#maybe I’ll try it with distilled water fucking whatever

[crmsndragonwngss]

I’m so sorry if you’re a tea person, but I fucking can’t stand tea people. Everybody’s like oh try chrysanthemum tea! It helps with anxiety and helps you focus and it tastes sweet and buttery without anything in it! It doesn’t make you sleepy like chamomile and it tastes better too! No it fucking doesn’t. It tastes like I put dried flowers in hot water. It tastes like the couch at grandma’s house. It tastes like I went outside and ripped up a bunch of daisies with my bare hands and shoved them directly into my mouth. Sugar, honey, and lemon do nothing to make it taste less like a bottle of febreze. Ice makes it tolerable, but it’s still just cold, oversweet old lady perfume. Does it make me less anxious? Sure, I guess. Might be power of suggestion, might be ancient Chinese magic, I don’t fucking know. But don’t lie and say it tastes buttery and sweet and delicious without added sweeteners when it tastes exactly like every other fucking flower tea but worse cuz it’s just mild enough that I can still taste the tap water underneath it

[lockedstuck]

moving your mouth to pull out all your miracles

April 2021 - Gamzee Makara

You don’t like the way your thoughts proceed on halo, helldog, or haloperidol, or whatever Karbro calls it. After you take it, the world feels blunt, impersonal, and grayscale, like you’re a motherfucking puppet with a head full of straw. Your brother used to love a poem about that, about some guys with straw heads, but mostly about the world ending.

Kurloz liked a lot of motherfucking things before he did nine months in Rikers for cocaine distribution. Originally it was only supposed to be six months, but he got into a fight and got three months added on. When he got out, he was thoughtful and quiet, even a word of acknowledgment seemingly beyond him. You’ll be damned if that ever happens to you, if you let the system hollow you out until you can’t express the simplest serendipity.

Right now you’re sketching your friends, quick sketches with the charcoal set Dr. Levin brought you. One of Karkat having a rare smile for June, one of Sollux and Roxy talking about programming, one of Dr. V addressing the group about healthy coping mechanisms, and one of Porrim braiding Calliope’s hair. You always feel more like yourself when you’re sketching or painting. Fewer thoughts in your head to get jangle-tangled together and create nonsense. You can keep your miracles straight this way.

You’re cool. You’re easy. You’re loose. No snapped strings, heads full of straw, or blasphemies here, no motherfucking way. The ativan caravan marches through your head, sings your sharp edges to sleep. Nurse Dolores knows what’s up, she only makes you take the medications you want to take. Your cognition flies free, like birds in a breeze, a calm going on between your ears.

Roxy turns and grins at you, her face pale as the moon against her dark hoodie and darker lipstick. She has a smile all her own, a knowing smile like the two of you are in on the greatest secret in the world. You wish you knew precisely what that was about, but everyone has their own internal workings. You can’t know and fix everything about everyone all the time. That’s what you were trying to explain to Sollux last night.

He’s a good guy, but he takes too much on. Same for Karkat. They take on everyone’s issues and make them their own. Only the mirthful messiahs should be able to do so much; humans like trying that hard is a minor sacrilege. If the pair of them would just stick to themselves, maybe they wouldn’t be so sick. You’ll fold more flowers for them - paper flowers that banish repetitive, ruminating thoughts.

You like Roxy a lot, though. She dances through each emotion in its totality, riding the waves of her feelings without fear. Okay, maybe not fearlessly, but with more abandon than you would expect. When she looks at you, you feel warmth all the way to your core, the way you are when you’re about to fall asleep all curled up in your sheets.

Speaking of sleep, Dr. V says that if you keep sleeping through the night, and keep what he calls “disruptive outbursts” about the Dark Carnival to a minimum, maybe you’ll get discharged in a couple of weeks. You’re not exactly in any rush to go home. Home means having to fend for yourself, and fewer friends to keep you in good spirits. Besides, Kurloz is home, and for all that he may be your brother, he gives off bad motherfucking vibes. You wish he’d be easy, like old times, but those days are a long way off.

You remember when you used to be able to relax at home. Relax, smoke a joint, sell an eighth or two, and have dinner without having to fend off your brother’s brooding.

Karkat takes the seat next to you, and you clap him on the back. Physical contact may be discouraged here, but there’re no narcs around to encourage law and order at the moment. You think a support team got dispatched to address Feferi wandering around with no clothes on again.

“What’s up?” Karkat asks.

He nevertheless looks preoccupied and far away. That’s unfortunate.

You take another folded flower out of your pocket and hand it to him.

“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” you recall from a play you had to read in AP English a couple years ago. You can’t exactly remember what the play’s about, but stray lines here and there stick out to you like a sore thumb. Except neither of your actual thumbs are sore.

“That’s from Hamlet, isn’t it?” Karkat asks, shaking his head at you. “What’re you, the bard of 3 East?”

