamus and all his freckles. These conversations then regress into a tussle, which Seamus rarely wins. Fergus is a slippery little fucker.

The Finnegans are a small clan, and so Fergus is Seamus’ closest and only cousin. His senior by five years, it was Fergus who introduced Seamus to the first of most things. They attended the Quidditch World Cup together (where Seamus got catastrophically drunk – at fourteen, no less – under Fergus’ careful “supervision”); they often met in Diagon Alley for a pint and a game of chess together (Fergus always loses, mainly because he is easily distracted by the barmaid); and they flew brooms together. The last is among Seamus’ most treasured memories. Fergus would say he wanted to be a famous Quidditch player when he grew up. “I’m destined for greatness,” he insisted seriously, “haven’t ye seen me skills? Lad, you’ll be beggin’ for me autograph one o’ these days, just you wait.” Fergus did in fact make the reserve team of the Kenmare Kestrels a couple of years ago. Professional Quidditch, it turns out, is more about training and hoping you stick out enough to be picked for a game than it is about fame and glory. Now that the war has struck, Fergus has returned to Kenmare to stay with Seamus’ mother and father. The Regime has little need for sports at the moment, particularly when they’re too busy murdering muggles. If Seamus writes to anyone, it’s to Fergus, and damn Hermione’s rules about owling out too often. Fergus is his one link to home: without him, how would Seamus know about the new calf, or his mother’s redundancy from the Ministry, or his father staying up late, night after night, smoking his pipe and gazing into the fire? War means more than battles; it means leaving your family behind and hoping beyond hope that they’re missing you less than you miss them. For Seamus, who is so connected to his blood, the Resistance can be a form of torture.

Seamus dresses in muggle clothes more often than not. His parents had a relaxed attitude towards presentation, with his mother foregoing wizarding robes in favor of floral dresses or comfortable slacks, and his father usually slogging through the back door in enormous green wellies, a tweed flat cap crammed over his greying hair. Seamus is all muggle black Levi jeans, tight t-shirts of bands he’s never heard of, flannel overshirts, and a denim jacket littered with magical badges. He’s often found lounging on a sofa, trainer laces trailing, t-shirt rucked up his freckled stomach, a Quidditch magazine glued to his nose. Seamus has perfected the art of claiming a sofa to oneself (this also extends to beds, brick walls, and queues outside clubs). The trick, he reckons, is in looking utterly bored and somewhat post-coital, with half-mast eyes and a ready smirk, should anyone catch his eye. Seamus does have an air of sensuality about him -- and he can be an incorrigible flirt. “I can’t help being a sex god, can I?” he’s asked rhetorically on more than one occasion. In reality, Seamus is less sex god and more sex menace. At school he was often complaining about the regularity of his shags, the quality thereof, and the attractiveness of his partners. Being a part of the Resistance has had the effect of dampening his sex drive, but only slightly. Instead, Seamus channels his frustration into dueling. Blue balls is a very effective battle tactic.

Seamus is actually remarkably ordinary when it comes to magic. He is fair at transfiguration, good at charms, and reasonable at hexes. But it’s his patronus charm that is remarkable without exception. Seamus’ corporeal patronus – and it is always corporeal, make no doubt about that – is a fox. At first he demurred when it was suggested he teach others in the Resistance how to cast a patronus charm. “I’m not that good,” he said uncomfortably, “can’t ye get someone else t’do it?” Seamus isn’t a very good teacher when it comes down to it. He is easily distracted and often goes off on tangents, preferring instead to fall into conversation than to actually direct his student’s magic. This is a shame, because Seamus does have a gift, and it’s certainly lucky that this falls into one of the most difficult areas of magic there is.

His place in the Resistance is unquestioned. Seamus couldn’t bear to be at home, twiddling his thumbs, hoping that someone else was going to save them all from His reign of terror. Part of the reason why he joined the Order for a hot minute was simply all that energy. Seamus, for all his humor and chatterbox nature, is a doer. He needs to be in the fray, to feel useful. The Finnegans never got anywhere without getting their hands dirty, after all, and hard work is something Seamus is used to. His father certainly didn’t allow his only son to lollygag about the farm when there were cows to milk or agricultural fairs to attend. Much of Seamus’ early memories take place in the passenger seat of his father’s truck, bumping along endless green fields, heading towards some distant destination, their border collie panting and bouncing over Seamus’ shoulder. The problem with the Order was that he felt peripheral. Seamus will never kid himself: he knows he’s not a leader. He doesn’t have the charisma, for one, or the attention span. Although he’s definitely gifted at boosting morale and connecting with people, he far prefers a secondary role than being right at the front (this doesn’t stop him soundly criticizing anyone he believes is slacking off, of course). In the Resistance at least there is the feeling that they are working towards something. The Order was all cloaks and daggers: now Seamus is engaged in the gritty everyday of the Resistance’s existence. Someone has to scout out new camping spots, to figure out when they should attack that Death Eater hot zone, to teach people how to cast a patronus. Seamus is happy right in the middle of the action. He needs to feel valued.

For Seamus, the war sounds like late-night laughter, hushed in the blue dark, from people sitting around a bonfire. It’s the smell of a forest at dawn, of the rain-washed clean of another nameless British moor, the cold rush of ocean air whipping over dunes. Unmade beds, dish-washing duty, the organized cacophony of group breakfast. It feels like trudging along another country track, his boots sticking in the mud, Dean bumping into his side as their readjust the straps of their backpacks. The war sounds like the music that thumped out of a muggle club that one time in London; the way it pounded into the close summer air and tangled in Hermione’s sweat-damp hair. It’s that time he and Ron found themselves stuck in an abandoned warehouse for hours, watching a Death Eater do Merlin knew what across the way, until finally she apparated at four in the morning and left them sore, tired, and stupid, snapping at everyone when they arrived back at headquarters before collapsing asleep in bed for twelve hours. It’s the red bruise forming between his fingers from where he holds his wand. The war mainly feels like one anticlimax after another, but it mainly feels like holding a cup of tea on a frosty morning in Devon, sitting outside the flap of the tent and watching the light turn from dust to silver to gold. It feels the way that Dean makes him feel: short of breath, nervous, thrilled with their proximity.

