#like fuck. i work for the disability department of an insurance company

[gay-fordeath]

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[tepid-tea]

LIFE UPDATE!!!

Yes here we are, a life update. I don’t know if there are many of you who read these but I like to post these here to get shit off my chest. No one in my day to day follow me here  (If you do, I’m SO Fucking sorry LOL turn away while you can my tumblr is not meant for you guys) so I feel okay with posting here.  So for a recap, I have been battling my extended medical company since before Christmas of last year. They did not want to approve my paid short term leave claim due to mental health issues.... I mean my first rep was like “ Yeah I acknowledge that you are struggling but I don’t think it should be our problem, go make a workers comp claim” and declined it. I appealed it and it’s been taking so long that I had to go back to work before I even felt ready because I had burned through nearly all of my savings. Luckily my family has been super supportive so I was able to eat at their house and use nearly all of my money for utilities, bills and rent ( though my mom covered my rent one month without telling me and I cried extensively over it feeling like a failure when I found out). The health insurance people just made it feel like since I wasn’t physically harming myself yet that my issues were somehow not real or important. 

So after several Doctor evaluations, phone interviews with Appeals ( different department than the first one), evals from mental health support groups, medication trials and such I finally got my answer on Thursday. 

They Approved my Appeal! 

They appologized over how long it took to get approved and over how awful the first person I spoke too was.  They’re approving short term as well as Long term disability which means under the same claim I could in theory go back off work. I could focus on getting a therapist near by and try to get myself feeling back together.... to maybe feel less like I’m being held together by string and old glue. To address my depression and low moods along with getting a better handle on my anxiety which is fucking RAMPENT. 

I just have to talk with my new Case worker and HR (which their assholeary is a whole other fucking post in itself) to get my owed money sorted out (which is looking like roughly 4 months worth of back pay) then seeing if I can get off again. If I can’t go on long term leave then I’ll probably close the file and Quit my job since I can’t deal with it anymore. Since I’ve been back its awful.... I’ve been burning through my vacation and sick days because I just can’t handle it. 

Regardless though, its been an awful experience over all and now we’re seeing the end. Maybe I can finally catch a breath and a break.

[fuck-customers]

Fuck my old company basically

TW for homophobia/transphobia, I don’t know for sure if what I’m going to mention will be considered either of those, but I want to make sure just in case

Gotta give some background first: I used to work for a big lab company, lets call it West Diagnostics, for two and a half years. I wasn’t super special, just a specimen tech, and I basically helped make sure the doctor’s test orders were input correctly and that the patient samples matched with what was needed. There were about 150 of us total I think, and that was just for our department during night shift. The lab itself had a bunch more departments and employees, but that’s not super important. But most of these people are very cliquey and treat you differently if you don’t fit in with them in any way, and they all get away with whatever they want while the rest of us who are more like outsiders would constantly be reprimanded for not “following the rules”. For example, there weren’t any explicit rules about not talking quietly to those sitting next to you during work as long as you got shit done, and all of the people who fit in with the clique and the managers/supervisors would be extremely loud all night and barely meet their quotas for what their production should be, but if myself or my friends were talking at all we would get told we weren’t allowed to talk during work and that we needed to focus on what we were doing, even though our production never slipped (and if I may brag for a second, my production was typically in the top 3 for how much I could get done in a single night, consistently for the entire time I worked there, so talking didn’t have any negative affects on me whatsoever).

This company also fired me under wrongful termination. I told them when I was hired that I sometimes got gout attacks, and usually I would still hobble in to work even though I was in agony and could barely walk, but on a few occasions the attacks were so horrible that I had to go to the ER, and then had to call out for a few days per doctor orders. My managers refused to look at my doctor notes, saying I had to file a claim through the third party insurance company and get my medical leave time approved through them for it to be taken off my record and not seen as an absence. I did that but the third party denied my claim anyway, even with the proof I’d literally been in the hospital. These happened three times over the course of a year, and even when I tried to get FMLA paperwork through my doctor to show that I had medical needs in which I might have to call off here and there, they still denied my claims and wouldn’t take the first-hand documents, so I ended up getting fired on “attendance issues” even though I had a disability and a medical reason for not showing up to work during those times. They fired me two days before the Christmas party, and they said that my friend, who had offered to pay for my ticket so I could go with her while I was still working there, didn’t put any money in for me, so I couldn’t even go to the party to say goodbye to my other friends.

In summary: I hate this place and almost everyone who works there. Most of them treated me like shit anyway, even though I did more work than them. They made it clear I wasn’t part of the clique, and neither were my other friends, and they shut us out of pretty much everything and made us feel very awkward.

Anyway, the first year and a half I’d been there is when they started doing Christmas parties, so I was able to go to that one. It was at a really nice place with a big banquet hall and everyone dressed up really fancy, but things got really weird when they started playing sexually suggestive games (male employees held a large cucumber between their legs to mime an erect penis and then female employees would walk in a circle around them while music played, and when the music would stop they’d have to grab a guy’s cucumber to move on to the next round; think musical chairs but with more sexual harassment), and there were even small children there, since people could bring their families. It was just plain inappropriate.

Fast forward to now. I still have a few friends from there that I’m connected with on Facebook, and one of them was tagged in pictures from this year’s Christmas party. It was in another nice banquet hall and things looked nice, right up until everyone collectively decided that it was totally okay and appropriate for the male employees to have a drag contest as entertainment. I’m not kidding when I say that all of the guys did it, and there are even pictures of their girlfriends/wives/other female friends doing their makeup and helping them put on dresses in the middle of the dining hall.

Now I have no problem with people who like to wear drag if they want to, but what I do have a problem with is putting it on display like this, at a company party, as if it’s all a huge joke they can laugh about. I’m sure they weren’t doing it for any of the wrong reasons and were just stupid. But still, what if someone at the party were transgender? What if someone were queer and used dressing in drag as a way to express themselves and their label? To make a joke out of something people do to express their identities is rude, to say the least, and also not appropriate for a company party! The managers and supervisors were there! Everyone’s families were there! Who thought that was okay??!!

Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing, especially after all the shit I went through at that company and what happened to me, but the whole thing just doesn’t sit right. There are so many other activities they could do that would have been way less embarrassing.

[hpsamantha]

Rogue Avengers: Pt. 4

Adult Stuff

Word Count: 4925

Backstory: Y/N joined the 'New Avengers' as the superhero Tidal (OC) when she was 14 and a sophomore, she skipped a grade, joining Peter Parker at Midtown. Y/N was previously put under the guardianship of Fury after her parents died when she was 11 and is living with her "Uncle" Tiny (oops sorry she means Tony). Y/N is adopted by Stark and they live happily ever after, until a year later. Steve and his crew have been pardoned. Bucky who now goes by James, has been forgiven by Tony and now resents Steve for bringing him in this mess. He is annoyed about the pardon, Tony is not happy about it, Y/N is furious and Peter is scared of what his girlfriend will do to them. What will happen when they arrive? Read to find out!

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

"OK." As Y/N turned to Scott, the door opened again and Rhodey stepped into the room, sliding into a seat gracefully.

He glanced quickly around the table, nodding to each of them in turn. "I apologize for being late," he said.

Y/N shrugged. "We were just getting to it," she said. Her attention returned to the group as a whole. "Look, a lot happened to get us all where we are right now, affecting several sovereign countries, the European Union, the UN, the United States, and individuals. There's no single entity that handles everything, and frankly there's pretty much no chance that everyone would agree regardless. If you're thinking that there's some kind of magical all-encompassing all-nations 'pardon', you're wrong, there is no such thing, and if you're looking for unicorns go watch My Little Pony. So what you're going to hear is going to be broken down into those different areas."

Romanoff leaned back a little in her chair, her mouth tightening further. She was starting to get it, though Hope doubted that she had any idea of the scale. There was a lot they didn't know.

"Just get to the grovelling already, L/N," Wilson pretended to examine his fingernails. "You have a schedule to keep, remember?"

Y/N gestured at Lang. "You. First, the sovereign nations and EU. Germany is very upset with you." She smiled thinly. "You are officially barred from entering Germany – or anywhere else in the European Union. Frankly, the fact that no one really knows who you are is the only thing currently saving your ass and keeping Germany from sending a retrieval squad after you, thanks to several billion dollars' worth of damage you personally caused at the Leipzig Airport. Fortunately for you, the insurance companies have decided that Pym Technologies makes a better target for their lawsuits. Even with that, you're facing charges in Germany of illegal entry, destruction of property, criminal endangerment, assault and battery, flight from prosecution and escaping prison. Tony left the part where you tried to kill him by disabling the suit during flight from his report. Still, Germany is willing to stay the charges except for the property damage. If you return to the US permanently, you won't be extradited – Germany has agreed to deal with you in absentee."

Lang looked as though he'd just been hit with a bat. The smile was gone and his face had gone dead white. Rhodes was staring at him murderously – apparently Tony hadn't mentioned Lang trying to kill him before now, and Rhodes seemed to be considering how to dismember him with the power of his brain. Hope added her own glare to his.

Lang muttered, "I wasn't trying to kill him!"

Y/N continued inexorably. "I just said he left that part out... The US has revoked your passport and has issued a warrant for your arrest for your parole violation. Since Pym Technologies is currently using the defense in the lawsuits that their technology was used without their knowledge or permission, the warrant includes additional charges of grand larceny."

"What... what about the Accords?" Lang swallowed hard, looking at Clint desperately.

"Scott..." Hope shook her head slowly and then gentled her tone. "Scott. The UN reviewed your information and the council does not feel that you're a suitable candidate for the Avengers. But they are willing to consider you if Y/N decides she wants you on the team."

"Lang held his own against Tony, War Machine, and Vision," Rogers glared. "How does that not make him a original candidate? If it's because of his past and the whole jail thing..."

"No," Rhodey interrupted. "He used stolen technology that he had nothing to do with creating and that does not require specialized skills to operate." He stopped abruptly and focused his gaze on Lang instead of Rogers. "Pardon me. You used stolen technology. You have no powers, and you have no other specialized skills that translate into qualifying for the Accords. If you want to try and become affiliated with a local group rather than the international one, then go for it. But without the suit – and Pym Technologies has disabled the one you had – I don't expect it to happen."

"You said... you said that we had options." Lang's eyes snapped back to Y/N's face pleadingly.

Y/N kept it brutally short. "You could stay on the run. But you should be aware that staying in Wakanda will be a lot more difficult than it was before. And if I can offer you some advice – if you take that option, stay the fuck away from Germany. And from anyone Germany talks to. But I am considering letting you on the team."

Lang buried his face in his hands.

"Stark is such an asshole," Wilson exploded. "None of this would have even happened if it weren't for him."

"Oh yeah?" The sudden rage in Y/N's voice caught Peter, and from the way they startled everyone else, by surprise. "Tony didn't call him. Tony didn't drag him out of state and force him to violate his parole. Tony didn't dress him in a suit that he didn't own, and Tony certainly didn't make him destroy more than a billion dollars' worth of Leipzig Airport. He wasn't an Avenger, and wasn't a candidate for the Accords. No one has ever even heard of him. Out of everyone around this table, he's the one who had no goddamned reason to even be there." She glared at Lang's bowed head. "Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking?"

Rogers's chin was lifted stubbornly. "We'll deal with this, Scott, don't worry."

"We will make sure she let's you on the team," Maximoff agreed, her voice dark.

Natasha and Clint just rubbed Scott's back reassuringly, not knowing why all of a sudden Rogers was defending him

Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. The 3 looked irritated.

Strange wanted to slap them all.

Lang just huddled tighter in on himself.

Y/N sighed and brought her temper back under control. "I have retained a lawyer on your behalf," Hope told Lang quietly. "A good one." Lang nodded once looking up at Hope for a couple of seconds and Y/N shifted to Romanoff.

"Aunt Nat."

She tensed visibly, meeting her eyes sadly.

"I get it, you know. Why you let them go. You told Tony – Steve wasn't going to stop." Vision saw Rogers flinch out of the corner of her eye. Y/N ignored it. "It's the same reason that some police forces won't participate in high speed chases anymore – because the risk to civilian life is too high to support pursuit."

"Yes," she said.

"I wish that you'd considered what it meant that you let them go, though. That it meant that both Rogers and Barnes have a world-wide shoot on sight – shoot to kill – order on them, for all US forces."

"What?" Wilson sat bolt upright.

"Yeah," Rhodes grinned sharply, all teeth. "Step outside, Rogers. I dare you."

"We could always work on getting that order rescinded later," Romanoff said smoothly. Even though she was mad at them, they've been friends for a while, "Wakanda, on the other hand, needed there King alive."

T'Challa looked mildly offended.

"You're all stupid," Peter muttered.

"And you pissed off General Ross... who is also Secretary of Defense Ross. Who is known for a lot of things, none of which is his forgiving nature. And he talks to the President every day." Y/N sighed again. "Ms Romanoff," Y/N said formally, having gotten rid of the aunt Nat already, "Your US citizenship has been revoked, and you are no longer welcome in the United States unless you make a choice. The UN Council is interested in having you rejoin the Avengers under the Accords, but since you were an original signatory and then aided in the escape of a fugitive, you would be facing punitive action under Section twenty-two point six. If you elected to work with the Avengers, you would be allowed to stay in the U.S. but that's your choice."

Romanoff blinked, the only indication of her surprise. Barton gasped in shock and the others reared back. "How were her actions at the airport treason?" Wilson demanded.

"SHIELD was an agency of the US government, under the Department of Defense. When you released all of SHIELD's files online, you committed treason against the US government," Vision explained quietly. "They haven't added in any charges yet related to the deaths that came from that decision, but if Ross ever actually reads the summary report that SHIELD prepared on the topic you likely will be."

"I testified before Congress about that," she said tightly. "There were no charges brought."

"There's no actual statute of limitations on treason," Rhodey said.

Y/N shrugged. "They seem to have collectively either remembered the nineties or gone and watched 'A Few Good Men', because your approach of 'you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall' isn't flying the way it used to. If you sign the Accords, the charge of treason will be stayed, but you'll still be allowed in the U.S."

She frowned. "If I don't sign?"

"If you don't, then you don't. You're facing charges under the Accords and in Germany for aiding the escape of a fugitive, but you have a solid defense with the civilian protection angle. Otherwise you're free and clear outside of the US. Well, as free and clear as you can be without citizenship anywhere, and avoiding countries with extradition agreements, but you're resourceful."

"This is bullshit," Rogers growled loudly. Barton was tempted to agree, but didn't want to make things worse since he hasn't done anything drastic and wants to keep it that way.

"I feel exactly the same way," Rhodes shot back. "The fact that we're here at all is a goddamned joke."

"Wanda," Rhodey said, and immediately all eyes were on him. "I... Hmm." He tapped his fingers against the tabletop for an instant. "I need to apologize to you." The shock on her face almost made Peter laugh, but Rhodey seemed oblivious to it. "I should have had Tony tell you that you needed to stay at the Compound because your US visa was in jeopardy. I should have told you that we were concerned that you could be attacked and that you might be forced to defend yourself, which would have resulted in more injured civilians and the end of your visa in the USA. I thought that you knew enough about what had happened to know why you should stay in for a while, but I didn't take the time to discuss it with you and I should have. I realize that lack of context contributed to your belief that you were imprisoned at the Compound. You didn't know what was going on, and you didn't know that it was temporary. I'm sorry."

Maximoff was speechless.

"None of that excuses your actions," Peter interjected. "Violence isn't actually one of your options outside of a sanctioned operation, you know that, right? Physically attacking someone who was trying to protect you is flat out wrong no matter what you did or didn't know. You attacked Vision physically when he had taken no actions at all against you, you did hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage to the Compound, and at Leipzig Airport you outright tried to kill Tony."