Now you’re not certain about that, but you’ll take it.

“Someone’s gotta be, ain’t they? I got more poetry if you want it.”

Karkat sighs. “Yeah, lay it on me, Makara. Dr. Vandayar told me I’m not getting discharged next week so I’m not feeling great at the moment.”

Poor Karbro looks like he’s full of thunderstorms. Maybe a calm vista will quiet him down. You pull a few lines of poetry free from your memory.

“I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach... I have heard the mermaids singing each to each... I do not think that they will sing to me.”

“Go on,” Karkat says, looking all at once pensive and a little sad.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves... Combing the white hair of the waves blown back... When the wind blows the water white and black,” you recite. Now, Roxy, Calliope, and Porrim have stopped to listen to you. You go on, establishing a proper rhythm.

“We have lingered in the chambers of the sea... by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown... ‘till human voices wake us, and we drown.” When no one says anything, you interject, “That’s the end of the fuckin’ poem, y’all.”

“It’s beautiful,” Porrim whispers. “Did you write that?”

You shake your head in the negative. “Naw, that’s some other motherfucker’s ideas outta my mouth. I wrote a couple of my own lines last night if you wanna hear ‘em, though.”

“Sure,” Calliope says, smiling and clapping her hands once.

“My muse distills my melancholy, pins it to the corkboard with a tack. She presses down upon the pigments, bleeds my blues into the boldest black.”

Even Karkat looks surprised. He narrows his eyes at you.

“If you don’t go study art or literature, or something along that line, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Ain’t no need to resort to murder, brother,” you reply. “And while I’d like to go sit in a motherfucking college somewhere, I ain’t got shit for tuition.”

“If I have to take up a goddamn collection, I am sending your ass to college. Tout-suite.”

You guess now is not the time to inform him that you straight up flunked outta college after you kept forgetting to go to class. You sat in the grass memorizing poetry and sketching the first dandelions of March, which got in the way of your learning anything or taking your exams, or any of the shit college students are supposed to do. You didn’t mean to forget, but you’ve never been great at any routine shit.

And you’ve always had a knack for going where your thoughts take you. When you were a kid, you would leave the house and walk up and down the streets of Harlem unattended. Your grandmother used to read you the riot act for doing something so reckless and nonsensical. Later, during your hospitalizations, you learned that the way your thoughts stuttered and tangled was called schizophrenia, and doctors medicated you accordingly. They called your prophecies delusion, and you beg(ged) to differ.

The medications ground your thought process to a stuttering halt. You hated it. You hated being cut off from yourself. So you stopped taking your meds. And here you are again, with your strange thoughts and remembrances.

“Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio,” Karkat murmurs.

You grin at him. He understands more than he lets on.

June winks at you, and then walks away to the women’s side of the unit, presumably to call her father. She calls him every day at 8 am and 3 pm, like clockwork. Karkat gazes at her as she walks away, the back of her short dress fluttering behind her.

“June looks nice today,” you say to him.

 He stops staring and glances at you for a moment.

“Yeah, um, she looks nice every day,” he replies. “Not that I make it my business to notice.”

You point to the delicate paper flower he has in his hand. “Sometimes the most miraculous thing you can fuckin’ do is give another person a taste of serendipity.”

Roxy smiles her cheshire cat smile from her seat by the television.

“That’s right, Crabby. Dontcha think June deserves her very own miracle?”

Karkat reddens, looks at the flower in his hand, and takes off for the women’s side.

“Hey, Egbert!” he shouts. “I have something for you.”

By the time you see June again, she’s wearing the small red flower in her hair. Roxy gives you a satisfied little nod, then asks you if you’d like her to put your hair in braids.

“I’m not as good as Pomary with hair, but I’m alright, I guess. Your hair looks like some birds took up residence in it, dude.”

“Why, thank you,” you reply. You take a seat at her feet, after she grabs her comb, brush, hair grease, and spray bottle out of sharps.

She’s right. She’s not a thing like Pomary when it comes to braiding. You’re used to the gentle motions of Porrim’s hands as she manipulates flowers into your hair, but Roxy tugs great fistfuls of your hair into twists. It feels nice, like she’s tethering you to the present, to the here and now.

You tell her that, thank her for bringing you back, and she blushes crimson.

“Aw, I’m not tryna do all of that,” she responds. “Just tryna work through my anxiety. Dolores gave me an ativan an hour ago, and I don’t feel it yet.”

Roxy bends low, and plants a kiss on your forehead, right where your skin meets your greasepaint. Her lips are the softest thing you’ve ever felt.

She keeps braiding, manipulating your hair into cornrows. With Roxy near you, you don’t necessarily have to be a prophet or an apostate of the mirthful messiahs. You don’t have to deliver special messages to special people. You can just be Gamzee Motherfucking Makara, doing you as per usual.