For all his positive qualities, Seamus is a flawed individual. He finds it easy to identity the alleged weak spots of other people and does not hesitate in pointing them out, often loudly at at length, with little regard for other people’s feelings. He can also be quite brusque and even dismissive, believing that he has already considered the consequences and someone else’s opinion is merely a beat too late. In addition to this, his brash nature can cause him to be sloppy, clumsy, and heedless of consequence. Taking responsibility for his actions is something he struggles with constantly. There is a reason Seamus is not put on the trickier missions, when a careful hand and a steady eye are the only ways they can succeed. He is far better in the thick of it, with his spirit burning bright, his spells shooting through the dark like jets of flame. He lacks the finesse that a true spy requires; he does, however, have the mettle of a freedom fighter, and that is his redeeming feature.

One of Seamus’ biggest problems is his ability to jump to conclusions. It’s not an uncommon occurrence for Seamus to forego any logical explanation and simply choose whichever answer is the most salacious, extraordinary, or unbelievable. And somewhere, in the crowded, bright places in his mind, these tales take on a life of their own. At school it meant he was especially susceptible to gossip. More recently, his doubt in Harry Potter exemplifies this. Seamus would never discriminate based on blood status, and that is not the reason he feels uncertain around the prophecy of Potter being the Chosen One. No, he has a problem with the fact that Harry essentially knows nothing about how to fulfill this supposed prophecy. Although a halfblood himself, Seamus did essentially have a magical childhood. His mother imbued their home with magic in all of its ordinary glory: floating teapots, evergreen flowers on the sill, self-refreshing laundry. Seamus is used to the lovely everyday of magic and the wonder it can inspire in even the most mundane of chores. Even his father, in his sentimental moments (which are frequent; the Finnegans are an emotional lot and prone to heated monologues) expresses how strange and empty his old life feels without the touch of his wife’s wand. So how can someone who has never known the poisoned touch of You-Know-Who, who never grew up with stories about his reign of terror -- how can someone like that be expected to save someone like him? Even Seamus’ mother had a rough time during the first war; Seamus has seen her scars. You-Know-Who might have taken everything from Harry -- and that angers Seamus on Harry’s behalf -- but he also doesn’t know about the grim reality of Dark magic. What a word without Light is really like. And that, to Seamus, is difficult to reconcile.

EXTRAS

Seamus’ blog can be found here!

Here is a Pinterest board for him.

This is also where I would link to two writing samples if I were an applicant! They do not have to be IC.

[writeallofthethings]

How to Write Dialogue That Captivates Your Reader

If your writing bores you, it’ll put your reader to sleep.

And unfortunately, your first reader will be an agent or an editor.

Your job is to make every word count—the only way to keep your reader riveted until the end, no small task.

Riveting dialogue is your friend because it can accomplish so many things:

It breaks up narrative summary.

It differentiates characters (through dialect and word choice).

It moves the story, showing without telling.

But writing dialogue well is not easy. If yours is bloated or obvious or telling, readers won’t stay with you long.

How to Write Effective Dialogue in 6 Steps

Cut to the Bone

Reveal Backstory

Reveal Character

Be Subtle

Read Your Dialogue Out Loud

Create a “Make My Day” Moment

Step 1. Cut to the Bone

Unless you’re including them to reveal a character as a brainiac or a blowhard, omit needless words.

Obviously, you wouldn’t render a conversation the way a court transcript includes repetition and even um, ah, uh, etc.

See how much you can chop while virtually communicating the same point. It’s more the way real people talk anyway.

Like this:

“What do you want to do this Sunday? I thought wWe could go to the amusement park.”

“I was thinking about renting a rowboat,” Vladimir said. “On one of the lakes.”

“Oh, Vladimir, that sounds wonderful! I’ve never gone rowing before.”

That doesn’t mean all your dialogue has to be choppy—just cut the dead wood.

You’ll be surprised by how much power it adds.

Step 2. Reveal Backstory

Layering in backstory via dialogue helps keep your reader engaged.

Hinting at some incident introduces a setup that demands a payoff.

As they headed toward the house, Janet whispered, “Can we not bring up Cincinnati?”

Maggie shot her a double take. “Believe me, I don’t want that any more than you do.”

“Good,” Janet said. “I mean—”

“Can we not talk about it, please?”

What normal reader wouldn’t assume they will talk about it and stay with the story until they do?

As the story progresses, reveal more and more about your protagonist’s past.

This both offers setups that should engage your reader, and it allows you to avoid relying on cliched flashbacks.

Step 3. Reveal Character

Your reader learns a lot about your characters through dialogue.

You don’t have to TELL us they’re sarcastic, witty, narcissistic, kind, or anything else.

You can SHOW us by how they interact and by what they say.

Step 4. Be Subtle

Dialogue offers a number of ways to powerfully understate things.

Here are three:

1. Subtext—where people say other than what they mean.

Cindy falls in love with the slightly older boy next door, who sees her as just a little sister type.

When she gets to high school, Tommy is already captain of the football team, dating the head cheerleader, and largely ignoring Cindy.

Tommy leaves for college and word soon gets back to Cindy during her senior year of high school that he and his girlfriend have broken up.

So when he comes home after his freshman year of college and is changing a tire on his car, Cindy just happens to walk outside. She strikes up a conversation with Tommy, and he looks up, stunned. Who is this beauty—little Cindy from next door?

She says, “Making a change, are you?”

Tommy looks at the tire and back at her and says, “Yeah, I actually am making a change.”

Cindy says, “Well, I’ve heard that rotating can be a good thing.”

And he says, “Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”

That’s subtext. They’re not saying what they really mean. They’re not really talking about changing the tire, are they?

2. Sidestepping—when a character responds to a question by ignoring it.

Instead, he offers a whole new perspective.

In the movie Patch Adams, the late Robin Williams played a brilliant young doctor who believes the Old Testament adage that “laughter is the best medicine.”

In the children’s cancer ward he wears an inflated surgical glove on his head, making him look like a rooster. He wears bedpans for shoes and stomps about, flapping his arms and squawking.

The children find it hilarious, but hospital directors consider it undignified and demand he stop.

Patch is trying to make one girl in particular—a hospital volunteer—laugh. But while everyone else thinks he’s funny, she never cracks a smile.

Finally, Patch leaves the hospital to open a clinic in the country. Imagine his surprise when that humorless young lady appears to help him set up.

At one point, she goes outside to rest, so Patch follows and sits opposite her. He says, “I’ve got to ask. Everybody thinks I’m hysterical, but you. I’ve tried everything. Why don’t you ever think anything I say is funny?”