She flushed angrily.

"Seriously," Strange shook his finger at her, then at all of them including Vision and Rhodey. "You people need to learn to use your damned words." Y/N was not in the least surprised when his finger stopped on Rogers. "Punching something is not a first resort!"

"Ms Maximoff. You are barred from entry in Germany and are not welcome anywhere in the European Union," Strange told her evenly. "Should you attempt to enter the EU, you will be facing charges relating to the destruction of Leipzig Airport, illegal entry, attempted murder, and escaping custody." He took a deep breath. "The UN considers you a strong candidate for the Avengers, and should you elect to sign the Accords, Germany has agreed to drop the criminal charges against you as a gesture of good faith. Should you join the Avengers, you would still not be permitted to enter the EU. If you decide to sign the Accords, your US visa will be renewed.

"Further, since Sokovia has petitioned the European Union for membership, you also will not be able to return there. If you choose not to sign the Accords, then Germany will retain the criminal charges, and you will be subject to an international warrant and extradition."

The smirk fled. "I am not going to prison," Maximoff declared furiously. Her eyes glinted red.

"Then you should sign the Accords," Y/N told her calmly. She moved on to Wilson, apparently ignoring the way that Maximoff's hands glittered as they flexed against the tabletop. Rogers reached under the table to give her hand a supportive squeeze.

"Sam." Y/N's lips quirked into a tiny smile that Wilson didn't return. She seemed unfazed.

"Let me guess," Wilson said stolidly. "I'm not welcome in Germany."

"You have charges pending in Bucharest for obstruction of police, aiding a fugitive, destruction of property, reckless endangerment, escape from custody, and flight from prosecution. In Germany, you're facing destruction of property, flight from prosecution, grand larceny, and aiding terrorist activities, and in both countries illegal entry."

Wilson's eyes flicked to Rhodes. "Not attempted murder?"

Vision shifted in his seat, and Rhodes straightened his shoulders. Harley spoke up. "Wilson... What happened to Colonel Rhodes was not your fault."

"If I hadn't..."

"You moved to evade a shot," Rhodes said clearly. "That's what you should do when someone is shooting at you. It's not your fault that I was on the other side of you and got hit instead. It's not Vision's fault that I got hit either. It just is. Shit happens."

Wilson looked away, his eyes suspiciously shiny.

"No. The charges do not include attempted murder, nor should they." Y/N continued after a moment. "After reviewing your information, the Accords council considers you a good candidate for the Accords, since you have experience with the Falcon wings and since your previous service as an Avenger was satisfactory. Since you were only minimally involved in the destruction of Liepzig airport, the German government is willing to drop the charges relating to destruction of property if you're willing to sign the Accords."

Wilson nodded curtly. "So, signing the Accords makes all the European charges go away?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Your chance to have the Romanian charges dropped by signing the Accords was gone when Steve refused the deal in Bucharest. Of course, compounding the problem by leaving custody when the Winter Soldier broke out didn't help."

"It took a lot of discussion to convince Germany to bend on their charges," Rhodes contributed. "The subsequent jailbreak after your capture in Germany really pissed them off."

"Pissed them off?" Wilson banged his fist on the table. "How about how their illegal incarceration pissed us off?"

Strange shook his head and looked as if he was going to ignore the interruption, but Rhodes put his hand on his arm to forestall him. "Oh, I wanna hear this."

"Me too," Hope leaned back a little in her chair. "This should be fascinating. Tell us about your illegal incarceration, Mr Wilson."

Wilson narrowed his eyes at her but didn't entirely rise to the bait. "After we were grabbed at Leipzig, we were thrown in prison without a trial, without seeing a lawyer. We were in the process of being fucking disappeared when we broke out."

Rhodes laughed out loud, making everyone jump. "No you weren't," he said. "You were part of a group of enhanced people who destroyed an airport while aiding the escape of an internationally wanted terrorist, who had already broken out of a secure facility. Of course you were put in jail – a jail that could hope to hold enhanced individuals – prior to arraignment on your charges. And arraignment takes some time to get to. We were working on bringing over some lawyers experienced in international law." He laughed again. "You've actually seen TV, right? You do know that arrested people go to jail? They don't just read you your rights and then release you again because you're totally nice enough to come back for trial?"

"Bucky is not an international terrorist!" Rogers's hands clenched in front of him. His knuckles stood out starkly against the tanned skin of his fingers and Hope could almost hear the bones in his hands creak.

Rhode's jaw tightened and again he shook his head rather than reply.

"In other words, Mr Wilson, you weren't being 'disappeared', although since the Raft was built by SHIELD I suppose you can be forgiven for thinking otherwise."Hope set her clasped hands on the table in front of her.

"You didn't see..." Sam started hotly.

Y/N interrupted. "We're getting off track."

Lang leaned over. "What did you mean, when you said that Steve turned down the deal in Bucharest? What deal?"

Harley frowned.

Rhodes leaned back in his chair, lips tugging into a smirk. "Did Steve not tell you about that?"

"Uncle Rhodey," Y/N murmured quietly and Rhodes subsided. Vision turned to Lang. "In the interests of 'using my words'," he shot a sideways glance at Rhodes, who inclined his head in acknowledgement, "when Steve, Sam and Barnes were apprehended in Bucharest, there was an offer made to forgive all charges and provide mental health assistance for Barnes in exchange for signing the Accords. Steve refused the deal, they all escaped custody, and we reconvened at Leipzig airport."

"What?" Lang whispered, his face dead white. He turned to Wilson. "You guys had the option of being forgiven for Bucharest, and for getting Bucky help to recover from his time with Hydra, and you didn't take it?"

"They wanted to kill Bucky," Rogers replied in a tone that meant that he was barely holding on to his temper. "They sent a helicopter with a chain gun after him in Bucharest, and they didn't care who else they hit, either." He lifted his head and Peter felt a little burst of adrenaline at the fury in his eyes.

"I feel I must point out that it wasn't some nebulous 'them' that actually had Barnes in Bucharest when you refused the deal," Rhodes said calmly. "It was us."

"And you did a great job protecting him, didn't you?" Rogers gritted out. "Considering that he was triggered by the psychiatrist that you brought in to assess him."

"Off track," Y/N singsonged, rapping the table. She spoke to Lang, "yes, they had the option – before the Winter Soldier was triggered and escaped – and yes, they refused it."

Wilson was shaking his head. "To be fair," he said, "I wasn't offered anything and I didn't refuse anything."

Y/N turned to look at him, an arrested expression on her face. "That's true," she said slowly. "Tony spoke to Steve, not to you."

"I was considering it," Rogers added, "Until I learned that Wanda was... 'Confined' was Tony's word ... at the Compound."

"I would have liked the opportunity to consider it myself," Wilson said quietly. "You know I'm with you, Steve, whichever way you jump, but it should still have been brought to me too."

Lang was still shaking his head. "You could have resolved it all before you even called me. You didn't even have to call me."

"Hey, at least they did call us," Clint snapped after getting as angry as can be. "Unlike Stark, who figures we're beneath notice or something."

The tension in the room ratcheted up and Hope saw Rhodes tense.

"Is that what this has been about?" For the first time since she'd arrived, Y/N looked as though she was fully present. "Seriously? You're pissed because Tony didn't call you?" Her face was a mask of incredulity.

"Of course he didn't call me. I'm a washed up farmer and I didn't want to sign his precious Accords, right?" Barton's fists were tight, his voice bitter.

"He didn't call you because you were out, you dumb fuck!" Y/N exploded out of her seat, raking her hands through her hair. Peter looked like he wanted to stop her but he didn't. She paced a couple of steps before rounding back on Barton. "You really don't get it, do you? You had it! The brass ring was in your hands! You spent most of your life in a dangerous job, you faced a goddamned alien invasion and killer robots, and at the end of a glorious career you actually managed to retire and get to go home to your family! There was nothing on this earth that could have made him call you. He called a fucking fifteen-year old kid before he called you! Tony would have called me before he would have called you!" That wasn't true. Tony didn't even know about her then but that doesn't matter. She slumped back into his seat and stared into Barton's astonished face intently. "You have three little kids, Clint. Stark would die before he'd take their father from them like mine was taken from me. My parents died because a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent didn't care that it was a high risk mission and that they probably wouldn't come back. So when Fury got a phone call from that agent, he had to tell a 11 year old girl, that her parents died because no one cared that they had a child.

"But hey – you got called, and you answered, and I don't blame you for that," Y/N continued remorselessly. "But when you did that – when you showed up and took Wanda out of the Compound, when you hurt Vision and you went to Leipzig and you helped an internationally wanted terrorist escape custody, you took that life of service, that legacy and you destroyed it. You're a smart man, and you knew that it was all illegal, and you went and you did it anyway, and that's why you're where you are. You took your kids' father from them. And you're pissed at Tony because he didn't call you? I think that you should be fucking livid at them that they did."

Barton just stared at her silently.

Y/N took a seat and Peter put an arm around her.

"So, Mr Barton." Hope said carefully, mindful of the tension in the room and trying to get back to a calmer footing. "After review of your actions at Leipzig airport, Germany has elected to vacate the charges against you for property damage, since your contribution was minor compared to that of Scarlet Witch and Ant Man. You still face charges of assisting the escape of a fugitive, flight from prosecution, escape from custody, assault and illegal entry from your time there, and you are no longer permitted within the EU. The Accords council has not chosen to respect your wish to retire and does currently consider you a candidate for the Accords. If you serve 2 years as a Avenger, you can go back to your family. Germany has indicated that if you return to the US they will not pursue extradition, as long as you never attempt to enter the EU. If you choose to return to the US, you will be facing charges of domestic terrorism and property damage for the bomb you set off at the Compound, and assault for the attack on Vision."

"Vision is willing to request that the charges of assault be dropped," Rhodes said quietly, "if that helps you see your family." Vision nodded.

Barton covered his eyes with his hand.

Wilson took a deep breath. "So, if the Romanian charges are still in place for me, what does that mean?"

"No more Europe for you," Harley told him. "They're waiving extradition if you sign the Accords and return to the US, but trying you in absentee is as far as they're willing to go. If you choose not to sign the Accords, then there's no going home."

Wilson asked, "But if we have to, we can return to Wakanda, right?"

Strange shook his head no.

"Ok, Mrs. L/N, this has gone far enough." Rogers pushed his chair away from the table and stood. Y/N just tilted her head politely. "I understand that you wanted to make a point here, and that you wanted us to feel like you're doing us a favor by bringing us home, but threatening the King of Wakanda to not let us back in there? We know that you're here because the world needs us back. We know that you'll do whatever you have to do to get us back. All of this? This is just a show. Can you get to the real offers now?"

"Please, Steve, sit down," Peter gestured gracefully. Grudgingly Rogers complied. "Y/N did not say that he was threatened. We have, however, been informed of a new threat, one that has proven many of the things that I believed to be true a lie. One of those beliefs was that Wakanda was unassailable; it is not."

"A new threat! So you do need us." Maximoff smiled triumphantly.

T'Challa stepped out of the corner, unknown to anyone.

"I'm afraid not," T'Challa said. "But I do believe it is fair to say that we all desire to have any distractions out of the way. I do understand you hadn't intended to broach this subject today, Mrs. L/N, but perhaps we should do so nonetheless."

"It's Y/N, T'Challa, I am so much younger then you." Y/N said laughing. "Ok, fine. Wanda, you remember that image you showed Tony back in the Hydra base in Sokovia? Would you be able to share that with everyone?"

Hope frowned and saw it echoed on the other faces around her. Only Y/N remained serene.

"No," Maximoff said sweetly.

"Allow me." The voice, male with a clipped British accent, took them by surprise and they jumped; all but Y/N. They turned in unison to face the corner of the room where a bald, older man sat comfortably in a wheelchair with a calming smile on his face. "I am Doctor Charles Xavier, though you may call me Professor, and I apologize for startling you. I arrived late and chose not to interrupt the proceedings. I hope you don't mind." Hope felt her irritation wane and his smile widened as they all relaxed and no one objected, although Maximoff continued to eye him suspiciously. "Now," he turned the smile on Y/N. "I believe that you wanted everyone to be shown something?"

Y/N visibly steeled herself. "Good to see you Professor, thank you again for coming. I have prepared after watching the vision, and I am ready. So you can do it."

An instant later, Hope was awash in terror. Her stomach lurched and it was all she could do not to scream with it. Her gorge rose and she almost vomited. Her mind gibbered at her in a base panic. She could just barely make out Y/N's voice over the horror in her brain.

"Jesus, Charles, dial it back a little."

The fear subsided.

She was in space, staring at a vast armada of ships. Thousands upon thousands of ships, as far as her eye could make sense of. There were Leviathan-class Chitauri assault ships moving towards her gracefully, their pinpoint size providing a gauge for the stupendous size of the ships following them. An eye-searing flash of light flared within the nearest... carrier? She wasn't sure what nomenclature to use for them. She closed her eyes against the light, suddenly overcome with vertigo. She couldn't... she couldn't catch her breath. Why couldn't she breathe? She forced her eyes back open to see the remainder of that massive fleet; a single ship loss nothing against those incalculable numbers...

She took a deep whoop of air, suddenly back in the conference room, hearing the others cough and gasp as well. Y/N was wagging an admonishing finger at Professor Xavier, who looked completely unrepentant. "You asked for me to share Dr. Stark's experience in the Hydra bunker," he said, "At least I stopped with the wormhole."

The others were still heaving, and Hope saw with private glee that Lang was still swallowing hard, clearly fighting nausea. "Was that really necessary?" Rogers bit out.

"It was Tony's memory." Charles lifted an eyebrow at the growl he got in return. "And I did mute the emotions before passing them on. To be fair, his original experience was significantly worse."

Good God. That had been muted? And he'd had to relive it in that Hydra bunker? Hope found herself glaring at Maximoff, whose face was hidden by her hair.

Y/N gestured silently, and abruptly an image of that terrifying fleet of ships popped into existence above the table. They all leaned back from it as one, except T'Challa who craned his neck for a better look. "Fascinating," he said. "You are achieving this effect without technology."

"Indeed I am," was all that Professor Xavier said.

"This is what Tony saw through the wormhole," Y/N said, waving at the image. "This is what he's been working towards preparing for since the day the Chitauri attacked us. This is what led him to consider a solution like Ultron. And this, it turns out, is only a small part of the problem." She nodded at Professor Xavier, and the image changed to show an even greater fleet, with the uncountable Chitauri ships a mere fraction of the total. "This is what we currently have heading for Earth."

"Oh my God," Barton whispered. The others echoed him, horror etched on every face.