[jedi-mabari]

Moonshine: Still Sabotage

Word Count: 1566 Warnings: Violence, graphic death. A/N: I started this as part of a challenge I think, but my computer had a mental breakdown and couldn’t work on it. But Now that my laptop is working again, I finished it and am presenting it to you.

Summary: Danny is tasked with running the competition out of the area, and she tried not to get caught while she works.

________________________________________________________

Danny curled into the warm body next to her, draping her arm over whoever was next to her. She must have had too much to drink the night before because she couldn't quite put a name or face to the person in her bed. A freezing breeze blew in through the open window, and Danny turned just enough to glare at it.

She vaguely remembered that she was too warm before going to bed, so she opened the window for some fresh air. She got up, pulling herself from what she realized was a woman in her bed, to go close the window. When she turned back, the woman had stirred enough to sit up, and Danny smiled at the beautiful red wrapped up in her blanket.

"Good morning," Danny said, reaching down for her under things. "Did you sleep well?" She slowly got dressed as a large smile spread and lit up the woman's face.

"Well, what little sleep I actually got," she said, her Irish accent and wide smile making Danny blush. "You are quite a woman," she said, reaching off the edge of the bed to grab her own undergarments. Danny laughed  through a grimace and reached for her shirt, carefully pulling it on over the still healing burn that curled up her side.

"From what I remember, you aren't so bad yourself," they both shared a laugh as they got dressed. "Do you need help getting home?" Danny had just finished tucking her shirt into the waist of her jeans as the Irish woman was pulling her red curls up out of her face.

"I should have no trouble getting back to my camp," she said, smoothing a few wrinkles out of her skirt. Danny opened the bedroom door and smiled at her. "I should thank you for the good time," she chuckled softly, leaning into Danny. She smiled sheepishly and shrugged. She opened her mouth to speak, but was stopped by the Irish woman's lips pressed against her own.

Danny hesitated for a moment before placing her hands on the woman's waist, pulling her closer as she deepened the kiss. She leaned into her, pushing so that the red head was pressed into the door frame. They only broke apart because Maggie cleared her throat, jarring them both out of whatever mood had taken them.

"I should go," the redhead said softly, her cheeks flushing red. She darted out of the shack, leaving Danny and Maggie alone to discuss the day's business.

"Having fun, I see," Maggie said as Danny took a seat by the door. Danny shrugged and let out a light chuckle, checking the door half hoping the woman was going to come back.

"I wish I could actually remember if it was fun. I suppose I should stay away from the strong stuff huh?" Maggie shook her head and stood from her spot behind the desk. She leaned heavily on her cane as hobbled around the room.

"So long as you aren't drinking the competitions crap, I don't care what you do." Danny laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"What do you have planned for today?" Maggie shrugged, tapping her fingers on the handle of her cane.

"Someone set up a still over in some abandoned cabins just west here. My best guess is Caton and that Braithwait bitch are trying to elbow us out. Why don't you go pay them a visit, see about convincing them that it's a bad idea." Danny laughed and grabbed her gun belt off the back of the chair, securing it in place around her hips.

"I guess I could drop by," Danny chuckled, shaking her head. "But I'm not promising anything." Maggie rolled her eyes and shook her head, moving back to her spot behind her desk as Danny marched out the door.

Danny strode over to Tank, mounting him quickly. She knew the cabins Maggie was talking about, and even if she took the roads it wouldn't be a long ride, but the area usually had at least two grizzlies roaming about. But, maybe Caton's boy scared them off. She rode towards the cabins, carefully guiding Tank over fallen logs and around hidden rocks.

She dismounted when she could hear the voices of the other moonshiners, tying off Tank's lead. She didn't need to kill them, tainting the batch of shine should be enough to put the message across that they weren't welcome in Tall Trees. There were two men standing by the still, and everyone else was milling about keeping guard. She had to watch patiently for one of the stillers to move before she could get close enough.

Danny lingered by the window, carefully checking over her shoulder to make sure she was still hidden. It was more than a half hour before the second man wandered off to join the rest of the guards, giving Danny the opportunity she needed. She crawled in the window, wrapping her arm around the distiller's neck, choking off his air so he couldn’t scream for help.

“Oh, merciful Lord, may you guide this lost soul to your side,” Danny mumbled, carefully laying the mans lifeless body on the ground in front of the still. She reached into her satchel, pulling out the small flask of fox pee. She covered her mouth and nose so she didn’t have to smell the foul urine as she spun the cap with one finger. She quickly dumped the contents of the flask into the still and quickly capped it back up, letting out a quick chuckle.

“That oughta run you off,” she said quietly to herself. She poked her head out of the window, making sure the coast was clear so she could sneak back out of the camp. She had one foot out of the window when she heard the door open behind her. “Fuck,” she mumbled as the heard the hammer of the man’s revolver click back.