After several seconds, she says, “Men have liked me all my life…all my life…” And we realize by the way she says it, she was abused as a child.

Suddenly, we understand what this girl is all about. She doesn’t trust men, and she doesn’t laugh, because life isn’t funny.

She had not really answered his question. Her problem had nothing to do with him or his humor.

Finally, Patch realizes that some things aren’t funny. Some things you just don’t make fun of.

It’s a great turnaround in the story. And an example of sidestep dialogue.

3. Silence

Silence truly can be golden.

Many, including Abraham Lincoln, have been credited with the line: “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.”

One of the toughest things to learn as a writer is to avoid filling silent gaps.

Just like we shouldn’t tell what’s not happening in a story, neither do we need to write that someone didn’t respond or didn’t answer.

If you don’t say they did, the reader will know they didn’t.

“Well, John,” Linda said, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

John set his jaw and stared out the window.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

He lit a cigarette.

Linda shook her head. “I swear, John, honestly.”

Too many writers feel the need to write here, “But he refused to say anything,” or “But he never responded.”

Don’t! We know, we get it—and it’s loud, effective, silent dialogue.

Saying nothing, John is actually saying everything.

Step 5. Read Your Dialogue Out Loud

One way to be certain your dialogue flows is to read it aloud or even act it out.

Anything that doesn’t sound right won’t read right either, so rewrite it until it does.

Step 6. Create a “Make My Day” Moment

Certain iconic lines of dialogue have become as legendary as the films and books they originate from:

“Frankly my dear…”

“There’s no place like home.”

“We’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“To my big brother George, the richest man in town.”

“What we have here is failure to communicate.”

“Go ahead, make my day.”

“May the force be with you.”

“Houston, we have a problem.”

“Run, Forrest, run!”

“You had me at hello.”

Most writers—even bestselling novelists—never create such an unforgettable line of dialogue. But striving to create one is worth the effort.

Ironically, it should fit so seamlessly it doesn’t draw attention to itself until fans begin quoting it.

How to Format Dialogue

1. Use Dialogue Tags

Attribution tags—he said, she said, etc.—are usually all you need to indicate who’s speaking, so resist the urge to get creative.

Teachers who urge you to find alternatives are usually unpublished and believe agents and editors will be impressed.

Trust me, they won’t be.

Avoid mannerisms of attribution. People say things. They don’t wheeze, gasp, sigh, laugh, grunt, or snort them.

They might do any of those things while saying them, which might be worth mentioning, but the emphasis should be on what is said, and readers just need to know who is saying it.

Keep it simple. All those other descriptors turn the spotlight on an intrusive writer.

Sometimes people whisper or shout or mumble, but let their choice of words indicate they’re grumbling, etc.

If it’s important that they sigh or laugh, separate that action from the dialogue.

Jim sighed. “I can’t take this anymore.”

Not: Jim sighed, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Though you read them in school readers and classic fiction, attribution tags such as replied, retorted, exclaimed, and declared have become clichéd and archaic.

You’ll still see them occasionally, but I suggest avoiding them.

Often no attribution is needed.

Use dialogue tags only when the reader wouldn’t otherwise know who’s speaking.

I once wrote an entire novel, The Last Operative, without attributing a single line of dialogue.

Not a said, an asked, anything.

I made clear through action who was speaking, and not one reader, even my editor, noticed.

Jordan shook his head and sighed. “I’ve had it.”

Another common error is having characters address each other by name too often.

Real people rarely do this, and it often seems planted only to avoid a dialogue tag. Fictional dialogue should sound real.

Don’t start your dialogue attribution tag with said.

…said Joe or …said Mary reads like a children’s book. Substitute he and she for the names and that will make it obvious: …said he or said she just doesn’t sound right.

Rather, end with said for the most natural sound: …Joe said or …Mary said.

Resist the urge to explain, and give the reader credit.

The amateur writer often writes something like this:

“I’m beat,” exclaimed John tiredly.

Besides telling and not showing—violating a cardinal rule of writing—it uses the archaic exclaimed for said, misplaces that before the name rather than after, and adds the redundant tiredly (explaining something that needs no explanation).

The pro would write:

John dropped onto the couch. “I’m beat.”

That shows rather than tells, and the action (dropped onto the couch) tells who’s speaking.

2. How to Punctuate Dialogue

Few things expose a beginner like incorrect punctuation, especially in dialogue.

Agents and editors justifiably wonder if you read dialogue, let alone whether you can write it, if you write something like: “I don’t know.” she said. Or, “What do you think?” He said.

To avoid common mistakes:

When dialogue ends with a question or exclamation mark, the dialogue tag following the quotation marks should be lowercase:  “I’m glad you’re here!” she said.

When one character’s dialogue extends to more than one paragraph, start each subsequent paragraph with a double quotation mark, and place your closing double quotation mark only at the end of the final paragraph.

Place punctuation inside the quotation marks, the dialogue tag outside: “John was just here asking about you,” Bill said.

Put the attribution after the first clause of a compound sentence: “Not tonight,” he said, “not in this weather.”

Action before dialogue requires a separate sentence: Anna shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s gone!”

Quoting within a quote requires single quotation marks: “Lucy, Mom specifically said, ‘Do not cut your bangs,’ and you did it anyway!”

When action or attribution interrupts dialogue, use lowercase as dialogue resumes: “That,” she said, “hurt bad.”

3.  Every New Speaker Requires a New Paragraph

Here’s how I handled a conversation between Brady, one of my lead characters, and his attorney, in my novel Riven:

Ravinia sat shaking her head and telling him all the reasons it would never fly. Rules, regulations, protocol, procedure, no exceptions, and the list went on and on. “I’m not going to pursue this for you, Brady.”

“Yes, you are. I can tell.”

“You can’t tell it by me. Have you been listening? It’s impossible…”

“But you’ll try.”

Ravinia rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Sure you would. You know everything, and you’ve been working inside the system a long time.”

“I’d be laughed out of here,” she said.

“Just tell me you’ll try.”

“Brady, really, be serious. Think this through. Can you imagine the warden going for this? Huh-uh. No way.”

“I like your idea of starting with the warden,” he said.

“I said no such thing.”

“Start at the top; go right to the man.” …

“Brady, don’t ask me to do this.”