[transcendentalmaggot]

(This is just me screaming about living with a disability in our present hell and being in a constant state of precarity with everyone asking when I’m going to “get better”)

Finally received approval of my temporary disability from January... and only for January. The paperwork was delayed due to a combination of me being incredibly ill and my HR department not sending the paperwork when they told me they did, but I didn’t expect it to take this long. The approval, received on March 26th, also included a request to submit additional paperwork for approval of February’s payment. I had already called and emailed my case worker to confirm they received the February paperwork weeks ago but I guess that will be delayed until my doctor fills out a form that is simply a retread of the same information included on the original form with different wording and a bunch of information on physical labor that is completely irrelevant to my job. Temporary disability through your job is almost always determined on a month-to-month basis but it’s never taken this long for a response when I’ve had to go on it on the past due to my disabilities. I knew both the health and disability insurance policies at my job were significantly worse this year than the last based on the information we received for the New Year because the company is naturally looking to save money by cutting benefits while moving our warehouses to the south to save even more money on labor. The new owners (a holding company looking to maximize the value of this bullshit, useless company until they sell it in two years for a profit) literally sent an email at Christmas letting us know we’d receive our holiday bonuses for this year but as a matter of policy we wouldn’t be receiving them in the future. Of course I’m expected to be grateful I have any insurance coverage at all working a CS job where I’m making minimum wage but somehow I feel less gratitude than I do an overwhelming sense of dread and anxiety for the future. I haven’t been able to get several tests or doctor’s evaluations completed due to the pandemic and financial considerations (my deductible was met in late February, perfect timing) so of course my health status hasn’t changed. The hospital I go to in NYC has cancelled all non-urgent procedures and appointments on a case-by-case basis and despite my concerning blood work re: my kidney function I’m being forced to wait by the insurance company handling my disability claim with no consideration of the current crisis. I understand the need to do this for hospitals but please be cognizant of the shitty position people with chronic health issues are being thrown into during the pandemic. I can make telemed appointments with my doctors but everything is being held up by the need for tests and lab results.

There’s also something grim about the fact that the outstanding balance I owe from this year’s deductible to the hospital is almost the exact amount I received to live on for the month of January in March.

I’m exhausted and sick and completely isolated from my friends and chosen family outside of instant messaging at my dad’s house and I don’t know if my health will ever get better or if I’m going to need major surgery in the near future and if I’m going to be fired and lose my health insurance by the time I find out. My boss emails me every two weeks to ask about my health as if I’d ever give her more information on my status than she already has. My manager keeps texting me prayers at random intervals. I’m purposefully isolating myself from the people I love because I constantly feel like a burden - I hate not being able to be there for them because being this sick feels like a full time job. Apparently their awful treatment of me was because of how “needed” I was. These texts and emails keep mentioning how productive and beloved by the customers I was while I was constantly being criticized for not bringing my numbers up. I was only number 2 or 3 in the reams of useless data my boss pores over as a fucking job and the obvious reaction to that is to make me feel awful knowing about my health issues so I can raise my numbers even higher. I don’t know if I can return to this job without completely sacrificing the last shred of my sanity. Between the pain, the exhaustion, and the panic attacks induced by people berating me with the job title “happiness ambassador” I don’t think I can handle working with these assholes anymore. But then I remember that any job in CS involves this level of mental degradation and at least I had health insurance. Fucking insurance. I’ve lived my entire life under the crushing terror that I would lose my insurance. I’m just tired. I’m so fucking tired. I can’t afford the medical supplies I need to live without it and Medicaid is incredibly awful to ostomy patients in terms of providing enough supplies. But maybe that’s my fear talking, I’ve just helped a lot of people with catheters and other supplies who didn’t receive a sufficient supply through their state’s Medicaid program through support groups for my condition in the past and the problem has only gotten worse with the severe under funding and cuts to the program. I want to believe it isn’t so awful but experience has taught me time and again to expect the worst.

I’m trying to hold onto hope but everything feels too heavy right now. I’m just going to numb myself with video games until I’ve cried myself out. I’m too exhausted for another panic attack today.

[thessalian]

Thess vs The Benefits System

I spend a lot of time when I’m not actually at work trying to unpack the problem with late stage capitalism, largely via Stuff My Mum Says.

“Why should people get things if they’re not working? He could get a job!” Erm ... no. Not really. Because companies hire the bare minimum, usually the ones they can pay the least, and work them to breaking point because to them, people are disposable. It’s already been proven that our current working hours are actually decreasing productivity because eight hours a day, five days a week is too much. The ideal is two people in one role, each doing what is now considered part-time hours. But, of course, on a pay scale that allows them food, shelter, money for bills and the occasional luxury (because yes, fuck you, that is a necessity).

And then there’s this: “You have to dress perfect for the interview! People will judge you by your appearance first and foremost! Your being fat turns the world against you by giving a bad first impression!” So ... yeah, I admit, she’s right, because people are assholes and HR departments do sometimes (often) make judgements based on how posh someone sounds, how posh someone dresses, and how physically attractive they find an applicant the second they walk in the door. So ... on the basis of that, what are the chances of the individual who hasn’t had decent dental care or the means to get a decent interview outfit or even a shower sitting an interview and having a chance in hell that they’ll actually be hired?

That’s not even getting started on the disabled. “Look at him! He could work! He looks perfectly healthy!”, she says. Yeah, Mum - the Universal Credit people probably said that too. Thing is, invisible disabilities are a thing that exist. You can’t tell if someone’s physically or mentally healthy just by looking at them. There is a huge lack of understanding of anything to do with medicine in our revamped disability benefits system, because we are talking about a system that denies benefits to cancer patients who are in the middle of aggressive therapies. Chemo can have some pretty horrific side effects, and that’s quite aside from the cancer itself (which may or may not be going into remission; either way is pretty bad) and the sheer terror of needing aggressive anti-cancer treatment, and the attendant mental stress. And yet people like this have been denied benefits and told to go to work.

Which is where this comes in: “They’re lazy! They just want to loaf around on benefits!” ...Except that you need an address to claim benefits, and often a bank account. So the actual homeless people aren’t even in the running for those benefits people say they’re sponging. And the ones lucky enough to have a roof for now? They’re often getting denied benefits. Our benefits system is acting more like an insurance company than anything else - looking for any possible excuse to deny people help. Except that an insurance company is a company concerned about its profits and at least doesn’t make any pretense to be otherwise, and a government benefits agency is literally there to take tax money and give it to those who need it, not stockpile it as much as possible so that it can get its budget slashed in the next fiscal to let more money go to tax cuts to the rich.

Universal income, lowered work hours, a complete overhaul of the benefits system... These are all things we need. But we will not have that for a long time, because of a lot of people who follow my mother’s primary maxim: “This is just the way things are.”

Yes, Mum. Yes, that is the way things are now. But that does not mean that it has to be this way forever. Change is possible, and has always been possible, if we work for it. Remember, child labour used to be legal too.

[taramaclaywasaterf]

I hate men, I really fucking do. And I hate my dad. And I hate the fact that being aware of female oppression and the ways males actively harm us (be it subconsciously or intentionally) has made it so I can no longer look at my father the same way again, because I finally realized awhile ago that he isn’t the exception. “Not all men” is a lie, it’s bullshit, and it’s nothing but yet another tool men use to keep women down.

So, my dad just got a new job offer. A really big deal, at a big company, with great health insurance benefits, which is perfect for us because I’m disabled and unable to work. The person who would be his boss, if he gets the job, is a woman. And he’s never had a female boss before. I’ll call her “S”. He was just telling me about how he has an interview with her tomorrow, and will be meeting her in person for the first time. So far, he’s only spoken to her over email, and talked to a few people who work for her over the phone.

He told me that he’s excited but he’s anxious because S seems very “fly by the seat of her pants” like she’s “all over the place” and basically made her sound like an impulsive little child incapable of logical thought. This woman is like the head of a major company with departments all over the country. She’s more successful than my dad can even dream of being. And yet...he still finds something to criticize her on, to put her down. He started talking about how he just *knows* she needs someone like him to come in and help take all the “business side of things” off her hands and “reel her in” as if *he* was the one granting *her* a fantastic opportunity, not the other way around.

So I ask him, very, very nicely and not accusatory at all: “please don’t take this the wrong way, and please don’t be mad because I don’t mean this as an attack against you, but can I ask you something? If S were a man, would you still consider this a fault of her’s? Would you have even noticed it, or maybe even taken it as a positive thing?”

Not even exaggerating, those are the literal exact words I used, and I said them in the most submissive, polite tone imaginable. To say he was pissed would be an understatement. The second I opened my mouth, he angrily crossed his arms over his chest, tapping his foot loudly and impatiently on the floor. Huffing. Rolling his eyes. Growling. Doing all those nonverbal body-language cues that man do to show their anger and dominance and make women fear them. And the second I finished asking the question, he went off. How *dare* I say that. How *dare* I question his character. Of *course* he’d feel the same way if S was a man, how *dare* I insinuate otherwise? And when has he *ever* done such a thing?

I went on to try and explain that it’s not all about him. I said how it’s something all *people* do, even subconsciously. I said that everybody does it, and that I do it too sometimes. That a woman can say something and be considered a bitch and too bossy and a bad leader, but if a man said the exact same thing in the exact same way, he’ll be considered strong and a good boss. I told him that, again, it wasn’t personal, it wasn’t an attack against him. I was just asking him to please look at it from another way, and if he says that he’d still think all those things about S if she were a man, then that’s fine! (Even though we all know he wouldn’t....but I didn’t say that.)

That only made him madder. He started yelling...How *dare* I make stupid generalizations about him. He knows he would never think like that because of ~how he grew up~ and his ~character~ and ~where he came from~ and all that defensive male bullshit. Like, he genuinely believes that being called a misogynist (which I didn’t even do!!!) is worse than, ya know, *being* a misogynist. I tried to tell him that, no, I’m not generalizing him. That, again, it’s just something that *everybody* does sometimes! That’s it! It wasn’t personal! I was literally just asking him a fucking question!

Well, that sent him off on a rant about how ~people like me~ who ~generalize everybody~ are ~what’s wrong with the world~ (and he didn’t see the irony in that statement at all.) He went off about how *dare* I keep “pushing” him about this topic, that it’s my fault he’s mad and that we’re fighting because I kept talking about it and all of that...when *he* was the one going on, and I was literally just fucking defending myself and trying to defuse the situation. After that, I just walked away, and he literally disappeared. Like, he just walked out the door and drove off. I still have no idea where the hell he is.

It’s fucking exhausting, man. I’m so tired. It was an innocent question. And, honestly, if he would’ve sat down and actually *thought* about the question, and *thought* about whether or not he’d feel the same way about S if she were a man...it could’ve actually helped him at the interview. But no. He had to act like every other goddamn man on the planet. I just can’t do it anymore.

I know this is pretty tame, it’s not even a big deal whatsoever, but we have fights like this almost every fucking day. Most of them get much, much worse. I posted on here about the fight we had on this past Christmas, which pretty much was the turning point of how we act around each other. That fight got ugly. But the reason I’m so upset about today’s fight is because it’s just...never ending, I guess. It’s never fucking ending. Just one thing after another after another, and he always makes me feel crazy and stupid and worthless. He makes me feel insane, like I’m actually fucking insane for being upset at the way he treats me, or for disagreeing with him. I hate it. And I can’t do it anymore.

But we’re fucking stuck. *I’m* fucking stuck. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m disabled with a debilitatingly painful chronic illness that leaves me bedridden most days and I’m completely unable to work, let alone able to get a place far away from him. I just don’t know what to do anymore. Sorry for the novel. I just needed to vent.

[brassandblue]

I know this is just How Capitalism Is but how messed up is it that our worth as a human being is tied directly to our *usefulness* to other people? Logically it's understandable; we pay one another for goods and services rendered and this extends to the workforce that supplies goods and services to the masses.

But what really gets me is how undervalued people are, especially the people who want to work hard but may struggle to do so because of one thing or another--disability, couldn't afford college to become "skilled", etc. And even beyond that, do companies value their average worker so little, do they want to invest so little in their newer workers that they pay as little as they can and don't monitor the working conditions (have y'all ever worked retail in a grocery store? Good God, a bad set of supervisors can make life a living hell)?

The answer is yes, companies relegate human beings to pure numbers. I guess that's "how you run a business" but, how soulless and removed do you have to be to think anything below $13-15/hr is a living wage for the average full time worker in the average American city or town? Very, apparently.

I've seen so many job listings that say Bachelors Degree Required for jobs an intelligent monkey with passable social skills and good work ethic could do, and the pay is $12/hr. Really? Are you kidding me? A degree is worth more than that and so is the person carrying it if they're willing to do the work. And even then, not having a degree doesn't make someone a talentless luddite with no work ethic. There are so many factors to every person and yet, every person is just a number to Big Capitalism and it's disgusting.

I'm learning flood insurance--FEMA and the TN Department of Commerce and Insurance requires I do a webinar to even run and save a quote. That's fine. But something stuck out at me when my boss was being a mercurial fuckwit last week or two weeks ago or whatever--he said when I learn things he doesn't know, then I'll be valuable to him. And while that makes sense from a capitalist standpoint, it also struck me as really fucked up. Like, am I not of value for the work I already do? It's work he's fully admitted he doesn't like doing and can't do much of it even if he wanted--he's asked us CSRs how the process for X or Y goes and we're expected to know, and we *do*. The whole situation leaves me feeling uncomfortable and unsure of my place, as if I might not have it for long because despite having at least basic value, the additional value might not always be enough in the eyes of the man who writes my checks.

We are so brainwashed into thinking our value lies solely in our usefulness to other people. Part of it is likely instinctual, with our brains comparing ourselves to other people so we can evaluate our place in society; and society requires a certain amount of participation if we want to survive. But it's been discovered that even early humans looked after their group's disabled. There was value in helping the species even beyond the base instinct to survive and produce children, and it could be speculated that was because of a value in community and because of our capacity for sympathy and sentiment. That hasn't translated into industry, and industry rules us.

I'm the only full time worker in this office aside from the lead agent. I'm licensed by the state. I make exactly enough to survive and I'm on a very tight budget, and it's definitely not a state of "living." I still can't afford new patient fees for doctors visits that I desperately need, and a visit that's $80 or more even with insurance could send me into the red. I haven't set foot in a movie theater in 2 years and I don't go out for fun. I don't get benefits from this job and out of the 2 paychecks I receive in a month, 1 entire check is for rent because Nashville is bullshit.

I know I'm worthy of better and I'm desperate to prove it, but I'm living at bare minimum because it's what I can afford and I suffer from crippling depression and glaucoma that's slowly eating away at my eyesight. It's all I can do just to get to work and do my best; forget thriving and shining despite adversity. I'm not the person that wants existence to end because it hurts so much and still gets the best grades or work evaluations and pushes through the fire. I'm the person that pushes through the fire and burns until there's nothing left. Though to be fair to me, I've always had stellar work evals. But maybe you get my point. I dropped out of college because I fell into a black hole I almost didn't make it out of, one that took literal years to recover from and I'm lucky to have survived. Maybe I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, but "strong" doesn't give me a raise; surviving being torn down over and over and making up for lost time doesn't look good on a resume.

Am I just whining at this point? Maybe. Maybe I don't deserve to make at least $30k a year with no college degree (I make $27.6k). Maybe I'm really not qualified to do what I'm doing now, but the fact is I'm here doing it and all I can offer is my best, mistakes and victories and all. Frankly, it’s a miracle I’m at where I am, because I’m a no-good college dropout with several mental illnesses and a retail-only job history. Yet I’m also a full time customer service rep and insurance agent with a state license and I bust my ass to be good at my job. So maybe I have potential, I’m just in a rough spot. I don’t know. I just don’t. I’m almost 30 and it’s something I’m still figuring out.

Capitalism sucks because it relegates us to numbers and while numbers are important, they only provide a bare shell of the real picture and what's at stake. It sucks because it tells us that if we can just fill a niche well enough, we can *earn* dignity and respect, as if we haven't already by virtue of being living, breathing creatures with aspirations and feelings. It tells us that if we reach the top of the pyramid, we deserve--more than others--to live in excess while so many go without. And at a high price, it's a lie we buy into because we're born into it and it's all we know.

I'm not here to suggest alternatives. I'm not a scholar of socio-economic systems. I'm just here to vent because I'm very tired, because I feel undervalued and unable to prove the system wrong. I feel helpless and frustrated and just a n g r y because I want things to be better, and I’ve been working at learning to be a human being for 11 years after getting out of an abusive home. It feels like I’ve been on Mt. Everest for a decade and when I look up, and I’m still at the mountain base.