“Who the fuck are you,” he snapped as Danny pulled herself back into the small shack. She turned and looked at the man, looking down the barrel of his gun with a frown.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of people shovin’ guns in my face. That’s who I am.” A look of confusion crossed the man’s face, giving Danny enough time to knock the gun aside so it wasn’t aimed at her. She closed the distance between them so the gun would be useless to him. She felt his fist strike her side, disturbing her burn. She hissed between her teeth, and she pulled her hunting knife from its place on her belt and shoved it into the soft place just under his chin, putting all of her weight under it to shove it through the soft and hard pallets of his mouth. He seized for a moment before his entire body went limp.

Danny pulled the knife out of his head, grimacing as blood spilled onto her hands. She shook her head, wiping his blood off of her knife and onto her jeans. She put it back into its sheath and went back to the window, waving her hand to try and flick some of the blood off of her hand. She once again made sure it was safe to slip out of the camp. She jumped out of the window, heading for Tank.

It wasn’t long before Danny was back at her own moonshine shack. She led Tank to the small stall Lem had helped her build, carefully removing his tack and brushing him down before feeding him. After she was done taking care of her horse, Danny walked to the back of the shack, bending over the wash barrel. She was in the middle of washing her hands when Marcel stepped out of the back door, a cigarette and a match in his hands.

“You look like hell,” the Frenchmen said with a laugh, lighting his match on the side of the shack. Danny chuckled and shook her head.

“Yeah, well, you try poisoning a still and killing two men and we’ll see how you look afterwards.” Marcel laughed a deep belly laugh, placing his cigarette between his lips.

“I’ll stick with making white lightning,” he said, laughing out a large cloud of smoke. Danny shook the water from her hands, using some of it to slick her hair back out of her face.

“I’ll go tell Maggie that we won’t have to worry about them undercutting us. If they even think about selling it, the customers are going to come running back to us in a second.” She patted Marcel’s shoulder before ducking back into the shack. She walked into Maggie’s office, her fingers working on loosening the buckle on her gun belt. “It’s done.” She hung her gun belt on the back of her chair, flopping down to kick off her boots. She noticed Maggie’s good eye notice the blood on her jeans, and she let out a sigh.

“One of them noticed me before I could sneak away. I didn’t have another choice.” Maggie shrugged and looked back down at the ledger.

“So long as the batch was ruined, I don’t really care,” she said, smirking. Danny rolled her eyes and shoved her sleeves up her arms.

“Great, well, if you need me, I’m going to be downstairs.” She stood up and headed down to the saloon, ready to drink away the memories of the day.

[udemaes]

              he  can  count  on  one  hand  the  amount  of  times  someone  asked  him  if  he  had  a  preference  for  brats  —  once  upon  a  time,  osamu  might  have  shrugged  the  question  off  /  given  a  raise  of  his  sable-brows.  but  as  he  stands  in  the  fluorescent  glow  of  his  kitchen  with  ambiance  set  by  the  streak  of  ink  set  across  the  horizon,  sinking  into  him  with  the  mellifluous  flow  of  words  that  cut  like  a  knife  as  osamu  rears  back  to  blink  incredulously.  yes,  he  does  have  a  preference  for  brats  —  not  just  any  brat,  oikawa  in  particular.  expectations  were  set  low  but  he  just  received  a  nail  in  his  coffin  as  head  cants  to  the  side,  perplexed,  nay,  mystified  by  the  answer  because  ;     ❝  i  piss  ya’  off  all  the  time  though.  ❞     —  the  taste  of  this  sweet  life,  a  melancholic  tinge  that  seems  to  sit  beneath  his  tongue,  not  quite  perfect  /  not  yet  ruined.  a  balance  somewhere  in  the  middle  making  it,  oikawa,  everything  just  right.  even  at  osamu’s  lowest,  he  still  ended  up  here  with  teeth  sinking  into  his  cheek.  tolerant,  perhaps  even  sentimental  to  the  quirky  aspects  of  oikawa’s  personality  as  lips  part  in  a  soft  smile  &  silver  trails  over.