“I’m asking.”

Dialogue Examples

If you’re old enough to remember the original Twilight Zone (hosted by Rod Serling) or Dragnet (starring and narrated by Jack Webb), you know how dialogue set the tone for their shows.

Serling was sometimes whimsical, sometimes mysterious, but always provocative. “Consider one middle-aged adult, lost in space and time…”

Jack Webb, as L.A. police detective Sergeant Joe Friday, was always deadly serious and monotone. “Just the facts, ma’am.”

Contrast those with the dialogue between Tom and his Aunt Polly in Tom Sawyer.

“There! I mighta thought of that closet. What you been doing in there?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that truck?”

“I don’t know, aunt.”

“Well, I know. It’s jam—that’s what it is. Forty times I’ve said if you didn’t let that jam alone I’d skin you. Hand me that switch.”

The switch hovered in the air—the peril was desperate—

“My! Look behind you, aunt!”

The old lady whirled round and snatched her skirts out of danger. The lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the highboard fence, and disappeared over it.

Such dialogue sets the tone for the entire story and clearly differentiates characters.

In Huckleberry Finn, Twain delineates between the Southern white boy and Jim, the runaway slave by hinting at their respective accents.

Twain doesn’t need to tell who’s speaking, yet the reader never confuses the two.

“Jim, did y’all ever see a king?”

Y’all is the only word in that sentence that implies a Southern accent, but it’s enough.

“I sho enough did.”

“You liar, Jim. You never seen no king.”

“I seen foh kings in a deck of cards.”

Huck’s grammar and Jim’s sho and foh are the only hints of their dialects.

Too much phonetic spelling would have slowed the reading.

The Cardinal Sin of Dialogue

The last thing you want is to produce on-the-nose dialogue.

Apply to your own work those principles and the tools I’ve outlined here, and I believe you’ll immediately see a huge difference. So will your reader.

[axmrdbahjad-blog]

The Roadmap To Wealth

First thing First - Where Am I?

“Unexamined life is not worth living.” — Socrates.

I cannot go forward until I am honest with myself. Primarily, I must know where I am. I am working for a company. Like millions of people, I went to university and then hoping I’d work and earn decent wages. It turned out that was a big mistake. University does not guarantee financial independence. One will be an educated servant. And to be frank, I’m one of those who despise working for companies, governments or organisations. Instead, I love working for myself by providing service and products to companies, organisations and maybe governments. Still, there is no security for being an employee. People are made redundant. Some found their true calling after life pushed them around. Surely you’ve heard of the saying that necessity is the mother of invention. Before it’s too late I want to get out of being employee scenario. The future of the culture is uncertain. Think about the economic and political crisis. Brexit is a good proof that the Western politics and economy is in a bad shape. In addition to that, thousands of jobs are going away and they won’t come back. The living expenses are on the rise while the salaries are stagnant.

“In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.” — Sun Tzu.

If I want to be wealth, I must do things differently. So, I have decided to write a roadmap for my way to be financially independent. These are seven simple steps I must walk in that effort. This concise book with the seven simple steps is my road to accumulate wealth. The book could have extended 200 pages I shortened it for the sake of simplicity and clarity.

Chapter 1 — Know Yourself Well

“Know yourself Ill, know others and victory is certain.” — Sun Tzu.

There is one area I will be looking at in this segment; namely, character.

Character Traits

Faith — I have to work on my faith of the future. Strength — I have been learning how to deal with disappointments and challenges. I’m getting better than three years ago. Selfless — I must put other people before myself. Service — I must provide service and go the extra mile. Acceptance — I must be comfortable with the things I cannot change and change the ones I can. Courage — I must have the courage to change the things in myself and community. Concentration — the single important quality of an excellent mind is the ability to concentrate and shut out all else. Diligence — work is vital for the human mind and body. Work smartly. After all, hard doesn't bring wealth. Love — loving is good. Morality — I’m conservative in many ways when it comes to Detachment — I must do the work and focus on the process rather than the results. Patience — if I have done my work diligently, I must have the ability to wait the result. Perseverance — If I start something, I must complete without discouragement. Purity — cleanliness is everything. I must take care of my clothes, shoes, beddings and so on. Self-Restraint — the ability to uphold myself from going out while everyone is going out, to drink alcohol, sodas and smoke cigarettes and overeating foods. Sincerity — I must be sincere even when I’m wrong. Truthfulness — truth over everything is the best quality to have.

Character traits I must avoid

Conceit — narcissism and excessive self-loving is bad idea for the long run. Criticism — I used to criticise policies and bad behaviours. I don't do criticism. It is a waste of time. Jealousy — this is a disease and it kills the jealous person sooner or later. Laziness — it is another human disease. Whenever I think about taking action and I think about the weather or the long hours that thing may take, I do it anyway. Partiality — half hearted is not the good way of doing work. Want of Fame — doing something for the sake of being famous is narcissism. I leave that for Obama and Trump and other ambitious folks. Want of Sympathy — Talking about my challenges is not the right to solve them. I avoid to receive sympathy.

Self-Inventory

I usually talk to strangers. And thus connect with them easily. Therefore, my personality suits customer service provider. I’m good at communicating with people. Essentially, I get along with people from different walks of life because I know what to say and not say in human relations. Therefore, I am a good salesperson. I know what people want. And I know how to provide their needs well. According to Napoleon Hill, there are 25 ways to develop a pleasing personality:

1 Positive Mental Attitude- The right mental attitude in any given situation. The most important aspect of a Attractive Personality. Symbolised by Faith, integrity, hope, optimism, courage, initiative, generosity, tolerance, kindliness, tact, and common sense. 2 Flexibility- Being able to adapt yourself to changing circumstances. 3 Sincerity of Purpose- Insincerity is evident on your expressions. 4 Promptness of Decision- Messing around doesn't create popularity. 5 Courtesy- Respect other peoples feelings. 6 Tact- Doing and saying the right things at the right moments. 7 Tone of Voice- Control your tone of voice so it creates meaning. 8 Habit of Smiling- Smile when your angry. 9 Facial Expressions- You can tell whats going on with a person by their expressions. 10 Tolerance- Being fair toward all opinions. 11 Frankness of Speech and Manner- Be honest and tell the truth. 12 A Sense of Humour- Allows you and others to relax. 13 Faith in Intelligence- Faith is the essence of all great achievement. 14 The Appropriate use of words- Careful and attentive effort. 15 Effective Speech- You will become a powerful communicator. 16 Emotional Control- Much of what we do is directed by our feelings. 17 Alertness of Interest- Show the people you interact with that you interested. 18 Versatility- Know what your talking about or don’t say anything. 19 Fondness for People- Like others, and you will be liked in return. 20 Humility- Do not brag 21 Effective Showmanship- Let others know they are doing great. 22 Clean Sportsmanship- Lose without complaining. 23 A good handshake- A firm and friendly handshake. 24 Personal Magnetism- Feel good about yourself. 25 A keen Sense of Justice- You cannot deal justly with others if your not just with yourself.