[amandaelisablog]

A RANT THAT IS TMI

I need to vent because life gets heavy sometimes and it’s hard to be alone in your mind with these things. I’ve found that doing this gives me an outlet and hopefully finding others who feel as I do. So back in November I had a work injury and forgot to send in a report about it. I didn’t have insurance at the time due to how expensive it was which sucks because you get a penalty charge on your taxes for being uninsured. It’s an unfair thing to the hardworking folks who put in time for crap pay and even work under poor conditions or strenuous physical demands. Having your government say, hey you work, you pay your taxes but you fucked up by not being able to pay for insurance. Anyway, so I got through the whole process to get this checked out, find that it’s a sprain in my knee that hasn’t healed since November, it’s now March. They pay for the urgent care visit, the sports injury doctor, the MRI proving the injury and then deny the claim for physical therapy because I didn’t report it when it happened. What was the point of going through all of this for three months if you knew this and still paid for those tests? Not only that but my company told the worker comp that they called the family I work for (I’m a care provider for people with disabilities) and said that the family said they didn’t know anything about it. It’s all bullshit because the day it happened I told the parents, plus me and the mom are very close and she would have told me right away if someone had called her. She doesn’t hide or keep things from me, she considers me family.

It has put a bad taste in my mouth over my company and the way they deal with things like this. I am a hard worker, I even stayed that day on two twisted ankles, a messed up knee, hip and arm. I was there 8 hours and couldn’t do much with the child I work for due to all the pain I was in, so our activities were floor or table based. On normal days we play and work on habilitation which can be physically demanding and that wasn’t possible. So now after all of that I still have a messed up knee and three months of wasted time. If I had known that this was going to be the outcome of this I would have used my insurance, though I didn’t learn of this insurance until after I started the claim process. It had been active since December which would have been nice to know but again what can you expect from the way that Arizona department services are run.

If the can get out of spending any money on a person they will find a way, which is what Copper Pointe did, it was easy for them to deny it and for my company to throw it and lie about doing a more in depth search on my claims. I am a truly honest person and find that there isn’t a reason to lie about things, especially something like this. The only reason I had informed my manager was to find some information on what happens if I were to have surgery on my knee due to the extreme pain, as well as others in my life who had the exact same pain in that area. I wanted to know if they offered any kind of time off. I like to cover every base I can in order to avoid losing out on pay. I barely make it every month and each month is so anxiety inducing. If it came down to missing work for this or just living with it I would have just left it alone. This is how the world works and it’s your word against those of higher power. You will always be in the wrong because they get final say.

My second issue is this. Since I just got insurance I’ve established a PCP, OBGYN etc. First of all my PCP is making it real easy for me to drop her and find someone else with more consideration. I take medications for anxiety, depression and a mood disorder, which they can’t decide is bipolar or not. I need them badly and after a few days the effects are obvious. Pretty soon it will be hard for me to drive or get out of bed. My mood is very manic as I go through these cycles, it so disorientating and damaging to my job if it happens then. I still have to work and it’s hard, so hard. How the hell am I supposed to even get to work if I can’t drive a straight line or keep the fogginess at bay?

Anyways, so she told me any times since seeing her she would refill these medications. I even brought a paper from a free clinic I had been going to. It had all the information they needed in order to record this and the phone number to the place to verify. Two different people took this information down. The front desk girl took the paper and wrote it down as well as the doctor’s assistant who I watched type every single one into my file on the computer. I was there 7 days ago and told her I needed them refilled since I had one more left of each of them. She said she would send them out that day. I waited and waited but never got the text from my pharmacy saying they were filled so I called the pharmacy thinking maybe they didn’t send it yet. They had no record of it being sent over.

So called my doctor’s office and the girl I spoke to seemed like she didn’t know anything. I explained to her three times the situation and she claimed she couldn’t find any record of these medications, the ones I made sure to give them straight away to avoid this. I called every day since and still nothing, after the third day she magically found the medications and was waiting for doctor approval and for the quantity and mg, which had given the second day calling. I even called today and got the same damn thing from when I first called. I’ve been out of medications for about five days and feel like shit. It has really made me feel as though I made the wrong choice in a provider. I am considering finding someone different who will take things seriously and do their job. Luckily the family I work for is on vacation and I have this time to be in this depressed anxious state.

The last thing on my list here and this is going to get personal, a lot of tmi. I went to my new OBGYN and did all the fun tests you get to do that are both uncomfortable and awkward. After all the tests the doctor sat down with me and said matter of fact, you guys don’t plan on having kids I see. I was taken aback by this because we do plan on having kids just not right now as our money situation isn’t the best. I told her this and she look at me with concern and I didn’t understand what was going on. She explained to me that due to my age, weight and birth control that this factors are working against us conceiving. That was a huge punch to the gut and I wasn’t expecting to hear that. So she hooked me up with this woman who is helping me to lose weight and I’ve lost 6 so far which is a great feeling. But due to this whole business with my meds I am having a hard time not falling back to eating to fill that void. So far I haven’t but I want to.

Anyway, so I had another problem that had to be checked. This is where it gets personal. I got my nips pierced a few years ago, after a year they got infected, did the whole antibiotics thing and it seemed to have gone away. But about a year or so ago I started feeling pain and something hard inside of it. Because I didn’t have insurance it been a struggle to deal with this. On the pain scale it’s about a 7 to 8 some days. The doc didn’t find anything upon inspection but decided to send me to get an ultrasound. So did that and they found an abnormality inside? Just think if she hadn’t sent me and it got worse. I got sent to a specialist who gave me three options, 1 was to leave it alone, 2 was antibiotics and the last option is removing the damaged tissue, which is last because it’s the worst one on the list. So I’m on antibiotics for two weeks then I wait 3 months to make sure it’s gone before we visit the last option. So this is the last option, we remove the damaged tissue which will cause the nerves inside to die and cause the nip to cave in making it an unusable source of feeding a baby.

This all happened within two weeks and its weighing heavy on me. This is where I feel the most alone; no one knows or can understand this feeling I have. It feels like some kind of punishment from the universe or something. To know that I might not be able to have kids but even if I do I basically have a shutdown boob. I’m very old school and feel as though breastfeeding creates a bond with mother and child, it’s important. But it feels as though all my dreams are dashed and the only thing I can do is sit and watch. I’m trying though, to at least lose weight, this has been a great motivator for me to get on the ball. But who can say if this one thing will help in the end? I’m 30 which isn’t old but it is a concern, due to the fact that we might not even start until our mid to late 30s.

“The miscarriage rate is 11.7 percent. By age 30 your risk of having a baby with Down syndrome is 1 in 952, and a baby with any chromosomal abnormality, 1 in 385.” – parenting.com How can I do that to a child? Knowing this is a possibility? Now before you get all uppity there isn’t anything wrong with down syndrome or anything but with the knowledge I have on this how can I be selfish and not give my child a chance of being born healthy? This study is just for age 30, but considering when we decide to have children it probably won’t be until after 35 if that.

“This is the age when your doctor might recommend amniocentesis or some other prenatal screening—which for many women is anxiety-provoking while they await results—because the risks of having a baby with Down syndrome or another type of chromosomal disorder begin to rise significantly.” – parenting.com.

“The miscarriage rate rises after age 35 to close to 18 percent. Rates of stillbirths are about twice as high among older pregnant women than younger ones, according to recent studies, although the reasons are unknown.” – parenting.com

The above are my concerns and at that point do I even take that risk? I get tired of hear people say, well so and so had a healthy baby at 45. Good for her, but all woman’s bodies are different and you can’t base my situation on someone else. Based on my own body I feel like there is a greater chance of the above happening.

It’s been hard to accept this as a possible reality considering I’ve found a man I love who I want to have children with and grow old with. Before him I was so afraid to have children due to my upbringing with a destructive parental unit. I didn’t want to end up like my mother because I can see a lot of similarities in us that scare me.

Age is a big problem for me mainly because I don’t want to be too old to enjoy my children. I want that time when I’m still able to play with them and be involved and not be in my 60s when they are my age. I wish I had children in my 20s. You know how old my mom is right now? She’s 50! She’s young still and I’m 30 we are 20 years apart and she looks young, people used to think she was my older sister, not in that cheesy way but even at school functions they’d ask where our parents were.

So that’s been my past 2 weeks and it feels good to get some of this out.

[ophie-opossum]

I Am Part of the Problem

And it really pisses me off. 

Major drug companies get away with shit like hiking their brand name prices up by offering ”manufacturer discounts” like that’s a fucking solution. Discounts that only apply in very specific circumstances, like if a patient’s insurance rejects for these specific reasons, but not these others. Coupons that change benefits in the middle of the year to something way worse than what’s advertised on the card or coupon, or even just flat out expire/vanish and then take weeks or even months or years to update the information they’re sending to people, or even the info on their own fucking website.

I understand, to you guys in California, bill AB-265 is really rough legislation. (IIRC, there’s a similar bill in Massachusetts) Sometimes there’s an ingredient in the generic that people are allergic to, sometimes there’s a higher quantity of a certain “inert” ingredient that you’re sensitive to, and causes really bad side-effects that the brand name doesn’t have. I get that. It sucks, right? But you know who you should be mad at? Not the government, that’s for sure (and you won’t hear me say this very often). At least in this one very specific instance, your state government is trying to force drug manufacturers to cut the costs of their brand name medication and make it far more affordable.It’s the money-grubbing tactics of the drug manufacturers and insurance companies that are spiraling healthcare out of control, and quite frankly there’s nothing we can really do about it. And I am part of the problem. I work for a company that handles a lot of different things related to medicine, but my department specifically handles calls from pharmacies trying to use these ‘Discount offer: Get one month of your prescription medication, FREE*’ scams. It’s my job to make the pharmacies who call us feel stupid for not knowing how to use these labyrinthine offers and explain to them that no, the patient can’t use this, they don’t have insurance. No, the patient can’t use this, they have insurance but it’s medicare, can’t use this with medicare. Yes the patient can use this, but it’ll only pay $300 on their $4000 bill. Yes I know it says $25 copay, but the card also has a maximum benefit and yes I know it doesn’t list the dollar amount on the coupon but it DOES say ‘copay represents minimum out-of-pocket, maximum benefits may apply’. No, I don’t know how you were supposed to know that before you used it, is the patient getting their medication or do I need to reverse this claim.

Those things are covered in fine print, asterisks and those stupid little cross things everywhere (what even are those anyway what do they mean how are they different than asterisks I don’t get it), not even all of the “TERMS AND CONDITIONS MAY APPLY*” listed on the damn thing, how are you supposed to know how to use it when they won’t tell you how to use it.

I hate it. I hate every fucking second of it, and it’s starting to show. I can’t muster up enough “how are you today” to mask my disgust for my own source of income and the people who call are mistaking it for impatience and disdain and it makes these calls even more unbearable every goddamn day. I’m in the customer service industry because I like helping people, I like being able to look at things like a puzzle and come to a solution together.

That’s how we went into this job, me and Dawn. We liked the idea of getting away from banking, away from “well if you read your contract...”, away from just saying no, no, no, no, no, over and over again day in and day out. Somewhere we could actually solve problems, even if they’re just little ones. Making things easier and better for people. This.... Isn’t it. It just isn’t. I’m making money for a company who makes money off of a company who makes money off of human beings. People who are poor, sick, disabled, old, people who need this medication to function, who either can’t live without it literally, or even just need it to make their day a little more bearable. People who have no other alternative to turn to.

And yeah, you know, I would just quit. I hate working here, so why work here, right? If it’s so awful, leave. Well, would if I could. I need this job for now, I need to have the stability and income this job provides so I can escape. Escape this shithole job in this shithole state in this shithole country. I’m leaving, I’m trying harder and harder every day to get the fuck out of here, and if I have to look for another job now it’ll delay everything. And I can’t abide that. I was supposed to be gone from here before the end of the year last year. I don’t think I’ll survive to see the end of this one if I’m still here.

[nightcoremoon]

I overheard a coworker complaining about me and my work ethic. keep in mind that he's a 40-something misogynist twatbag who smells like he hasn't fucking showered in literal years. he said he was "done being nice" (we haven't even spoken once before tonight, mainly because I can't even fucking breathe near him, the stench is so disgusting) and that I needed to just "pick the shit up and put it down". context. my supervisor told me to do my normal shit, take a cart of freight from the back and stock the products on the shelves. (I work at walmart, if nobody's seen my other personal posts.) I'm doing this and helping customers and going at my own pretty quick but not literal lightning fast pace, keeping all the empty boxes and plastic wrap in as small a space as I can for the sake of our customers who, as our lord and savior sam walton said, are number one. I have some issues with physical dexterity so it takes me a little bit longer to use the box cutter (when the box doesn't say you can't use it) and to tear the flaps and unwrap the junk and stick the shit on the shelves. my arms, hands, and fingers are slow and it's not my fault I have muscular AND nervous AND attention issues after all. but my supervisor swooped in and was all "we gotta get these carts moving". I was like, yeah sure I'll get right on that_{, fucking prick,}and continued at the same pace. the cart's fine, the product's fine, it's all organized and not a mess at all. a customer rolls by, and old man on an electric scooter, and he asks me where the pickled beets are. I lead him to them and he then goes on tangent after tangent about attention spans and truck driving and oregon's nature and appreciating the beauty of the world around us. midway through my supervisor saw this was happening and decided to start doing shit on the cart to help me because he's nice like that, and the entire time I'm just "yeah, I see, uh huh, cool, okay" hurry the fuck up bro I've got important work-related things to do, which I'm not gonna say because the dude's probably lonely! he's a disabled old man whose grandkids probably don't talk to him thus why he latched onto me, probably the first person in a while who engaged him in conversation for more than thirty seconds. anyway, when he's finally talked himself out and rolled away, I return to my cart only to see my supervisor made a GODDAMNED MESS of the whole thing. empty boxes on top of shit that needs to go on the shelves, overstock that needs to go to the back room on top of the empty boxes, plastic wrap fucking everywhere, and he tells me to finish the cart before walking away. I spent five entire minutes fixing the whole fucking trainwreck, minutes I could have spent putting the shit I needed to put away onto the shelves where they go without needed to waste time cleaning up shit I wouldn't have fucked up in the first place if I did it alone. I guess the whole charade of integrity is a bunch of bullshit and the quality of our work doesn't fucking matter. I know I'm getting $9 an hour but that's still like a thousand dollars a month after taxes, and I only need three quarters of that to pay for rent, insurance, internet, student loans, phone, gas, food, payments for some car repair, and my hormones. so the pay is just what I need, and I'm not gonna do a shitty half assed job and end up getting fired for doing a shitty half assed job. but now I'm torn between doing well for the company and doing it fast for my managers. anyway, when I'm finally done and I start on another cart of freight, the supervisor comes in and says he'll take over for me and tells me to go to the back room and clean it up. a task that I have never fucking done before and can only assume entails things that I went ahead and did. a few minutes later he comes back and is all "oh hey stop doing that and put overstock pallets together". to those uninformed, when there's no room for items to go on the shelves, we write "overstock [date]" on it and it gets sent to... another store or something, idfk. so I'm told to put a dozen random assorted messy as fuck miscellaneous assorted carts' worth of shit that doesn't fit onto a couple pallets. but do I put the food with the paper products? do I put it all in the same thing? should I keep the bleach and laundry detergent separate from the cereal and granola so nobody gets poisoned? I don't know! my only directions were to condense it as much as possible like I'm playing Tetris. which, by the way, I am a fucking badass monster at, so hey, my skillset. once I'm doing this, I get all the paper plates and plastic silverware to fit pretty tightly compact on the pallet (a really good job, aesthetically pleasing, made me proud of my work), so I start working on the cereal which is a fucking mess and a half. they're all 3 foot by 4 foot by 4 foot boxes. huge and bulky as fuck. there's lots of empty space in between all of them so I take the stuff off and start to push things together so they'll fit more tightly. enter smelly mc-sexist-pig he tells me to just stick it all on top and he's just picking it up and putting it fuck-all wherever on the pallet. I end up undoing everything he did to fix what he's doing incredibly shittily, like trying to force the box over without realizing; dumbass is tearing the boxes underneath it. "fucking pay attention to what the hell you're doing" running through my head. he waddled on away to grab another cart and then the rest of my department shows up and they just throw shit on top of itself and by the time their whirlwind of mediocrity is gone there's three precariously-stacked pallets of random-as-shit uneven nightmares for any perfectionists with OCD such as myself (I do actually have several obsessive-compulsions linked to my sensory issues). enter me stepping out onto the parking lot and stinky running his angry little mouth to my other coworkers about how a certain person he works with needs to just get with the program already. yeah, I guess I'll just give less of a shit about my job than you give about your personal hygiene and respect for women. fuck integrity, fuck caring about the quality of the work I do, fuck anything that you yourself don't care about. I'll just show up, slap shit onto a shelf, clock out, go home and sleep, lather rinse repeat. I mean, I don't give two shits about the well being of walmart, but if they're gonna give me that sweet sweet materialistic capitalist cash to put shit on their shelves, I'm gonna make damn sure that it doesn't look ugly as fuck. the speed will come with time and my supervisors are just gonna have to be patient with me, my coworkers are just gonna have to deal with it, & customers are gonna ask me stupid fucking questions the entire time ("where's the cereal" it's in the aisle that right above your head FUCKING SAYS THE WORD CEREAL YOU BLIND FUCKTRUMPET). until then, if they try to start shit with me about how I'm not sacrificing quality for speed, I'll be more than happy to use every card in my deck to keep favor with upper management and the corporation's love for keeping disability hires.