              everything  osamu  does  leads  right  back  to  him  —  always  looking  for  him  in  the  midst  of  those  midnight  night  terrors,  hand  desperate  to  cling  to  something  real.  it  makes  it  harder  to  let  go,  thinking  /  wondering  —  a  worry  that  never  ceases  ;  will  this  be  the  last  day?  that  try  as  he  might,  osamu  fears  losing  the  person  who  gets  under  his  skin  in  the  best  &  worst  way  possible.  part  of  him  sought  out  this  connection  despite  the  fears,  seeking  for  ways  to  better  himself  despite  the  stigmatization  —  doing  everything  &  anything  to  prove  that  oikawa  is  worth  every  moment.  obsidian  lashes  flutter  shut,  exhaling  slowly  through  his  nose  as  arms  slide  around  to  wrap  tightly  against  oikawa’s  back.  gentle  arms  that  leave  adequate  space  to  breathe,  a  familiar  weight  that’s  always  translated  to  ;  this  is  never  enough.  as  if  osamu  can’t  quite  feel  comfortable  unless  he  feels  every  ounce  that  oikawa  is  pressed  into  him.  as  teeth  are  replaced  with  the  sharp  pinch  of  fingers  —  the  yearn  for  security  sinks  in,  the  way  goosebumps  crawl  along  his  skin  as  face  buries  into  the  side  of  oikawa’s  neck.  breathing  in  slowly,  setting  every  detail  to  memory  as  he  hums  against  the  bare  skin  with  the  soft  press  of  lips.  with  eyes  shut,  he  can  still  picture  the  sharp  curves  of  oikawa’s  face,  still  see  the  way  honeyed  optics  reflect  the  sun  in  a  million  hues  as  sparks  alight  &  pupils  dilate.  still  recalling  the  mirth  that  dances  in  a  coy-smile,  tugging  corners  into  the  subtle  smirk  with  something  yet  to  come.

              osamu  clicks  his  tongue,  the  muscle  pressed  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  before  it  departs  with  the  wet  expression  of  reluctance.     ❝  if  ya’  like  me,  you’ll  get  the  menu  yer’self  since  yer’  bein’  a  petulant  child  about  it.  ya’  made  me  drop  it  too.  ❞     ah,  but  there  is  his  own  childishness.  coming  through  in  a  pout  of  lips  against  skin  as  he  presses  a  kiss  to  oikawa’s  jawline  with  the  lift  of  his  head.  he’s  sweet,  sickeningly  so,  the  tooth-rotting  fluff  of  his  action  done  to  cover  up  the  insults  thrown  with  his  speech.  but  even  with  him  throwing  it  back  into  oikawa’s  face  in  his  annoyance,  he  releases  oikawa  &  draws  hands  up  to  remove  arms  from  around  his  neck.

              ❝  release  me,  toddler.  ❞     osamu  sticks  his  tongue  out,  tired  eyes  staring  back  as  he  moves  to  the  side  to  swipe  the  menu  from  the  floor.  when  he  stands,  he  has  a  hand  resting  on  oikawa’s  elbow  with  the  delicate  touch  of  fingertips.  giving  the  paper  a  firm  shake  to  remove  the  nonexistent  dust  clinging  to  ivory.     ❝  if  ya’  don’t  pick  somethin’  ta’  eat  yer’  gonna  be  stuck  with  whatever  i  order  so  ya’  better  stop  procrastinatin’.  otherwise  i’ll  make  dinner  &  no  junk  food.  ❞     the  frequent  threats  made  &  yet  he’s  never  held  up  to  any  of  them  as  he  turns  to  place  another  soft  kiss  to  oikawa’s  temple.     ❝  i’m  just  gonna  get  pizza.  ❞

There’s a pin-prick of offense at that, but he raises no argument over it, especially when Osamu says he’s pissed off at him all the time when he is not. A good seventy percent? Maybe; but even that seems like over-kill when they both cave in for one another. They are each other’s trouble reflection, not having the same past to come into this with one another, but still tumbling down the rocky slope to find one another, then point, then say, hey, there’s you. They’re not alone in their quirks, their anger, their fears, their work ethic, their dreams and their goals, their passion and the things that are a matter to them. Here, in this ditch below the rocky slope, where evergreen sprouts out at the corners like a fairy circle, where darkness is barely stalled back by the soft glow of a candle light - they come together with one another and match up their pieces. Because even if there are many people who understand Oikawa Tooru, Miya Osamu - it’s not quite like this. This - is finding a vulnerability within one another and seeing it reflected as your own. This - is all parts right, some parts wrong, no parts awful, but every part of some sort of fate, a meant to be, a could we be, a we should be; because - there is an excruciating yearning between the two of them that crests onto Oikawa’s skin like water on a river-bed, smoothing the jagged edges of it with well-worn time, chiseling it into something pleasant to the touch when Osamu says, if ya’ like me, because his mind immediately answers, I do. This - is stumbling in the dark and finding the light switch on the first try and flicking it on. ( Lucky. ) This - is Sunday afternoons, Monday afternoons, Tuesday afternoons, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday afternoons, because they all contain Oikawa’s favorite time of day, and that’s Osamu. ( His own distilled essence of perfect. ) And so, at the release me, toddler, he sticks his tongue out right back like a brat, releasing him, but slants himself along the kitchen corner, watching him make quick work and his decision, Oikawa’s face twisting up, his brows knitted in obvious, yet childish aggravation and affront.  “Pizza?” He says, as if he just called out on Osamu in a high school class, because he wasn’t paying attention, and he wants him to pay attention, because what the fuck did you listen? Pay attention? “I told you all that I wanted you ass. Don’t do that.” He crosses his arms and expels air out of his nostrils, because now the temple kiss isn’t doing anything. “You’re sleeping on the couch if you just get pizza.” A half joke, a twenty five percent serious, another twenty five a near temper tantrum at not getting his way. “I won’t kiss you either for extra measure. Not like I did 5 minutes ago anyway!”