Chapter 2 — Know Others Well

“Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win” ― Sun Tzu.

It is always good to treat people with respect even if they are unkind to me. It is not about them! Every situation reveals my character in a nutshell. If a person swears or being rude to me and I react to his/her action, then I’m not mature enough to handle my life. There are three essentials for communication: 1 I must know when to initiate a conversation and when to stop. 2 I must know how to deal with both rude and kind people. 3 I must know how to talk with powerful and powerless. I used to be a debater at university and college. Moreover, I’d argue with people at teashops, bus stops and workplace. I realised (that) the people didn't want to accept evidence or acts, they just wanted to debate for the sake of being right even they ere wrong. I do not debate with people unless I know the other person is open to new evidence. Why? I learnt from wise people not to waste your time with trifle arguments. If I know people well, it will enable me to provide what they need. Overall, it will make easy to communicate with them.

Chapter 3 — Build Strong Community Businesses

"I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live." — George Bernard Shaw.

“I cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibres connect us with our fellow men.” – Herman Melville.

“If you want to go quickly, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” – African Proverb.

I believe that the day the government ruled is coming to an end. And community is replacing its place. Community is more humane. It is about caring and sharing. It is about love. It’s putting people before money. It is about taking care of the elderly and the weakest in our midst. It is about give and take.

Start Small Businesses - Multiple Sources of Income.

“Great results, can be achieved with small forces.” ― Sun Tzu.

I sat down and jot down some of the things my community needs. So I can provide some of these demands. People need a teacher, especially the adults even though they do not know it. The young adults need assistance of their homework. Thus, I can be a tutor. I can supply their fruits and bread and milk. I can make a deal with a farmer and supply these needs to the community. I can clean houses of careerists who don't have time for their own backyards. I can sell clothes on the street and online. I can massage health lovers. I can cook healthy homemade food. And start street food. These are some of the demands came to mind. There could be more business ideas if I do not stop there. For now, these are enough to keep me busy and strategise. Therefore, I will provide three of these needs.

Chapter 4 — Resisting the Temptation

“Your heart knows the way. Run in that direction.” —Rumi.

“The King is the man who can.”

—Carlyle.

“All the world cries, Where is the man who will save us? We want a man! Don't look so far for this man. You have him at hand. This man—it is you, it is I; it is each one of us!... How to constitute one's self a man? Nothing harder, if one knows not how to will it; nothing easier, if one wills it.” —Alexander Dumas.

It is time to do the right thing and preserve my individuality in a culture which abhors independent minds. It is time to have the courage to say” “No,” while all the world say: “Yes.”

Chapter 5 — Where Is My Market?

“Opportunities? They am all around us ... There is power lying latent everywhere waiting for the observant eye to discover it.” ― Orison Swett Marden.

“Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand.” —Thomas Carlyle.

“I will either find a way, or make one.” — Hannibal Barca.

“You see, but you do not observe.” —Sherlock Holmes.

Opportunities are everywhere. I can clean the wealth people’s houses, do massage, become nannie, tutor, and salesperson. I can improve existing services and products. I create new services and products. How about producing personal helicopters? So people can skip the traffic jam! How about becoming a playwright and screenwriter? I can describe the mundane of every day life. And find the good things about living in a life of routine. Opportunities are what I want. If I don't know what I want, then I can provide what others want.

Chapter 6 — Share My Experiences

“Learn From Yesterday, Live for Today, hope for tomorrow.” ― Orison Swett Marden.

It’s been said that we remember what write down. We better remember what we teach. There is no better way to learn than teaching the little one already knows. Moreover, it is a good way to share one’s experience and knowledge. These are three ways I share what I’m doing or know: I blog my unfinished or finished work; I tweet quotations of my books; and email some people in my list. I also take action by going guerrilla marketing on the streets of the city I’m in. For example, I have a little stall and give free advice about marketing, business ideas, health and creative writing. It is a good way to let others know you are still around. More importantly, it is rewarding to help folks. After all, sharing is caring.

Chapter 7 — Daily Learning

“The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear.” — Antonio Gramsci.

There are 7 ways I can engage in daily learning. The first way to learn is to listen to good books, conversation and stories daily. Second, it is to read beneficial books. Third, it is apprenticeship ourselves. I must do things I want to get better at it daily. Fourth, attending seminars and workshop is essential. Fifth, draw and write what you experienced. Sixth, I must be part of a learning group. Seventh, I must write a diary to monitor my activities and what I want to learn. Learn three things above anything else: Religion, moneymaking and health lifestyle. Niebuhr said that religion is good people and bad for bad people. Religion is good for the soul. It’s our duty to praise our Creator. Learn and master the art of selling. It is the best way to accumulate wealth. Learn something new every day. Summing up, I have identified seven steps to becoming wealth. They are simple and short to understand them. Having said that, they are hard to follow in times like these. We have so much distractions—smartphones, television, news, soup operas and political shows. After self-inventorying myself, I realise it is not so much about what I do should. Rather, it is what I don't do, for example, getting  rid of bad habits; checking my smartphone, emails, socialising with people I cannot learn something new and going out. In addition to that, I have stopped spending money on designer clothes, holidays, tea, coffee, bus and toothpaste. By the way, I use Somali tooth stick. It’s healthier and cheaper. I have to add that bit just in case some of you interpret it I’m no longer into oral hygiene.

In Conclusion

Lovely readers, You are reading this because you want to change your current lifestyle or inquisitive to know what is out there. If you have learnt something new or motivated by this concise book, you must share it with someone you care about. Sharing is caring. Thank you and I wish you every success! Axmed Bahjad, the author.