[qqueenofhades]

the trash saga of flynn and lucy: xiv

as ever, catch up on OH MY GOD IS IT STILL GOING in the trash saga of flynn and lucy, or ao3 here.

Nobody has any idea where they are.

(For that matter, and perhaps more pertinently, nobody has any idea when they are.)

Their memories of the immediately preceding moments are more than a little jumbled, flashing in and out in bursts like a poorly tuned television aerial, as Lucy sits with her head between her knees and doesn’t imagine she’ll feel like coming up any time soon. Iris shot John Rittenhouse – yes, she remembers that part, remembers it with appalling clarity, the look on Flynn’s face as the sound of it echoed like thunder. John appeared to be dead when he went down, but none of them stopped to be sure –not even Flynn, who might once have insisted on administering the coup de grace himself. They needed to get out of there, he never wanted his daughter to do this, to be like him, to take on the same sin, and none of them thought of anything but making it to the Mothership. Iris, it turns out, can pilot it – sort of. She has been trained to be Rittenhouse’s most elite operative, the insurance plan for Emma, but she has never actually flown the damn thing outside of carefully controlled test conditions. That just-completed jump was her first real one, ever. They’re lucky she stuck the landing, but she also wasn’t exactly sure how to aim or where, and that is a very dangerous thing to do with a time machine. They could, theoretically, be just about anywhen. The Ice Age, the Jurassic, earlier, when Earth is still a flaming ball of rock inhospitable to life. Or further, far further, in the opposite direction, moments before all time ends and the sun goes supernova. There is absolutely no way to know.

Lucy groans, pretty sure she’s just going to have to give up the ghost and be sick anyway, but still trying not to. She feels as slammed around as if she has been on one of those planes that fly through the eyewalls of hurricanes, or sent through an industrial washer. She is obviously not about to criticize Iris’ driving when the alternative was to stay in Salem and be burned as witches or hanged for John’s murder (is he dead? Rittenhouse still has plenty of members, it’s probably not destroyed outright, but is it weakened? Has that affected their existence in the future?) but she doesn’t feel up to facing whatever fresh catastrophe is doubtless in front of them. Not yet.

A hand touches her back. “Lucy,” Flynn’s voice says in her ear. “Lucy.”

Lucy utters an indeterminate noise that she hopes will convey the information that yes, she is alive, and yes, she more or less thinks she’ll stay that way, but that her guts have been rearranged like a collapsing Jenga puzzle and she is going to need a moment here. She hears Flynn say something in a low voice to Iris, who cycles the hatch open, and a blast of cold, pine-smelling air hits them from outside. No lava, then. Hopefully no supernova (or dinosaurs) either. Lucy tries to get her tongue around words to tell Iris about the autopilot override, the one that is supposed to enable Rufus to pull them out, until she remembers that Emma disabled it while pulling off her Grand Theft Auto in 1829. Maybe it can be activated again, though Flynn is clearly the expert in that department and not Lucy, but they have to know what the hell happened first.

After several more deeply unpleasant minutes, Lucy straightens up slowly, hoping that this will not result in turning the Mothership into the Vomit Comet. It does not, thankfully, and the first thing she sees is Flynn still bending over her with an anxious expression on his face. What little Lucy can see of their landing spot through the open door is forest. There’s a hint of blue sky, a patch of sun, so it almost seems idyllic, some return to nature, away from the fuss and mess and chaos of civilization. “Where – when are we?”

“I don’t know.” Iris continues to examine the readouts. “Someone messed with the processing core, as well as the other software systems, so I don’t have the usual information.” She flips a switch up and down a few times, clearly hoping for a reboot, while Lucy looks pointedly at the man who disconnected the Mothership’s CPU and agreed to install a remote lock on the control console. If trying home improvement by yourself is a terrible idea, DIYing your time machine is an even worse one. “I was – I was aiming forward.”

“We’ll work it out.” Flynn’s voice is rusty when he speaks, as he tries to catch his daughter’s eye, but she won’t look at him either. “It might not be the worst thing in the world to have a moment to catch our breath.”

Lucy does not disagree, as she still hasn’t caught hers, and undoes her crash webbing, preparing to stand up. This, however, is more than her body’s upside-down equilibrium feels at all like cooperating with, and she takes a few swaying steps and then almost falls out the door, clutching onto the landing strut as she is thoroughly and wretchedly sick. Her mouth burns foully as she remains on all fours, gasping, and Flynn is outside after her in a flash, kneeling next to her and trying to get her to put her arm around his neck. Lucy is feeling too grim to argue, and does so, letting him pick her up. He gets a better grip on her, swinging her across his chest bridal-style, as Iris steps out as well, gaze flickering to them and then away. It’s clear that they need to do some recon, and she takes the lead, bushwhacking steadily through the trees with Flynn (and thus Lucy) traipsing behind her. They have been walking for about forty minutes when Flynn lifts his head and sniffs. “I think we’re in Russia.”

Both Iris and Lucy give him how-do-you-know-that looks, and he gives them the look of a man from Eastern Europe, who has worked in intelligence and espionage for most of his adult life and as such has spent a lot of fucking time in Russia. “Siberia, I think,” he goes on, as they make it to the top of another hill and gaze down at the jumble of wilderness below. “Somewhere in the taiga. Eastern, probably, since the trees look like larch and I can’t see any wetlands. Kolyma, maybe? Or Kamchatka Krai. Not winter, luckily, but it’s still going to be cold when it gets dark. Or it’s the midnight sun and it won’t, but either way. We don’t want to be exposed out here.”

“We’d have to go back to the Mothership, then,” Iris says, likewise with the cool, detached tone of a soldier talking strategy to her commander. “But there’s no food and not much space for shelter there, and we’d still have to walk back in the morning. I think we can manage one night out in the open if we need to.”

Her father opens his mouth, then shuts it and nods tersely. For her part, feeling a bit like a literal deadweight while the Flynns are tasked with saving their asses, Lucy tugs at his sleeve. “I – I think I’m all right now. You can put me down.”

He looks dubious, but does so, clearly hoping that this does not trigger another projectile vomiting episode. Lucy hopes so too, and steadies herself on his arm until she is confident that it won’t. Once more, she can feel Iris watching them under her eyelashes, not saying anything out loud but not entirely approving either, and Lucy winces. Iris has saved their lives, and seems to be sincere in her decision to turn against Rittenhouse (to say the least, she would not have shot John if she wasn’t) but she is still utterly inscrutable, and far from safe or predictable. Again, too much like her father, and too angry at everything that’s led her here.

After a pause, they start to move again, and trudge for another hour at least. Lucy keeps glancing around warily – if they are in Siberia, and she sees no reason to doubt Flynn’s diagnosis, there are man-eating grizzlies out here, and as the only weapon they have is Iris’ pistol, that might not prove terribly efficacious against a charging one-ton brown bear. She thinks of all the spooky things she’s read about that have involved the Russian wilderness – the USS Jeannette expedition in 1879-81, the Tunguska event in 1908, the Dyatlov Pass incident in 1959, Solzhenitsyn and the Stalinist gulags, the Lykov family who lived in complete isolation for decades, the ice highways on frozen rivers, the aforementioned bears, and all the other ways in which this vast, untamed, fey place can kill you. Lucy is from California. Outside of her time traveling, she’s never been anywhere outside a few hours’ drive from a city. Her dislike of small spaces is well noted, but somehow this, here, with too much space, is almost as unsettling.

The sun has vanished behind the horizon, and the wind chill is enough to make Lucy’s teeth rattle, by the time they finally spot something remotely resembling human presence ahead – a cabin, in fact. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home, although either way, Russian hermits are probably not terribly huge on unexpected company. Iris shifts to get hold of her gun, and Flynn gives her a terse look, clearly wishing that she would let him handle the shooting part rather than having to keep doing it, but doesn’t say anything. They venture cautiously up the porch, and (not sure if they want it to be answered or not) they knock.

Boy, Lucy thinks. I sure hope that Flynn isn’t completely mistaken, and that we’re not actually near a little-known Soviet nuclear power plant called Chernobyl, 1986. Yes, that would require them to be literally on the other side of the country, but still.

When nobody answers, Iris and Flynn glance at each other, take up positions to either side of the door, and he kicks it in as Iris covers him. They make a good (and scary) team, and as they peer into the dim cabin, waiting to see if something is going to leap out at them, Lucy tries to slow her racing heart. She still feels too cold in a way that does not owe itself to Siberian weather, unable to catch her breath. Shock, probably. Now that they have, even for a moment, stopped moving, that there is the possibility of sitting down and facing her near-death in Salem and the chaos of their uncontrolled escape through time and the trudge through the taiga, not to remotely mention the rest of recent events, she will be lucky to get through tonight without a complete meltdown. Not yet. There are still things to worry about apart from herself. She’ll hold it together.

Still nothing. Iris and Flynn advance in cautiously and take a look, trying to guess the approximate time period, and Lucy quickly finds a newspaper. As Flynn is the only one of them who reads Russian, she hands it to him, and the date is discovered to be April 4, 1965. At least it was, as there is no way to know how current the paper is, but it doesn’t look yellowed or old or left for too long. This is definitely an outpost of some sort: there is a moth-eaten sofa, a radio, a faded portrait of Stalin, cross-country skis and other gear, and a hunting rifle, which Flynn immediately appropriates. He finds the ammo boxes and loads it, going back outside to further check their surroundings, while Iris and Lucy sink onto the rickety kitchen chairs. This all feels like the prologue to a horror movie to Lucy, as if someone or something is going to come out of the woods at midnight, and suddenly, she doesn’t want Flynn out there alone, even with the rifle. She starts to stand up. “Maybe we should keep moving.”

“Not at night.” Iris looks at her for the first time since she rescued them in Salem, gaze cool and unrevealing. “This is Russia in the middle of the Cold War, and if – Daddy’s right about where we are, we’re on the far eastern coast, probably right across the Bering Sea from Alaska. I’m guessing this is a hotspot for smuggling the KGB into American territory.”

Lucy can’t help but be impressed at this display of historical knowledge, as she always is, even as she remembers that Iris has been educated by Rittenhouse and all of it has been meant to identify and target the places where it can be more usefully changed. It is still unbelievably jarring to see this beautiful, intelligent, dangerous, guarded young woman, when she was taking care of the scared little girl just a few weeks ago, and Iris is not even her daughter. It must be a thousand, a hundred thousand times more surreal and heartbreaking for Flynn. An unhinged little giggle slips out. “So, uh, I guess they really can see Russia from their house here?”

Iris looks at her blankly, not understanding the joke, and Lucy bites her tongue. She looks at the paper again, trying to make any sense of the Cyrillic characters, but it is impenetrable. She opens the cupboards and checks the supplies instead; this definitely looks like the mid-sixties, and there are even a few American brands, as whoever lives here must not be opposed to taking contraband in trade, if the alternative is eating Soviet canned food all the time. The Cuban Missile Crisis was three years ago, assuming the date on the paper is accurate. Khrushchev was deposed last October, and Brezhnev is First Secretary. Schoolchildren across America are probably still practicing their duck-and-cover-under-the-desk drills religiously.

Lucy shuts the cupboards and goes through the curtain to the small alcove that proves to be the bedroom. A Russian Orthodox icon sits on the table, along with a bottle of vodka and a half-full pack of American Marlboros. She lies down on the bed, shivering. Leering images of the crowd in Salem, baying for their blood, swirl against her eyelids whenever she closes them, and she opens them again with a jerk, clenching her fists.

She stays there for some interminable interlude, until the sound of shouting and then the distinctive crack of a gunshot outside wrenches her upright as if someone has yanked a fishhook in her belly. She almost has a panic attack as she lurches off the bed and runs back through the cabin, remembering just in time not to burst into the open if someone unfriendly is out there shooting. “Garcia? Garcia!”

“I’m here, Lucy.”  He sounds more than a little tense as he answers, but Lucy momentarily clutches onto the doorframe in relief, as she and Iris peer out and see the shape of a body lying at his feet. It is (or was, probably) the owner of this cabin, also with a gun in hand. He doesn’t look like a crazy, bearded survivalist, so Iris’ theory is probably right, and he was a KGB agent returning from smuggling fellow operatives across the Bering Strait in battered fishing trawlers. Flynn is already kneeling next to him, ransacking his jacket in search of ID.

“Did you have to shoot him?” Lucy mutters, more for the sake of form than anything. She knows Flynn was never going to let an armed man into the cabin with her and Iris, and the guy likely would have done the same, but still.

Flynn shrugs. “I don’t like Russians.”

Lucy bites her tongue on remarking that he doesn’t like anyone, though she considers that a man from former-Yugoslavia, who has worked for American intelligence, probably doesn’t, no. They find a battered USSR state identity card, which gives the dead man’s name as Nikolai, but no obvious KGB affiliation, as he’s probably not dumb enough to carry it around with him. Lucy hopes that no superiors will be radioing in to check on him, or asking him to arrange another drop. She is suddenly tempted to head straight back to the Mothership (though with their luck, Nikolai’s friends picked it up, decided it was a strange American nuclear missile or spy device, and called it into Moscow) and get out of here, rest or no rest. It doesn’t seem like the most peaceful of places, anyway.

It, however, is still pitch-black and freezing, and the only thing more ill-advised than possibly and inadvertently turning the Cold War hot is to try to find their way back to the Mothership in the depths of Siberian night. Once Flynn has dragged Nikolai’s body a few hundred yards away from the cabin and scuffed some leaves and undergrowth over it, he returns and heads inside, grimacing. Lucy can see blood on his shirt that isn’t from his immediately previous activities, and frowns. “Did you break your stitches?”