[wildmagicplant]

Oct. 10 - pattern

continuing my inktober writing! i actually wrote most of this about a month ago but then abandoned it mid sentence in a fit of disgust lol. i cleaned it up a little and gave it sort of an ending this time. comics jason ficlet

The first thought that goes through Jason’s head is Oh fuck. He’d been tracking a new drug that had shown up, tracing it from clubs and dumbass kids back to some shady suppliers operating out of the back of businesses near the Bowery, got some info the fun way on where they were getting it from originally, but he’d thought he was heading to a shady manufacturing setup.

Instead, he’s staring at the kind of explosion of lush green plants that only ever meant one thing in Gotham.

“I know you’re in here, Ivy,” Jason calls out. He’s as still as he can make himself, trying to hear where she might be. Poison Ivy is part plant but she still breathes. There’s too much fucking rustling, though, and Jason can hear some sort of artificial air system hissing. Makes sense; even Ivy can’t keep this level of jungle alive indoors without some intense setup.

He hasn’t moved away from the door yet, but Jason would rather chance taking Ivy off guard than wait around to get goddamn ambushed here. Moving slowly, gun drawn in his right hand, the other left free to push his way through the plants, he heads into the room. He takes the time to grumble to himself. This is not what he’d signed up for. Jason tries to leave the big names for people on good enough terms with B to recoup back at the cave afterwards. It’s a fucking pain in the ass trying to deal with fear toxin or—Jason’s jaw tightens as he thinks about it—Joker venom on his own, and while he’s got a very basic chemical kit for any accidental exposure, the cave is a lot more equipped for it. And, well, Jason is good, but any of Arkham’s regular residents have more than enough experience dealing with Bats that his normal tricks aren’t nearly as effective on them.

There’s a rustle behind him, off to his left. Jason freezes. He can’t say for sure, but he’d bet it’s Ivy. There’s no follow-up movement, and he glances around. Stuck in the middle of a goddamn indoor jungle, fucking perfect. It looks like there might be some open space ahead of him, and Jason keeps that in mind as he ducks around a small tree covered in vines, putting it between him and where he thought he heard movement.

Sure enough, a tense minute later, Jason sees a figure sliding through the plants.

“I don’t know who’s in here,” Ivy begins, the low murmur of her voice somehow carrying. “But if you come out now, I’ll kill you quickly.”

Jason suppresses a snort. That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. Also, not a line that’s likely to make anyone listen to her. The urge to mouth off is strong but he ignores it. Instead, he ever so slowly takes out a batarang from one of his pockets. Ivy hasn’t moved, and Jason really doesn’t want to have this fight in the thick of the plants if he can avoid it. He turns away, and throws the batarang in the direction of the door he came in. It whistles through the air, slicing some leaves off as it goes, and he thinks he heard it thud into a wall.

Ivy whirls, lunging in the direction of the door. “Not so fast,” she snaps, and Jason takes off toward the opening he saw earlier. It only takes him a few strides to reach what looks like a laboratory space surrounded by plants on all sides. This is definitely where Ivy’s been manufacturing the drug—probably breeding a specialized plant and just distilling the chemicals into a concentrated form she can dry out to turn into a sellable powder.

Jason only has a brief moment to take it all in before he hears Ivy coming back toward him. He leaps over one of the workbenches and ducks partially behind it. He readies a shot, and as soon as Ivy comes into sight again, Jason takes it.

Ivy hisses, and some of the plants move as she reels back. Fucking plants. Jason’s never understood the appeal of nature and Ivy’s weird-ass half-moving plants have done nothing to change his mind. There’s dark brown blood seeping out of her leg but it does nothing to stop her advance. She snarls when she sees him.

“You! I thought I was dealing with a thief, not a Bat,” she spits, and throws something at him. Jason rolls sideways and the vial shatters on the ground where he had been, an acrid smell rising from the splatter as the ugly green liquid eats into the concrete.

There’s a little voice in the back of his head that tells him how much it looks like the water of the Lazarus Pit, but Jason ignores it. He takes another shot, but before he can see if he hits, Ivy launches herself at him. Without thinking, Jason slides feet first under the table as she hurtles over it. He pivots as he stands up on the other side, and darts into the plants around, crouching down behind something with broad leaves.

Just in front of him is another of the trees with vines wrapping around it. Jason looks at it appraisingly and makes a split second decision. It bends a little under his weight, but it holds and he’s at the top in almost no time at all. The ceiling is high enough here for it to have been some sort of warehouse at some point, but it still can’t be more than 20 feet tall. There’s no fixtures on the ceiling beyond some lights set into it and Jason can’t see an easy way to get into it either.