[thefabulousfulcrum]

You Are Not a Rebel

via The Baffler

by Laurie Penny

IN REAL LIFE, nobody has the decency to realize that they’re the bad guy until it’s too late. The worst thing about the historical record is that it is usually written after the fact. Just think, if we could only get our hands on advance copies of tomorrow’s historical bestsellers, we could work out once and for all how we fit into this cruel and anxious age we’re living through, and get a sneak peek at the ending to see who ends up dead, decked out with medals, or living incognito in South America. Sadly, that would hardly help those of us who are most dangerously confused. The people who most urgently need to consider which side of the moral ledger their story will be written on tend to read few books in which they are not the hero.

It’s hard realizing that you’re the bad guy, because then you have to do something about it. That’s why the most aggressive players on the gory stage of political melodrama act in such bad faith, hanging on to their own sense of persecution, mouthing the plagiarized playbook of an oppression they don’t comprehend because they don’t care to. These people have a way of fumbling through their self-set roles till the bloody final act, but if we can flip the script, we might yet stop the show.

Let us remember, then, that in the violent psychodrama going on in their own minds, modern reactionaries, almost to a man, think that they are the hero. They think they’re the plucky underdog. They continue to think this even with their tiny-fingered mascot bellowing over the White House lawns and their agenda ascendant around the world, and I know, I know it makes no sense. But dogma doesn’t have to. And one of the articles of faith uniting all our modern proto-fascists, crypto-fascists, baby-fascists, whining 4chan fascists, and the growing number of fascists for whom any sort of prefix is redundant is that they all think they are rebels. 

The new far right has recognized the enduring appeal of adventurism and appropriated its rhetoric for reactionary ends.  Propaganda hubs like The Rebel repackage far right ideas as edgy and avant-garde, reassuring recruits that they are hip outsiders in a mass of squares and normies. This is a time-worn trick. As George Orwell observed in a review of Mein Kampf, “whereas Socialism, and even capitalism in a grudging way, have said to people ‘I offer you a good time,’ Hitler has said to them ‘I offer you struggle, danger, and death,’ and as a result a whole nation flings itself at his feet.” 

This is what happens when we fetishize the romance of rebellion while making actual social change impossible.

Fighting for people who are less privileged than you to become even less privileged than you is hardly a revolutionary mission. CEOs do it all the time. Last year I was interviewed for a Vicedocumentary about the relationship between Gamergate and the new far right. I remember that to get the shot at the right level, I had to half-sit and half-stand on a fancy sideboard. While I was engaging my core muscles trying to balance, the affable hipster doing the interview asked, “But aren’t the guys a bit underground? Aren’t they a bit counter-culture?” I was so flabbergasted that I fell off my perch. Yes, I told him, they are underground, a bit. But even Vice magazine, which is woke enough as long as woke sells ads—another Viceeditor told me authoritatively a few years ago that “it’s not cool to be stupid anymore”—even they can surely see that simply being “underground” does not make something fit to dredge up. A lot of things run underground that would be better off staying there. Sewers, for instance.

This is what happens when we equate “anti-social” with “anti-establishment.” The far right think they’re the resistance. They think they’re Mel Gibson in Braveheart, when they’re actually just regular old Mel Gibson, screaming about bitches and whores and Jews and then wondering why no one answers their phone calls anymore. Well played, Rob Roy. 

The Shitler Youth come in many flavors of plausible deniability, but none are quite so woefully iconic as everyone’s favorite ship of fools: the fake pirates of Defend Europe. 

In case you hadn’t heard, a few months ago some white supremacists decided that the rescue boats trying to save desperate people from drowning in the Mediterranean were a threat to “European” way of life. (I will not dignify them with the term “activists,” because activists have meetings and have read things that aren’t spittle-flecked sexually paranoid internet retro-rants about white people being bred out of existence.) They decided to solve the problem by pursuing a merry life of adventure on the high seas. No, really. These rudderless twits went ahead and chartered a boat, with the initial, unabashedly evil intention of impeding the rescue ships, a plan which was quickly changed to “monitoring” said ships, as apparently nobody had any idea how to do actual sea battle, because whatever the copyright people told us, downloading a lot of free porn does not, by itself, make you a pirate.

They got a lot of press, of course, which was part of the idea—there’s no point being a rebel if you can’t get your picture in the paper. They even got Katie Hopkins, Britain’s own dollar-store Eva Braun, to come along for part of the ride, presumably as some sort of totem against shipwreck, because any self-respecting god of the ocean would spit Hopkins right back out again. Deliciously, before they had even managed to embark on their main voyage, they accidentally smuggled twenty-one Sri Lankan asylum seekers into Europe. Then their boat stalled in the middle of the Mediterranean sea. The founder of the Sea-Eye, the NGO ship that was sent to offer aid—the pouting stalwarts refused help—told the public that “to help a ship in distress is the duty of anyone who is at sea, without distinction to their origin, color, religion, or beliefs.” Hopefully the Sea-Eye was also stocked with burn cream.[*] 

The very worst part about this entire episode is that an actual rescue ship was diverted to help these cretins, a rescue ship that could have been saving people who are really fleeing for their lives, rather than simply fleeing reality. I’m not going to permit myself to wish the baby-fascists had fucking drowned, but I do hope the stalled vessel gave these quisling Quixotes time to check out their own reflection in the surface of the sea and wonder whether being “underground” was quite so much fun anymore. I also hope that when they make the movie of this, every single one of them is played by Nicolas Cage in a variety of unconvincing wigs.

Claiming that anti-fascists are morally equivalent to fascists is a little like claiming that, as both take a toll on the body, cancer and chemotherapy are basically the same.

In the United States, radicalized extremists on the far right are also due for a rebrand, having been embarrassed on the international stage in Charlottesville by fellow travelers who took the street-fighting-Nazi live-action roleplay too far, marched around screaming about being replaced by Jews, and murdered someone. The Shitler Youth are now going through desperate conniptions trying to claim that anti-fascists are morally equivalent to fascists, that “all sides” are aggressive and forthright, which is a little like claiming that, as both take a toll on the body, cancer and chemotherapy are basically the same.