“I said I’m fine, Lucy.”

“No,” she snaps. “Sit down and let me check.”

Flynn is briefly flummoxed, but Lucy grabs him by the arm and forces him into the rickety chair, as Iris almost looks amused. She hides it quickly, vanishing through the curtain to the bedroom, which leaves Flynn and Lucy, for the moment, alone. Lucy rummages in the cupboards until she finds the first aid kit, and pulls Flynn’s shirt and the crusted bandages away from where they have stuck to his shoulder wound, which isn’t looking terribly happy. She sucks in a breath. “This could be infected.”

Flynn answers with a grunt and only a faint flinch as she prods. Wyatt’s neat stitches are mostly holding, but have tugged loose and been spotted with blood in places. Then she lifts the hem of his shirt to check on his side, which has granulated somewhat better but still will require close watching. She has not come this far just to let Flynn die stupidly of septicemia, especially if he is too stubborn to admit that it is even a possibility. At last he says, “You’re not my nurse, Lucy.”

“No, I’m not, am I?” Lucy tries to keep her voice down, as she knows Iris can probably hear them – the cabin is small and the curtain is thin – and doesn’t really feel like an audience for this argument. “I might never know what I – what we are, but heaven forbid I take care of you?”

“It’s like I said in Salem. I don’t –” He grimaces again as she unscrews the pungent-smelling tube of antibiotic ointment, hoping that sixties Soviet medicine can get the job done, and dabs it on. “Can’t you just give up trying to save me? One of these days?”

“Is that really what you want?” Lucy gulps back her usual nausea at the sight of blood, as her stomach still isn’t very pleased from earlier, and refocuses. “Or is it just what you’re asking for, deflecting with, because you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Sure,” Lucy says. “We can go with that.”

Flynn looks miffed that she thinks he would ever be less than 100% forthcoming with his feelings (yeah, where would she ever get that idea?) “Lucy – ”

“Garcia.” Lucy wipes her hands on one of the kitchen rags. She doesn’t want to fight with him again. “Please stop talking.”

For once, Flynn does as instructed, snapping his mouth shut on whatever misjudged opinion he was about to offer. Lucy gets the kettle and brews them both a cup of strong black Russian tea, then one for Iris as well, and the three of them sit around the tiny table in something almost like familiar silence. Once they’re done, Lucy gets up. “I think I’m going to try to sleep.”

“I’ll keep watch.” Flynn answers almost abstractedly, moving to get the hunting rifle and putting it on the table next to him. “You both should.”

“No,” Iris says. “I’ll sit up too.”

“You should go to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“As usual?” It slips out, almost before Flynn can catch it, and he looks as if he wants to bite it back, but can’t. “It’s a different sort of monster under the bed, dragi.”

Iris’ lip trembles in something too sad to be a smile. “I know.”

Lucy quietly gets to her feet, wanting to leave the two of them together, and backs through the curtain to the bedroom. The wind is sighing and keening through the trees outside, she thinks of Nikolai lying dead in the grove, and the immensity of the darkness and wilderness beyond this tiny foothold, and burrows fully clothed under the covers, unable to stop shaking. She curls up on her side. The bedclothes smell of damp and smoke and some too-harsh cologne.

The ghosts of Salem come rushing up once more when she closes her eyes. She refuses to open them again, breathing shallowly, clutching a fistful of pillow until she feels at all grounded. Just one night. They can get out of here tomorrow. Exactly where is, as ever, the question. Hope Iris can steer this time. But 1965 is the closest she’s been to the modern world, to her own time, since she left 2017 to go to 1861 London, and she feels a desolation at the thought of once more leaving it. Even if back-of-beyond Cold War Russia isn’t anything like home, at least there’s the chance, the glimpse, the thought of reaching it. Has history been fixed yet, or rather, moderately less torched? Does she exist again? Can she go back?

Does she want to go back?

Lucy Preston has spent a lot of time in the past by now. Far more than anyone should. And yet, she has absolutely no idea, not even a flicker, of her future.

It takes a while. Her dreams aren’t pleasant. But she sleeps.

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

“Here,” Iris says, holding out the bottle of vodka and the pack of Marlboros. “Pass the time?”

Flynn’s lip twitches. “I don’t think I can agree, as a parent, to offer my daughter alcohol and cigarettes.”

“I’m offering them to you.” Iris raises an eyebrow, in a gesture that reminds him so much of his own that it makes his heart ache. She gets up, finds a lighter in one of the drawers, and pulls out one of the Reds, flicking a spark to it and taking a drag. She blows out a fine ghost of smoke, not saying a word, until Flynn finally takes one of his own, feeling that if she’s going to, he’ll have to as well. His shoulder throbs. He’s in more pain than he’ll admit to Lucy. Some self-medication might not be the worst thing in the world.

They sit there, both listening hard for anything moving outside, forged into this uneasy unity for the time being. Iris gets up again and lights some of the thick white candles, wedging them into empty jars. There is obviously no electricity up here, so while it might technically be the middle of the twentieth century, it feels much earlier. Flynn wants to say something, wants to speak to her so desperately, but he is afraid of shattering whatever fragile rapprochement exists. Finally he says, “Thank you. For Salem.”

“You’re – you’re welcome.” Iris sits down again, tapping the ashes off her cigarette and staring into the candlelight. Her eyes are the image of Lorena’s, and Flynn’s heart twists in half again. “I don’t know what came over me. It was like I’d been asleep, all that time, and then just like that – I woke up.” She shrugs, almost diffidently, painfully. “I saw what they were, and I didn’t want to be one of them anymore. Daddy, are you. . . are you angry with me?”

“How could I ever be angry with you?” Flynn, startled past all reticence, reaches across the table and grabs her hand, holding hard, tears trembling at the edge of control despite himself. “How could I ever? When you were strong enough to overcome those bastards, when you saved us, when you would have had every right not to? No, my baby. No, I’m not. I’m not.”

Iris looks down. Very quietly, she says, “Do you think I killed him? John Rittenhouse?”

Flynn does not want to even think about the answer to that question, when once it would have been all he cared about. He half-hopes that John is still alive, that Iris has not had to take on the guilt of murder even once; if so, he can finish it later. He’s used to killing, he’s already aware of the cost. He’ll carry it. He doesn’t want her to.

He says, “I don’t know.”

Iris’ fingers clench briefly in his. After a moment she says, “Why did we end up here?”

“I have an idea.” Flynn finishes his own cigarette, pours himself a dram of vodka, and knocks it back. “Your grandfather.”

Iris looks startled. “My grandfather?”

“Yes. My father. His name was Asher, Asher Flynn.” His throat sticks; he hasn’t talked about the old bastard in a long time. Probably since Lorena. “His parents – my grandparents – met in World War II. His mother was a resistance fighter in the Independent State of Croatia – that was what it was called then, it was a puppet regime controlled by the Nazis. She tried to break people out of Jasenovac concentration camp, the place they called the Auschwitz of the Balkans. His father was a Red Army soldier, we don’t know what happened to him. Grandmother thought he probably died in Stalingrad. It was only one night, and she never saw him again. My father did not say so, but I got the feeling that she had not much wanted a child, and resented him for it.”

Iris is watching him intently. She has never heard this part of her family history – has never heard any of it, really, as she died when she was five, when none of this mattered. Now she’s alive again, and it does. She can sense that this is a painful topic, and waits, instead of pressing for details. Finally, as he’s still groping for the words, she says, “And?”

“His name was Aleksandr.” Flynn takes another drink. “When he was six, Grandmother married a British Army officer, George Flynn, and he changed it to Asher. He grew up mostly in strict English boarding schools, but when he was eighteen, he ran away and went back to Yugoslavia. Became a spy and saboteur against the Russians – blamed his father for leaving his mother, for dying, I suppose. He met my mother, Maria – I don’t think you remember her, you were only one when she died – when she moved from America in 1970. They were married in ‘72, I was born in ‘74. Those are the basics.”

“So. . .” Iris frowns. “You think Grandpa might be. . . here? In Russia somewhere, working as a spy against the KGB? And that was what I was thinking of, without knowing it?”

“I don’t know for sure, but if it’s 1965 – yes, he would be.” Flynn blows out a breath. “I doubt it’s anywhere particularly nearby. Russia is a big place, after all. But yes, that might have been what drew us here, unconsciously. And my father – it’s complicated.”

Iris considers him. “How so?”

“He was. . . difficult.” Flynn looks back at the candle, dripping waxen gremlins in its jam jar. “He had a temper. He was angry a lot. He and my mother would fight, and I thought he would hit her, and I had to protect her, even when I was very young. He thought she coddled me too much, and she thought he raised me like a soldier, not a son. She was. . . sad. All the time, she always had it about her. She had been married once before, in America, but her husband died in a car crash and her son, my older half-brother, died when he was six, from an allergic reaction to a bee sting. My father almost blamed her for it, that she had never gotten over it, that she never seemed to be happy all the way. He said he was sorry that we were only the replacements. They. . .”

At that, Flynn pauses. He can still hear their shouting, and the way he played nervously with his cowboy toys, aged eight, hoping they would stop. “They divorced, finally, when I was fourteen. I always admired my father, in a way. I wanted to be like him, because everyone was afraid of him, and he could do whatever he wanted. But I knew as well that he was not a good man, and was not a good father. I always told myself that if I ever had children, I would be nothing like him. I made up a little with him before he died, and he admitted some of his faults, but it was never forgiven entirely. I talked with. . . your mother about it, before you were born. That I was so afraid I would become him. And now, knowing that I have, and that you’ve become like me, like him too – no wonder we’re here. It is a big circle. None of us can escape it.”

Iris doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. She opens her mouth as if to apologize again, then stops. Finally she says, very quietly, “What happened, Daddy? With me and. . . and Mama?”

Flynn looks at the tabletop. “Do you want to know?”

“Yes.” Iris doesn’t blink. “I want to know.”

If she’s sure, Flynn thinks, then he might as well, as he can hardly feel much more gutted than he presently does. So, as simply as he can (which is impossible when the whole thing is this insane) he explains to Iris what happened, that she and Lorena were killed by Rittenhouse, that he got a journal and a chance to change it, stole a time machine, and has been trying ever since, ever more impossibly, to bring them back. That he doesn’t know how he somehow saved her, but not Lorena. That she has been brought back to life only to be trained and molded into Rittenhouse’s perfect weapon for fifteen years, that she has been robbed, that she has been robbed. That all of this has become enmeshed, ever more impossibly, with Lucy Preston, and the question of her own fate, her own destiny. And that, well. That Flynn knows the least about at all.

When he finishes, Iris is silent, rather (and excusably) stunned. “So,” she says at last, barely above a whisper. “You – you didn’t abandon us?”

“No.” Flynn feels in sore need of another cigarette, good examples be damned, and lights it, struggling to keep his voice even. “Not by any choice of mine. Not once. Not until I saw you in London in 1861, and you ran to me, and I thought you had to be a trick or a cruel joke or a. . . Iris, I’m sorry. My baby, I am so sorry. I don’t even know if I was the one who saved you, or how, or why any of it happened. I would give anything, anything, to have saved your mother as well, for the two of you to be alive again, to live together, even if it meant I had to trade my own life in doing it. But.” Flynn takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t. . .  I don’t know if I can.”

It is the first time he has ever admitted it out loud, the possibility of failure on his quest, when he has ostensibly succeeded at half of it with Iris, but at such a terrible cost. He feels impossibly, unbearably guilty. No, how can he do this, how can he admit defeat, when she is sitting across from him, when he knows there still might be a chance somehow for Lorena? He will not be able to live with any suggestion that he loves her any infinitesimal fraction less than he did, he does: with every inch, every sinew, every atom and particle and breath and dream and grief of him, the sun around which his dark and battered world revolved, the stars, the moon. He cannot concede that. He cannot simply replace it, or move on. He can’t.

(And yet – if he is being entirely honest with himself, which is a terrible thing to do that he avoids as much as possible – he knows that nonetheless, he has started to. Never meaning to, never wanting to, completely out of his control. And that is the most unforgivable thing of all.)

“Lucy,” Iris says, with perfect and unsettling clairvoyance. “You love her, don’t you?”

“I – ” Flynn’s first instinct, of course, is to deny it. That, however, is all it remains: an instinct. The actual words get stuck.

Iris smiles, very faintly and very sadly. “I’m sorry for what I said about her.”

“I – ” Flynn says again, wondering how they have gotten to the next stage of this, when he’s still hung up on the last part. “I’ll – I won’t. I’ll –I’ll try harder to bring your mother back, I’ll stop. I know it was a mistake, I’ll – ”

“Daddy.” Iris reaches across the table and puts her hand over his. Her voice isn’t terribly steady. “That’s not what I was asking you to do.”

Flynn careens to a jumbled halt, utterly thrown. “You. . .you weren’t?”

“No.” Iris knuckles at her eyes. “Of course I want Mama back. I know you do too. I know it. But if not. . . if it can’t happen, if you’ve done everything and then some, I don’t. . . I don’t want you to live like that for the rest of your life. You know.” She gestures timidly at their surroundings, at the literal irony embodied in it, the presence of his father, of the old family wounds, of all the Flynns’ mistakes. “In the past.”

Garcia Flynn has absolutely no clue what to say to that. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. The silence returns, even as the candles are starting to burn low, swimming in the wax, a small flame adrift among the darkness. He gulps a breath, then another. There is an immense ache in his chest, torn and raw, that is entirely different from the pain in his shoulder. He isn’t sure which one hurts more, or which is the kind of pain that means it might ever heal.

Quietly, Iris says, “Daddy, I’m tired.”

The tears almost come up his throat then, but he doesn’t let them. Instead he nods, gets to his feet, steps around the table, and picks her up out of the chair, carrying her to the ratty sofa and settling down with her. She’s much too big to sit on his lap now, but neither of them care. He holds her tighter than he ever has, than he ever remembers, from when they first laid her in his arms as a newborn in the hospital in Dubrovnik, on that sunny morning when his world changed forever. He rocks her, humming a tuneless lullaby under his breath, as the tears start falling freely. As Iris Flynn drifts off to sleep, at last, and somewhere in the darkness, for a short while at least, Garcia Flynn once more believes in God.

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

Lucy wakes up feeling better, at least somewhat. She sits up slowly, testing the steadiness of her head and stomach, but the sleep has helped, and she doesn’t seem any more crappy than could be expected. She is hungry, which is a good sign, and swings cautiously out of bed, pushing the curtain aside and emerging into the main living area of the cabin. Glances across to the sofa, and sees father and daughter asleep on it, Iris curled up on Flynn’s lap and her head cradled against his shoulder, both of them dead to the world. Lucy doesn’t want to disturb them for anything, and tries to fix breakfast from the tinned goods as quietly as she can. The world outside is nothing but a sea of thick, featureless mist.

Flynn and Iris begin to stir as they smell food (read: powdered eggs and toast made from black bread that is the approximate weight and consistency of petrified wood). Lucy makes more of the tea, scrapes some strange Russian preserve over the toast, and carries it to the table, as they blink, yawn, disentangle themselves, and sit up, looking groggy but shyly pleased. The atmosphere certainly seems different, and they eat in more or less congenial silence. Then Lucy says, “Are we going to try to make it back to the Mothership?”