Jason grits his teeth, and presses the button set into the base of his helmet. “Red Hood here, got a situation, anyone in the Bowery that wants to join in the fun?” Luckily, the good thing about having the comm inside his helmet is that he can be practically nonverbal and the comm will still pick up his words. He tries to peer through the greenery to see where Ivy is as he waits for a response.

No answer comes, and he tries again. “Hey, fuckers, anyone listening?”

Nothing.

Well, fuck. Jason doesn’t have time to figure out why no one is answering, so he files that away as something to pick a fight about later, and activates the heat vision setting in his helmet. Ivy is stalking through the room below him, maybe 20 feet away. She isn’t looking up, but it won’t take her long to realize he’s not on the ground. He has to make this count.

God, why did it have to be Ivy? Jason doesn’t keep up with her, has barely seen her since his return, so he has no clue what all’s changed with her since he was Robin. For all he knows, she can talk to the fucking plants now. Maybe she can just ask them where he is. Whatever. He doesn’t plan to stay here long. His best chance is definitely going to be catching her off guard and knocking her out as quickly as possible, and then getting the fuck outside where maybe he can call someone in to come pick her up. This was supposed to be simple, he thinks, annoyed.

She’s nearly directly underneath him now, and this is a position Jason is very prepared for. He slips his gun back into its holster and jumps out of the tree.

Jason smiles to himself a little as he lands directly on Ivy’s shoulders, legs wrapping around her neck as he throws himself backwards, taking them both to the ground. Still got it, he thinks. He could choke her out like this, and he tightens his legs, but suddenly something stabs into his leg, and kicks out.

It’s enough of an opportunity for Ivy to slip free, and she scrambles to her feet. Jason rips the syringe out of his leg and stomps on it. It doesn’t hurt much, which he hopes means that none of whatever the fuck it was in there got into him.

“That all you got?” he says, looking around for something he can use to his advantage. Too many damn plants.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she hisses, and snaps her fingers. Suddenly, Jason’s right side is being grabbed by—vines. Lovely.

He smirks, trying to duck out of them, and says, “Aw, if you wanted my attention, you coulda asked.” Ivy rolls her eyes, and it’s just long enough for him to grab a knife from his belt and he cuts through them easily. “This is a real lush setup you got here. You should give tours,” he says, dodging her kick easily and getting a solid punch in. She grunts at the impact, but swings her other hand. It doesn’t even come close to connecting and Jason thinks for a second that maybe she’s just missed. He realizes his mistake almost instantly as a thick vine comes hurtling through the air at his head. Jason dodges without thinking, pure muscle memory guiding him to duck below the vine as he lunges toward Ivy. He plants one foot in front of hers, and spins the rest of his body toward her, arm outstretched behind her back, sending her tumbling over his foot right into—

Right into where Batman would be, if he were still Robin, still a kid, still had a partner he trusted. Fuck. This is the other reason he doesn’t like going up against the costumed villains anymore. It’s too easy to fall back into old patterns. It makes him sloppy and it makes Jason feel equally exhilarated and bitter.

There’s a noise behind him, and Jason whirls just in time to see Ivy kicking up at him from the ground. He turns so she just catches the side of his hip with it, and he stumbles back, but at the same time he reaches for his gun. Jason takes another faltering step backward, watching as Ivy notices the opening for what it is, and in one smooth motion, she launches herself up from the ground and toward him, arm outstretched like she’s trying to strangle him.

She doesn’t get the chance, because Jason uses the shift in weight his extra step gave him to sidestep her slightly and hit her solidly in the head with his gun. Ivy falls to the ground, but he doesn’t want to take the chance, so he hits her once more, and grabs some zipties from his pocket. Once he has her tied, he hoists her over his shoulder and heads outside.

Leaving her slumped against the outside of the building, Jason goes back in. He doesn’t spare much thought for what might have been her plan here. Leave that for the detectives. Jason slips a small sample of the undistilled materials into a ziploc, and then as quickly as possible, sets the room up to burn. Fuck the damn plants. He tests a little of the chemicals and it burns easily without seeming to release any smells. The rest of the building was empty, and Jason is beyond done with this bullshit, so he trails the chemicals all over the room, covering as much as he can with them. When he’s satisfied with the amount of coverage he’s gotten, he heads for the door, trailing another line of chemicals behind him. Jason pulls his lighter out of his pocket, flicks it on, and drops it into the chemicals, quickly closing the door behind him.

Jason doesn’t even wait to see if it catches, just runs away from the building, from Ivy. From the thing that he’s equally trying to forget and to hang on to desperately, the deep instinctive knowledge that no matter what he does, there will always be a part of him that’s Robin. He takes one look back, and he thinks he sees a flicker of a cape. Good. It’s someone else’s fucking problem now.