Shit got real, eh? One minute you’re a nice normal boy with hobbies and internet friends, and the next, your picture’s all over the place holding a torch and doing the Nuremberg uglyface and your parents won’t talk to you because everyone thinks you’re a militant racist, and they’re right. If I may talk directly to these self-deluding subterraneans: I’m sorry to be the one to point this out, but you have been radicalized. There’s a reason people call you Vanilla ISIS. ISIS think they’re rebels, too. Have a good hard look at these Defend Europe twits with their rickety armada. These are your people. They’re your compadres. You are paddling beside them in the shallow end of political discourse, screaming when anything living nibbles your toes. 

This is what happens when we fetishize the romance of rebellion while making actual social change impossible. My guess is that the ruling class, the people whose agenda these people’s mean-spirited credulity serves, aren’t standing about with flaming torches screaming that they’re about to be replaced by Jews. They don’t spend their time harassing girls on the internet. They outsource that shit. To suckers. For free. Meanwhile, the ruling class is just writing the speeches and jerking the strings and watching gullible, self-anointed rebels make fools of themselves on television.

These are the very people whose names the Shitler Youth wear on their unbelievably ugly hats and t-shirts, which incidentally is exactly what happens when you let straight white guys who consider gold a neutral design your neo-fascist aesthetic. The one problem with calling these faux-rebels Nazis is that it suggests they know how to goddamned get dressed in the morning. The left are out-styling them as well as out-thinking them right now. The left! Some of us wear hemp! And t-shirts with weak science puns! And we let our flatmates cut our hair! And we spend half our time fighting each other over tiny ideological debates that started before we were born, and they still make us look good. They make us look good because they’ve swallowed the fake oppression story cooked up by propagandists on the right to recast their most reactionary opinions as risqué. 

So let’s be clear: getting fired because you hate women is not an equivalent hardship to getting fired because you happen to be one. People who have been disowned by their parents for being gay or transgender aren’t going to have sympathy when your mum and dad find your stash of homophobic murder fantasies and change the locks. Getting attacked for being a racist is not the same as getting attacked because you are black. The definition of oppression is not “failure to see your disgusting opinions about the relative human value of other living breathing people reflected in society at large.” Being shamed, including in public, for holding intolerant, bigoted opinions is not an infringement of your free speech. You are not fighting oppression. You are, at best, fighting criticism. If that’s the hill you really want to die on, fine, but don’t kid yourself it’s the moral high ground. I repeat: You cannot be a rebel for the status quo. It would be physically easier to go and fuck yourself, and I suggest you try.

The fact that some people—the women, people of color, immigrants and queer people you want put back in their proper place—disapprove of you does not make you edgy. A bag of cotton wool is edgier than you lot. Fighting for things to go back to the way they were twenty or thirty or fifty years ago does not constitute a bold resistance movement. It constitutes the militant arm of the Daily Mail comments section. Fighting real oppression involves risk, and before you start, I’m talking about real risk, not some girl on the internet calling you a cowardly subliterate waste of human skin, like I just did.  

This was gig-economy bigotry from the beginning, every bedroom hatemonger his own self-facilitating media node.

Of course, the fragile self-image of American nationalism has always been grounded in the idea of rebellion, in an aesthetic of protest and struggle for individual liberty powdering over the ugly worship of authoritarianism andhierarchy that was also baked in from the beginning. The United States has never truly stopped fighting its civil war, but the tropes and language of that war have been re-appropriated by net reactionaries in an effort to dress up their racism as rebellion, which by coincidence was part of what the war was about in the first place. That’s why there’s such attachment to the confederate or “rebel” flag among conservatives, even in states which fought for the Union; even in states which did not exist at the time. And this investment in maintaining a state of permanent rebellion is why net reactionaries have no idea what to do now they’re technically in power, like the confused golden retriever who finally catches that Ford Focus, except far less fluffy. 

Mewling subluminaries have, for years, approached backyard fascism as a growth industry—why stop now? These enterprising intellectual bantamweights did not wait for the mechanisms of state and party to show them how to goose-step or gather seed money—this was gig-economy bigotry from the beginning, every bedroom hatemonger his own self-facilitating media node, like a sort of fascist Nathan Barley. The millennials among them have merely done what the television told us all to do as kids: find your passion and make it your career. It’s just a shame that their passion happens to be the creation of a white ethnostate with a stack of sexually frustrated video rants as a transitional demand.

So propping up the establishment does not sit well with their sense of themselves as brave, entrepreneurial outsiders battling the forces of something-or-other. Perhaps it feels strange to be told you have won when nothing in your own actual, material life has changed. Perhaps winning didn’t taste as good as the picture on the package. They were promised thrills and spills and danger and adventure and instead they’re on the haunted teacup ride through the wreckage of civil society and they’re feeling a bit sick but they’ve given the man their money, so they can’t get off.

And in any case this is not the sort of game you just win or lose. Politics doesn’t work like that, although in fairness, the sense that it does is one of several delusions they share with the political elites they claim to despise. Playing by those rules is a great way to make sure that the house always wins. What’s changed in the world in the months since their team supposedly won? The rich are still running things, they’re just a lot less shy about it. Living standards have gone nowhere but down. The planet is still sizzling towards climate collapse, and I know they think that’s not real, but you don’t have to believe in a train to get run down by it with everyone you care about while you stand in the middle of the tracks screaming about cucks and Jews like a prize prick.

One major thing, however, has changed, and that is that an awful lot of people who happen to be foreign, or female, or members of a different race or faith from these fools are suddenly living in fear of violence, violence the Shitler Youth and their crewmates helped whip up to make themselves feel like big damn heroes. Because they wanted to feel like they were fighting the power without actually having to challenge anyone who had it.

If you’ve a niggling suspicion I might be talking about you here, it’s time to take a look at your own reflection in whatever screen you’re reading off. If you want to cosplay as a revolutionary from a made-up time before brown people and liberated women existed, go and drink mead at a Ren fair like a normal person. If you just want to be famous on the internet, go and make some porn. If you can’t get over your fetish for fake oppression, go and hang out in a club where people wear expensive black rubber and get yourself consensually flogged by someone with legitimate rage to work through. But don’t call yourself a revolutionary just because you can’t stop running in circles.

[*]  Correction: A previous version of this article incorrectly suggested that the crew of the Defend Europe vessel had been rescued by the Sea-Eye. Although the Sea-Eye was temporarily diverted to travel toward the Defend Europe boat and offer aid, the latter crew refused help and the rescue ship carried on its operations. The fascists’ boat later restarted.

[lonepiper5758]

Valve

AN - Wanted to try and write a bit of Team Mustang with a dash of Royai.