“Not in this fog, we can’t.” Flynn mops up the remainder of his eggs with his toast. “I’m still not sure exactly where we are, either. Somewhere in the Far East, close to Alaska. Kamchatka Peninsula, most likely. If so – ”

“It’s a prime Cold War battleground,” Lucy completes. “Iris told me about her theory last night.”

“Ah.” Flynn coughs, looking almost proud. “I’m sure you know, then. I’ll go out and take a look, see if anyone has come sniffing for Nikolai. You two should stay here.”

“No,” Lucy says. “I don’t want you to go by yourself.”

Flynn, who of course prefers doing things by himself, opens his mouth to object, but Lucy is insistent. It is also most sensible to leave Iris to hold down the fort, as she can handle a gun if unexpected intruders come knocking, and Flynn and Lucy bundle up from the jackets and wraps in the tiny closet. All of it smells like fish. It is, however, far preferable to freezing, and Flynn makes sure he has plenty of ammunition for the hunting rifle, which he slings over his shoulder with casual ease. He takes out the flashlight and the matches and anything else he thinks they might need if they have the bad luck to get lost, and loads it into a rucksack. Then, promising Iris that they will be back by nightfall, they cautiously step outside the cabin and shut the door.

The first thing they do is check on Nikolai. He has frozen overnight, and does not appear to have attracted the attention of anything large and carnivorous, but Flynn decides he’s still too close to the cabin for comfort. He drags the body a further way, well out of sight or wind, and while Lucy tries not to watch, hacks a shallow grave out of the earth. She thinks of that Russian Orthodox icon on the bedside table back in the cabin. It’s too late now to feel guilty about his death, especially given that she wasn’t responsible for it and that he might well have done the same to them, but she can’t help it. She’s tired of people dying, famous ones or nameless ones alike. She loves history, but she is so exhausted by the weight of it. By the tragedy. How it goes, and comes, and goes, and comes again, inexorable.

Flynn finishes up, brushes his hands off, and they tramp deeper into the woods, looking for any hint of other human presence. If Nikolai was indeed KGB, they’ll presumably be back here before long with a new batch of operatives for him to smuggle into Alaska, and even Flynn probably can’t take on a whole squadron of angry Russian special ops alone. (Not that that would stop him trying.) As they walk, breath steaming silver in the chill, Lucy says, “Why on earth do you think we ended up here?”

Flynn glances at her sidelong. His voice is carefully offhand. “No idea.”

Something about that gives Lucy the distinct impression that he might know exactly why, or at least strongly suspects, but doesn’t feel like sharing it with her. She debates whether or not to press, as she’s also deeply curious about what he and Iris might have talked about last night to lead to that tender scene this morning on the couch, but she knows it is not her place. She keeps close to Flynn, keeping a wary eye out for bears, but nothing, thankfully. Then when they reach the top of a hill, some of the mist thins and she can glimpse a truly spectacular jigsaw of white-capped mountains in the distance. Her jaw drops. “Wow.”

“Yes, this is Kamchatka, all right.” Flynn seems to enjoy her reaction. “Like the view?”

“It’s amazing,” Lucy says, as they start down the trail on the far side. It’s steep and slippery, and Flynn keeps hold of her arm most of the way, as her shoes from 1692 are not exactly up to the rigors of more Siberian tundra-tramping; they are already decidedly chewed up from yesterday. At the bottom, she gets a strong whiff of sulfur, and looks at Flynn in confusion. “What, is there a local portal to hell around here?”

“No, probably a hot spring. This place has a lot of geysers, and half those mountains are volcanoes.” He remarks this casually, as if it is not yet another way in which they might die here, and laughs at the look on her face. Actually laughs, with gentle, genuine amusement. She doesn’t think she has ever seen him do that before. “Don’t worry, most of them are extinct. But that’s why they call Kamchatka the Land of Fire and Ice. Come on.”

Curiosity piqued, Lucy follows him to the source of the sulfur smell, which turns out to be a small pool shielded by a tumble of rocks and a larch grove, smoking gently in the midmorning sun. Flynn kneels down and tests it with a finger, then grins. “Here.”

Lucy crouches next to him and puts her hand in warily, bracing for it to be freezing, as one would imagine for a pond in the middle of the Siberian wilderness. But instead it is shockingly, delightfully hot, just the right temperature for a long and luxurious bath. It makes her gasp involuntarily with the pleasure, and she can feel Flynn once more looking at her sidelong, almost hesitantly, as if waiting to see what she is going to do about it. The possibility of KGB agents, bears, or KGB-agent bears remains, of course, considerable. But after a moment, Lucy makes up her mind. Stands up, pulls off the wraps and jackets and the battered remnants of her Salem clothes, shivering all over as the cold wind stings her bare skin, and jumps in.

She splashes fully under, has a moment to hope that it’s not too deep or there’s not a hidden current or some horrible flesh-eating bacteria or whatever else, but the sensation of immersion is too glorious to care. She bobs up, and discovers that the water is about four and a half feet deep, with a bottom of smooth-worn stones, so she can stand easily. She ducks down so the water covers her shoulders, hair drifting loose like dark weed, and shudders again with the feeling of it soaking into her raw and sore and aching body. Looks up at Flynn, staring at her from the bank like a man struck down by a heavenly vision, and says, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to get wet?”

He does that seemingly unconscious thing with his tongue that he sometimes does while looking at her, while continuing to stare as if he can’t stop. Then – slowly at first, then faster – he pulls off his own clothes as well, heaping them on the bank. Swings one leg over the edge, then the other, and pushes into the gentle eddy of the water. Crosses the stones, and comes to her.

Lucy shudders all over, for another reason, as she lifts her wet arms and puts them around his neck. This is, as far as she can recall, the first time they have ever been completely naked together, seen each other in the full light of day, as all their previous encounters have been with some or even most of their clothes on, ripped aside in the necessary places but never taken off all the way. This is different, this is intimate, this is not just hunger or lust or challenge. His hands slide slowly down her torso, under the water, settling on her hips and lifting her. They remain there, holding each other without a word, steam rising around them in thick gusts and swirls. Then she tilts his head down to hers, puts a hand in his hair, and opens her mouth to kiss him.

Flynn makes a soft sound, likewise different from anything she’s heard from him as he hoists her up on him and leans back in the water, letting them float. It’s dreamy, slow, wet, hot, sweet, as they splash and sway in the warmth. Lucy doesn’t stop kissing him until she’s good and ready to, and only then, moves her head slightly away to rest their noses together. She notes vaguely that his shoulder wound looks somewhat better, so hopefully the antibiotic cream is tackling it before it gets any more inflamed. She wants to look at all of him. He is tall and lean and strong and scarred, rough-hewn, worn around the edges, solid as a rock. He moves to lift her again, as her legs lock around his waist, and she can feel him nudging between her legs. She hitches herself forward, arching her hips, and takes him inside her.

Flynn enters her with an accompanying rush of hot water, hard and deep, and Lucy moans as their slick bodies slide together to the point of completion. Her fingers claw in the muscles of his back, her hand coming up to the nape of his neck, urging his mouth down to explore her breasts, sucking and teasing. His hand slides down her spine, onto the small of her back, molding her more closely against him. He thrusts at the same time he bites her nipple, making her squeal, and she braces her forearms on his shoulders, lifting herself slightly, changing the angle of his penetration as he rides up into her. He whirls her around, slips half out, and then claims her again, as deep as he can. She breathes the steam and the salt and the sting of him, of them, sweet and slow. It feels downright pagan. Elemental, primeval. Magical.

It doesn’t take long for either of them to be urged to release, Lucy’s body shuddering in deep, uncontrollable spasms as some of the tension and toil and pain finally begins to be burned out of her. She gulps and gasps as Flynn’s mouth muses against hers, half a kiss and half a shared breath, strong and soft. They remain floating in an island of mist and steam, something cool on Lucy’s flushed face, a snowflake drifting from the pearly sky. Fire and ice, she thinks. Indeed.

At last, she shifts, letting Flynn slide out of her, and remains with her arms entangled around his neck as they sway. Then she says, “We need to make it back to Wyatt and Rufus. We need to find where they are, and what has happened to history as a result of – whatever Iris did to John Rittenhouse. We can’t do this alone, Garcia. We need the team. We need to fight. Together.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer, eyes half-closed, still holding onto her. As if he wants to stay like this for just a bit, just a bit longer, and then he will wake up. Then, without a word, he nods.

[s-leary]

Fascism Watch, January 17

(image by D. Weaver)

Congress

The Congressional Budget Office says Obamacare repeal would be disastrous:

The number of people who are uninsured would increase by 18 million in the first new plan year and 32 million in 2026

premiums would be 20-25% more than they would be if the ACA were kept in place over the next year; if the ACA were fully repealed, premiums would increase by 50%

a partial repeal that keeps the popular provisions of the ACA would lead insurers to leave the marketplace

Because the House Committee on Science, Space and Technology didn't have enough climate change deniers among its members, it just added six more.

Republicans Plan to Roll Back Parts of the Landmark Endangered Species Act

Trump

The Obama administration is trying to undermine Trump's legitimacy, says Putin. Wait, why is Putin worried about Trump's legitimacy if they have nothing to do with one another?

Ex-Nixon lawyer: Not even Nixon ‘comes close to the level of corruption we know about Trump’

Remember when Kellyanne Conway's husband represented Paula Jones in her suit against Bill Clinton and set the legal precedent that sitting presidents could be sued for actions that took place before they took office? Funny, that. A former Apprentice contestant is suing Trump for sexual assault.

Trump aide Anthony Scaramucci has met with head of the US-sanctioned Russian Direct Investment Fund to discuss joint investments

Reed Cordish, named Wednesday as assistant to the president for Intergovernmental and Technology Initiatives, runs a real estate company that is being sued for hiring white men to beat up black clubgoers.

Nearly a third of House Democrats will not attend Trump's inauguration, but representatives of Austria's Nazi party will.

Transition Team & Cabinet Appointees

Betsy DeVos

One of Betsy DeVos's investments includes a student debt collection agency that contracts with the Department of Education.

Her hearing began tonight without completed ethics forms--a first. Senator Cassidy, who opened the hearing with some softball questions, has $230,000 in donations the DeVos family.

Among the rather stunning statements DeVos made:

Local schools should decide whether to permit guns on campus, in case of grizzly bears. She said this to Chris Murphy, whose district included Newtown back when he was in the House.

"It would be premature" to commit to maintaining Title IX standards on campus rape investigations.

She admitted that Trump's statements about grabbing women would constitute sexual assault on a college campus.

States should decide whether schools should be required to meet special education requirements. DeVos did not appear to know that the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act is a federal law. “So some states might be good to kids with disabilities, and other states might not be so good, and then what, people can just move around the country if they don’t like how their kids are being treated?” Tim Kaine asked. His questioning is worth watching.

She would not rule out defunding public schools.

(@sarahkravitz13 tweet)

For those who are new to the fascism watch, Betsy DeVos helps fund the Acton Institute, which published an article in November claiming that there is "dignity and meaning" in child labor:

I also think about their inner lives. They are working in the adult world, surrounded by cool bustling things and new technology. They are on the streets, in the factories, in the mines, with adults and with peers, learning and doing. They are being valued for what they do, which is to say being valued as people. They are earning money.

Whatever else you want to say about this, it’s an exciting life.

More on DeVos in my November 23 post and in this amazing Mother Jones article published earlier today. The Detroit Free Press also has a great deal of coverage.

If I had just one topic to discuss with my representatives tomorrow morning, my choice would be Betsy DeVos. The grizzly bears would be less damaging to public education.

Rex Tillerson

Tillerson will receive a full Senate vote even if the committee running his confirmation hearing votes "No." This hasn't happened since 1948.

Gen. Michael Flynn

A story containing previews of Mike Flynn's proposals for his role as National Security Adviser includes a plan to consolidate intelligence agencies under his office:

Perhaps most significantly, the story says the “radical overhaul” Flynn is planning involves the elimination of the office of the Director of National Intelligence, an office created by President Bush in 2004, with power centralized under Flynn instead.

“The 16 agencies should no longer be accountable to the National Intelligence Director but only to the National Security Adviser,” Meyssan writes. “In other words, they will be accountable to General Flynn personally.”

Protests

Why the fuck does the National Guard have an Avengers missile launcher parked at the Dakota Access Pipeline protest site?

Voting

Kansas appears to have lost registrations from people who filled out applications on Secretary of State Kris Kobach's online site and at motor vehicle offices.

What troubles local election officials is an increasing number of people in the last two election cycles who say their voter registration applications were completed online or at driver's license offices, but whose names never made it to county election offices to be added to local voter rolls.

What You Can Do

Check the It's Time to Fight website for a manageable weekly list of things to do. And holy hell, call your Senators about Betsy DeVos.

[ashitomarisu]

Everything is just peachy.

When I mean peachy, more like my car just got repossessed. My health is at a roller coaster state atm; mentally and physically. It was either my car or my condition. There was no choice. I let my car go, just so I can take care of other debt. Yes, it’s true; I was told however much the car is worth, I have to pay the rest off.

Whatever. Fine. Not to mention, I am also trying to get assistance back so I can drop the employer’s insurance (seriously, $100 deducted off my paycheck is too much every two weeks). *sigh*

At this point, my options are...I have no idea. My mother needs help with her bills, (there goes my mileage check). The company never gave me a raise (because why the fuck did they not do this!?!) I already have student loans to deal with (thank god for IBR). I’m stuck.

My initial thought was to go back to school, for something different.  My parents heard I may go into pharmacy, since medical is a HUGE demand in my area. However, to do a job alongside that is not gonna happen. It’s bad enough to tackle being a district manager 5 days a week at an awkward shift.

There are things to think about on both sides:

Staying with my current employer means still getting paid, but:

The industry is dying; at any point within the next year, one of two things may happen:

The publisher might shut down distribution of that particular region; meaning:

job loss

becoming part-time DM (which I refuse to even do)

The company offers only online publications. This means our department gets severed.

For some stupid reason, I get fired (either because of my views or something pointless).

Yes, there is unemployment, but only 26 weeks + not a lot of money received + must file on time to get them. I AM MENTALLY DISABLED. I DO NOT WORK WITH THIS KIND OF BS VERY WELL!!

If I return to school this fall:

I may or may not lose my job.

My boss might let me do part-time.

I might have to quit and find another part-time job.

Risk the added loans.

Pray for scholarships and grants to help with the tuition.

GET THROUGH THE STRESS OF COLLEGE ALL OVER AGAIN.

Although, if I graduate, I have job placement to help me with finding something.

It might take a year or two with building up enough funding to tackle all this debt. Who knows...

It’s a HUGE mess to think about right now. Why?

My sister. She and her sons are in the process of moving out (AFTER 17 FUCKING YEARS, OMG). I was insisted to join but refused because of my debt and not getting along with them on a personal level (I have my own issues). My mother and I are thinking about this over the weekend.

OMG I JUST CAN’T GET OUT OF THIS LOOP!! I’m so darn confused.

[brendamariesmith]

Frozen Car and Other Musings

So here’s a crazy story for you about the love between mothers and sons and the lingering power of addiction. Normally I write fiction, but this is 100% true, though since it happened to me, my narration may not be 100% reliable.

My son, JD, is an auto mechanic, a green mechanic offering biodegradable motor oil and so much more, but this is beside the point. JD has been living in a mobile home (known in these parts as a trailer house) on a piece of land out west of Austin, Texas. The land is owned by a friend of JD’s named Jacob and his parents. There are two homes on the land and a couple of trailers. JD was very grateful to Jacob for giving him a good deal on the rent. JD was working on Jacob’s car, and it was taking a long time, due to parts orders and I don’t know what all. JD was fresh out of loaner cars, so he asked me if I would rent my car to Jacob at $120 for six days.

Well, I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but I needed the money, and I wanted to help JD out because he’s a good son who does me favors all the time, like keeping our cars running and buying me organic food. I said I would do the deal, and Jacob came to pick up my car. He seemed like a nice enough guy – maybe a little forced in his niceness. Something made me wonder about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. We signed a simple little agreement that said he’d have the car back to me by Valentine’s Day morning (because I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon), he gave me $120 cash, and he said he would bring the car back washed with a full tank and an oil change. I thought that was a decent deal. He even asked if he could hug me, to which I said yes, somewhat awkwardly.

A little background: I am partly disabled and don’t use my car that much, but I do need it for doctor visits and for errands, which consist of driving through places in my neighborhood like the bank, the pharmacy, and fast food joints (I would go for healthier food if I could drive through to get it, but I don’t know of such a place anywhere near my house). I have loaned my car out to my sons for years, sometimes for months at a time, as long as they do errands for me and drive me places when I need it. So loaning out my car didn’t seem like a huge thing. Of course, that evening when I told my husband Doug what I’d done, he said, “Well, it’s your deal, not mine, since you didn’t ask me.” Cue the foreboding music.

Valentine’s Day morning arrives. I get ready for my doctor appointment and decide to call Jacob to see when he’ll be returning the car. He doesn’t answer his phone. After waiting a while and calling some more, I call JD. He says he has already tried to call Jacob and is getting worried that something is wrong. So JD leaves work and comes over to take me to the doctor and do my errands. Meanwhile, I get sick to my stomach and decide to cancel the doctor appointment. JD does my errands, then he calls Jacob’s mom. He walks away from me to talk to her, and I hear him using a hushed voice, saying “Uh-huh” and “I see” and “I’ll call you back.” This doesn’t seem good.

Sure enough, Jacob has been arrested and is in jail, in – wait for it – freaking Wisconsin! That is 1,200 miles away. Not only that, he has been arrested on felony charges in Texas and is being extradited back here, leaving my car behind. Now JD figures it would be a good time to tell me that Jacob is a recovering alcoholic who has been sober for five years but may have gone on a bender, and he sometimes does “stupid shit.” He had been in an “argument” with his “baby-mama,” she had supposedly pushed him and he had allegedly pushed back. A likely story. There is something about breaking and entering involved in his charges, too. What the fuck?!

Jacob’s mom, Lisa, doesn’t know where the car is parked, only that it’s at someone’s house. I’m picturing a crowded city street where my car is likely to get vandalized, stolen, or towed. Lisa doesn’t even know what jail Jacob is in, but she thinks it is around Madison in a county that starts with “Wau,” which is hilarious (not) because every third county in Wisconsin starts with Wau.

When Doug comes home from work that night, I say I have something bad to tell him but I want to wait a day so it won’t spoil Valentine’s. He says okay with a droll grin on his face, and he goes upstairs to change clothes. When he comes back down, he says, “Where’s your car? Does it have anything to do with what you don’t want to tell me?” And so I tell him. How could I not? Doug is so sweet that I can’t hide things from him. He doesn’t get mad at me, he just commiserates. I need that. We have five grown sons. We are accustomed to stupid shit.

I realize it’s up to me to find my damned car, my seventeen-year-old, powder-blue Nissan Maxima that I have babied and kept legal and insured, that still gets amazing gas mileage, and that needs a paint job, new tires, and a noise fixed in the front end. My car that I bought to travel to Oklahoma 32 times in two years in 2000 & 2001 when my parents were ill and dying. My car that I paid for twice because I leased it for three years before I bought it over another five. My car that has yet another lien on it because I put it up for collateral in a family business that failed, the car that could get repo’d any day but so far hasn’t. (The lender has made no efforts to collect the company debt – a mystery that I am happy to keep mysterious.) My comfortable car that I haven’t taken out of the state in a decade and that has only been as far as Houston and back a couple of times in recent years. My car that I can’t even afford to paint, much less replace.

I get online and find a map of Wisconsin counties. I find two that start with Wau around Madison. I call their jails, no Jacob. I call the county where Madison is, even though it doesn’t start with Wau, but still no luck. I call Jacob’s mom and ask her to please find out from Jacob, next time she gets a call from him, where exactly my car is, but she isn’t getting to talk to him every day. Plus he doesn’t know much since he has no phone and apparently no memory either. I go back online and am looking at a road map of Wisconsin, trying to see how JD will go when he drives my car back home, because he is going to drive my car home, oh yes he is.

It’s now been two days. While studying the Wisconsin map, I see a Wau county next to Milwaukee. I google their jail, and this one actually lists the names online of people they have in custody. And there he is, Jacob Blankety-Blank, the stupid-shit-doing son of a bitch. I call the jail. They are very nice to me, but they have a policy against relaying messages to inmates, so they won’t ask him where my car is. They do tell me he was not arrested with car keys or a wallet, though. I guess the lady feels sorry for me, so she offers to transfer me to the little town police department that arrested Jacob. I tell them the whole story all over again. The receptionist takes it down in great detail and says she will ask the arresting officer to call me back.

Meanwhile, although JD may or may not have known it, I have made him my bitch. I’m not sure, but I may have invented errands for him to run for me. I talk to Lisa about money to get JD to Wisconsin, but, although she is nice and as apologetic as can be, she has no money. In fact, Jacob has been paying the mortgage on their land because she and her husband are out of work, or only have work part-time, or some very sad story that I don’t fully absorb because my mind shuts down when she says they have no money to help us. They are worse off than I am.  That’s all I really catch.

 A police officer from the town of Occo-fucking-something-or-other calls me back. “Ma’am,” he says, “did you know you were loaning your car to a felon?” “No,” I say, after I smack myself in the head. The cop tells me a story of Jacob and his friends coming to Milwaukee for an annual Rave. They were stoned out of their minds and bothering the neighbors where they were staying. The cops calmed them down and departed, but returned to arrest Jacob after they ran a check on him and found his felony warrants. The cop says he knows where my car is, but he can’t tell me without permission from the people who have the car. I’m thinking drugged-out people who may not have even noticed my car, or mean-assed neighbors who had the car towed. I’m thinking slashed tires and smashed windows. I’m wondering if my car is now in Mexico or Canada or Timbuktu. I’m thinking of abandoning my beloved car.

But the cop, who has been a bit snarky so far, throws me for a loop when he says, “Tell you what. I’ll go by to see the people who have the car, and I’ll ask them to call you.” I don’t know how many times I say “Thank you!” but it is a lot.

I figure it might be days (or never) before I hear back, but that evening I get a call from Wisconsin. It’s a woman named Karen who says my car is fine, and that I can leave it there until JD comes to get it. “The policeman told me I didn’t have to call you back,” she says, “but I thought I’d call. And now that I realize you’re someone’s mom, I’m glad I did.” I thank Karen until I have no Thank-you’s left in me, and I promise to call her back. This is around February 17th.

I call JD, super-excited and ready to book him a flight. I tell him that Jacob’s mom Lisa offered to find a cheap flight because she claimed to be good at that.

“I want to drive,” JD says.

 “What the hell? That will take two days. And then you’ll have to get two cars home.”

“I’ll find someone to go with me. Flying is bad for the environment.” Evidently, so is loaning out your car to people you don’t know, to people who do stupid shit. “I can’t go for a few days because I have work to do,” he says. I get it because he is self-employed, but he caused this mess and I want him to fix it, like, Now!

“If you don’t have time to go, then you should definitely fly,” I say, and he says he’ll see what he can work out. He has no dinero either, but thinks he’ll get some from the jobs he is doing.

I wait for a day, then I start texting JD, asking him when and how he’s going to Wisconsin. I throw in a few more errands for him to run while I’m at it. He says he’s leaving for a trip to Mexico in less than a week. It’s a trip he’s already paid for, and he can’t get his money back. He’ll be gone for a week, and he can’t go get my car until a few days after he gets back. I am pissed. I think he should drop everything and go get my bleeping car.

But like a good passive-aggressive mother, I seethe inside while I arrange things with Karen to keep my car for two or three more weeks. I tell JD he has to loan me his car while he’s gone. “My car broke down, and I’m not gonna fix it,” he says. “I’m giving it back to the dealer.” This is his Chevy Volt electric car that cost a small fortune, and he’s giving it back?! I am beyond confused.

“You need to loan me another car then,” I say. JD says okay and describes three possible cars. They all sound huge and impossible to get in and out of, much less to drive. I pick the one that sounds the smallest. A day or so later, he brings me an old, smallish Subaru wagon with a reasonable paint job. “It looks legal, but don’t get stopped. That registration sticker is from another car.” Great, I think, but I’m so happy to have a car that actually fits me (I am short and very fat), that I start talking about trading my Maxima for the Subaru, or leaving the Maxima in Wisconsin since it will be so expensive to get it back. I may have been suffering from Stockholm Syndrome or something like it.

Karen in Wisconsin tells me the keys to the car are inside it under the seat. She lives in the country, “down a driveway that’s a mile long.” I ask her if she’s up to it, will she please bring the keys into her house. She is very ill, she says, from terminal cancer. She just moved to Wisconsin and doesn’t know her neighbors. She says her nephew and Jacob were partying at her house and she returned to a home surrounded by cop cars. She lives on a lake. Jacob and friends had gone out on the icy lake, wrecked on God knows what, and Jacob returned to the wrong house and tried to get in. These neighbors have a teenage daughter and were scared, so they called the cops. The mistaken house story sounds leaky to me, given Jacob’s breaking and entering charges in Texas. It could have happened, just like he could have stayed in Texas with my god-forsaken car.

JD goes to Mexico. I drive the Subaru and discover it’s not such a great car after all. It wanders on the road into other lanes. The cup holders are a joke. The A/C fan squeals so loudly that I have to turn it off in drive-thru lines, which are the only places I go. Luckily it’s not too hot yet. Thank the lord for small favors.

Jacob’s mom Lisa wants Karen’s phone number. She seems to have a mistaken idea that Jacob knew Karen before. Lisa says Jacob left his wallet up there, and it should have enough money to pay us back for JD’s plane ticket. But I can’t give Lisa Karen’s number without permission. Plus I start thinking that if Karen knows there’s money in the wallet, she might just take it for a storage fee, and who could blame her? Or Karen’s nephew, who sounds like a dumbass himself, might take the money. I stall on calling Karen for Lisa. Also, Jacob is already back in Texas. It doesn’t seem fair, even though he is in jail.

JD’s one week trip to Mexico turns into ten days. Before he returns home, I get a call from a long-time friend of mine, who is about eight years younger than I am. She tells me she went to Mexico with JD. They’d been seeing each other since September but were afraid to tell me. I don’t get it – why would they be afraid to tell me, a woman who had a couple of young boyfriends when she was forty? The intimidating mystique of motherhood. “Are you mad at me?” my friend asks. “Hell no,” I say. “My sons have already lost me a couple of old friends. They can’t have any more of them! But let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?” I didn’t want that picture in my head. Anyway, JD and my friend broke up, had a fight, and she left Mexico early, so why worry, right? (Says me, the woman with bigger fish to fry, like a car held hostage in the frozen tundra and a mad-man for a President. And the Great Barrier Reef being dead. And my stomach being entirely too volatile these days.) Oh, and by the way, the registration sticker on the Subaru belongs to my friend.

Finally JD comes back from Mexico and comes straight to my house before he even goes home. Lisa finds us a cheap flight, and we book it for JD to fly from Austin to Milwaukee two days later. JD has a dog, a pit bull rescue who is sweet but highly excitable. JD had left the dog with a friend while he was in Mexico, and the dog had “an incident,” the details of which are unclear. He is now in “doggie jail” for the next two weeks. Sad but ironically convenient for JD to leave town again. Poor dog.

Lisa reminds us that there’s money in Jacob’s wallet, which she now knows is in the car along with his other belongings. Since I used almost all the money I had for the plane fare and JD didn’t have any money after going to Mexico, I tell Lisa that JD needs money for the drive back. She says if the wallet has enough cash, JD can use it for the drive. But her heart is sinking, I can hear it in her voice. JD will have to move so Lisa can get the trailers off her land. They are illegally tapped into her septic system. She has to rent out Jacob’s house to help pay the mortgage without income from Jacob. She needs money for his lawyer. She is sweet and sad about her son fucking up so much. “I didn’t raise him to be this way,” she says. “I know you didn’t,” say I. Heart-breaking. The next morning I call Karen to tell her that JD is coming early Saturday afternoon.

Friday night JD comes by to get the extra set of car keys, Karen’s phone number, and directions to her house, which is a long, $100 cab ride from the Milwaukee airport. I also give him phone numbers for family who live along the way back. I’m worried sick about him driving so far alone, but he says he has friends he plans to visit in Illinois and Missouri and Oklahoma and will take his time coming back. He has $400 for the trip. It could be enough IF nothing goes wrong.

Saturday morning, March 4th, JD’s already in St. Louis to change planes. We send each other a string of Facebook messages. I call Karen. Good thing I did. She thought he was coming on Sunday, I don’t know why. Pain meds, I’m guessing. JD lands in Milwaukee just before one p.m. Karen calls to say she’s going out but will leave the keys in the car. Next thing I know, I have a new Facebook message with a picture of my car. It looks beautiful! (Mostly because the shot is a side view, and all the peeled paint on the hood and roof of the car can’t be seen, but still it’s beautiful!)

There’s a second photo of snow on the ground in the woods with the infamous lake in the background. The car’s tires are low from the cold, and Karen isn’t home. Luckily the car had enough coolant/antifreeze to keep the block from cracking. Been there, done that. Not fun. JD says the wallet is in the car, and there’s enough money for the plane and the drive. Will wonders never cease? JD takes the car to buy Karen a plant for a thank-you gift and to air up the tires. Karen is there when JD returns. He gives her the plant and a big hug. He feels like he made her day.

JD takes three days to drive home, visiting friends and my brother and his family on the way. It’s like pulling teeth to get JD to communicate with me. He takes one more day to gas and clean my car, to change the oil, and to investigate the front end noise that has grown much louder. My car is a thousand times better to drive than that illegal Subaru. It sits low to the ground, like me. It has sturdy cup holders and an A/C fan that doesn’t squeal (a special blessing since it’s hot now). And it stays in its own lane.

I get my car back on March 9th, one month and one day after I “rented” it to Jacob. Better yet, I’ve got my son back too. It was a bit of wicked fun to have a personal bitch for a while, but there’s nothing better than a loving son. And JD knew it was his responsibility too, so he didn’t bitch much about being my bitch. He took care of me willingly, and for that I am hugely grateful. Whatever stupid shit he may do, it won’t be as stupid as poor Jacob.

No telling when Jacob will get out of jail. I calculate that he owes me at least a thousand dollars just for the mileage he put on my car. Not sure what’s a fair price for stealing my car and the weeks he took off my life. JD says Jacob is a stand-up guy. He does stupid shit, but he will pay me back. I’m not holding my breath, but I will not forget either.

Jacob and his family are the real tragedy here. Addictions never go away, they only get held in check sometimes. After the cost of the plane trip, the drive, two motels, cab fare, food, and the plant gift, there was $11.00 left. I kept it out of principle. At least we got our money back. What remains to be seen is whether or not Jacob and his family will get their lives back. Let us hope so. That stupid thirty-year-old kid. Argh!!

And me? My stomach has calmed way down, knock on wood. In fact, I’m feeling so frisky that I might just venture out solo to the drive-thru liquor store on the opposite side of Austin. Got to stretch my horizons. I might even save up to paint my sweet old ride, if it doesn’t get repo’d first.