“Damn it,” said Fuery as he slammed down the telephone.

It was late morning on an average day and everyone was about some task in the office.  Falman was filing documents.  Breda and Havoc were completing various operational reports. Hawkeye was preparing documents that required the Colonel’s signature. And the Colonel was sleeping.

They all looked up, startled at Fuery’s outburst. It was unusual to see the normally affable young man this upset.

All except the Colonel.  He stayed reclined in his chair, feet on his desk and eyes closed.

“What’s up?” asked Falman as he closed the filing cabinet.

“I’m sorry,” Fuery replied. “I shouldn’t get this angry over a stupid valve,” he said as he held up a small vacuum tube.

Everyone knew how Fuery loved to tinker and get things working.  He was never happier than when he was fixing something or improving the performance of a device. So it was no surprise that his frustration was linked to some equipment that he was trying to repair.

Breda leant over to get a closer look at the valve.  “That’s an odd one,” he said as he looked at the small glass tube in Fuery’s hand.  “What’s the problem? Can’t you get another one?”

“No.” said Fuery.  “It’s no big deal really. I shouldn’t get this upset.  But this is from an old transceiver I’ve had since I was a kid and I was really hoping to get it working again.”  He handed the valve over to Breda.  “Problem is,” Fuery continued, “this stye of valve is redundant.  No one makes them anymore, and the new ones won’t fit.”

Breda inspected the valve for a few moments, then handed it back. “You could modify the casing of the transceiver, couldn’t you?  Make up some kind of adaptor to fit a new one?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, I could, but I really like this old transceiver, it just looks nice and I don't want to screw around with it, ya know,” replied Fuery as he looked wistfully at the faulty valve.

No one else in the office could see intrinsic beauty in a radio, but they understood that Fuery could, and they respected his frustration at not being able to repair the transceiver the way he wanted to.

Falman walked over from the filing cabinet. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.  “Looks OK to me.”

Fuery held up the tube, slightly smaller than his thumb, and pointed to something within.

“Nah, see in there,” he said. “The filament’s gone. It’s useless.”  And with that Fuery dropped the valve into his waste paper bin.

Falman nodded, not really seeing the problem, but trusting the younger man’s judgment that a problem existed.

Havoc stood up from his desk, walked over to Fuery, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said, “Well, seems like a good time to commiserate at the cafeteria and get some lunch.  Come on Fuery, I’ll buy you a sandwich for your woes.”

“I’m in.” said Breda as he pushed back his chair and stood up. “Anybody else, Lieutenant, Colonel?”

Lieutenant Hawkeye, who had been quietly watching the exchange from her desk said, “Not for me thanks. Though I’d be grateful if you’d bring me back a coffee.”

“Sure,” said Breda. “Do you want anything Colonel?”

Colonel Mustang hadn’t moved the whole time, and remained reclined in his chair.

“The Colonel’s unlikely to want anything,” answered Hawkeye.  He has to attend a function soon in the Officer’s Mess and I doubt he’d want to spoil his appetite.”

Havoc laid his hands on Fuery’s shoulders and steered the young man, who was obviously still despondent about the valve, away from his desk and with Breda and Falman left the office for lunch.

The door sounded shut with a solid clunk.

Mustang seemed the picture of repose, slumped back into the reclining chair. Hawkeye looked at him and said, “Sir, if you’re finished with pretending to sleep you could get these documents signed before you have to go.”

There was no immediate response from Mustang as Hawkeye sat there watching him.

Slowly Mustang opened an eye and surveyed the office.  Confirming that he and Hawkeye were the only ones left he sat up.

“Why does no one even think to ask?” he said.

“Sorry Sir?” replied Hawkeye somewhat puzzled by his question.

“Alchemist. State qualified. Capable of transmuting matter. Sitting in the same room and no one even thinks to ask,” he muttered as he got up and went to Fuery’s waste paper bin.

Hawkeye leant back in her chair and watched him.

“Well in their defence, they did think you were sleeping.” she replied.

Mustang retrieved the damaged valve from the bin and sighed.  “Just sometimes feels like ‘Want something blown up, ask the Colonel. Want something fixed?’ Yeah, nothing. I sometimes wish that my subordinates at least would think to ask.”

Mustang walked slowly back to his desk and held the valve up to the light, inspecting it closely.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, either to himself or the valve. Then he sat down and took several sheets of paper from his draw.

He started writing, scribbled a few things out, looked at the valve again. For the next few minutes Mustang wrote and sketched on various sheets of papers, his mood evidently lifting as he did so. He wrote some more, then leant back with his eyes closed for a few minutes.

Hawkeye was fully aware of the Colonel’s intention, but couldn’t resist the opportunity to gently tease him. “Colonel, are you feeling alright? she queried. “You don’t usually start office work so early”

Mustang smiled at her and with an unnecessary flourish, pushed aside all the papers and desk paraphernalia that was in front of him. “Ah but today Lieutenant, office work isn’t paper work.”

With that he sat back and took a fresh piece of paper, laid it on his desk and started to draw.

Hawkeye stood up and walked over to Mustang’s desk.  She watched as he skilfully drew a detailed and delicate transmutation circle on the paper. Hawkeye wasn’t always sure why, but it made her feel good to see Mustang draw an array.  When he had finished he placed the damaged valve in the centre of it.

“Alchemist, be thou for the Team.” she said with a smile.  

“Well, why not?” Mustang replied.  “Alchemy isn’t about doing things the easy way, and Fuery isn’t asking to do it the easy way. He’s trying to fix a thing properly, like he always does. If he can’t get the part any other way, then I think it’s alright for alchemy to help.”

Mustang placed his hands down on the table and activated the array.  It glowed, much like a valve, then went dark. He then picked up the glass tube and inspected it closely.  The filament was intact and the valve as good as new.

Mustang’s eyes twinkled as he found an envelope and went to the typewriter on Havoc’s desk.  Much to Hawkeye’s surprise he deftly wound the envelope into the typewriter and addressed it to Master Sargent Kain Fuery.  Then he sealed up the valve and placed the envelope on Fuery’s desk.

“Is there any explanation to go with that?” asked Hawkeye.

“No,” said Mustang as he stretched and then shuffled his hands through his hair as though that would make it look groomed. He headed for the door, ” Let’s just see if they ask for one.”