[sftswigan]

Manchester gutter punks, The Battery Farm, talk to us about horrific crime inspiring a song and how they just had to form this band...

We’ve got frontman/guitarist Ben from the band.

Alright Ben, can you tell us about the band. Who plays what and how the band got together?

Hallo! We are The Battery Farm, four gutter bastards from Manchester playing gnarly, seething punk rock music.

Ben Corry on Vocals and Guitar, Dominic Corry on Guitar, Paul Worrall on Bass, Sam Parkinson on Drums. Me and Dom formed this band from the ashes of a band we'd previously been in together for 8 years. At the point we formed The Battery Farm we were in a low place, feeling like failures, feeling defeated by this thing that we'd built for years just imploding, feeling angry and scared and hopeless at the utter state of the world. We basically decided to do this in the pub one night when we felt like we had absolutely nothing to lose. It was formed as a desperate reaction to two lives and minds spiralling out of control in a hostile, hateful world.

That must have been tough but, seems like it’s worked out well and the band from what I can tell is going from strength to strength. How soon did you find the remaining members, Paul and Sam? What have they brought to the band?

It has actually. Helpfully, it was a fertile environment from which to create. The first wave of songs - stuff like I Am a Man - are the purest distillation of that sense of lashing out, that sense of desperation we were feeling at the time.

We found Paul pretty much straight away. I'd known him for years through Manchester's Fringe theatre scene, having been in a couple of plays with him. He'd come to see me in a play, I knew he was a musician as well as an actor (although I don't think I'd grasped just how good he is), so I asked if he fancied playing bass for our new band. Sam we actually didn't know before the band, and it took a little longer to get him in. He works for the same company i do and I'd heard he was a drummer, so I got his contact details, asked him if he fancied coming for a rehearsal with us. It all clicked, and the rest is history.

Paul and Sam bring a massive amount to the band. They lift the songs me and Dom write and add a very particular combination of power and melody which you'll be hard pressed to come by very often. They're fucking ace and they know what is good for the song. No ego, no fucking about. They know what's important.

Sounds like you needed that new band to form quickly and to find drummer and bassist when you did you was very fortunate. I watched an interview of you and Dom recently and you talked about inspiration for songwriting and I was interested in where 97/91 came from. When it comes to writing where do you first look to for ideas?

Yeah we did, finding a drummer was comparitively difficult and I think if we'd have really struggled then we honestly would have just given up on it. 97/91 came about after I read an article about the murder of Suzanne Capper in Moston, north Manchester, which is where me and Dom grew up. I'm not going to go into details but if you look it up you'll see that it's the most horrific thing you've ever read. It stuck with me for weeks afterwards, and part of that was because I knew the streets where it had taken place and the community in which it had taken place. The houses it happened in - numbers 97 and 91 - are still there to this day. I got to thinking about why I reacted so viscerally to that story in particular; atrocities happen every day and we don't bat an eyelid, not really. It had such an impact because I was so familiar with the setting, so familiar with the type of person involved. It was too real. 97/91 explores the idea that we make a trade-off in our lives, one which enables cognitive dissonance that shields us from the impact the mass, relentless violence of the world. It also means that when something evil happens in a familiar setting the impact is much greater.

How can it only be real when you can see it? 97/91 isn't necessarily about the Capper murder itself, but the murder is a jumping off point to explore the faustian pact at the heart of the human condition, the one that keeps us sane but also ebbs away at our souls.

Our ideas just literally come from trying to explain our perspective on the world, we don't necessarily make a conscious effort to look in one place for ideas. We just write about whatever moves us. That can be mental illness, corrupt political systems, or the fact that I've never been to Gorton, which is literally the title of one of our new songs.

I find reading about crime stories really interesting, it’s madness what goes on in this world! This is one I’m not aware of but this must have been difficult to write about with it being so close to home? I love the anger and aggression in your music and lyrics.

You mentioned being an actor earlier, do you think this has an influence on your performance as a front man?

Yeah I went through a short phase of listening to true crime podcasts earlier this year but i had to stop bec it was all too grim. It was difficult to explore the ideas that particular incident led me onto but the endgame wasn't to just write about the murder itself, so I suppose keeping that in mind kept my head clear and made things easier.

Honestly, i try to keep any ideas of acting and theatre separate from the band. The actor thing can be frustrating at times because people conflate that with what I do in the band and think that everything must be a performance of some kind, which it isn't. The whole idea of putting The Battery Farm together was that it could give us an outlet to express ourselves honestly, and to me the stuff I do as a frontman is just an honest reaction to what I'm singing and what it makes me feel. I try not to overthink that aspect of it because I feel like to do so would water it down. It needs to be raw, it needs to be stark, it needs to be reality. If it's an actor's performance I'm not really getting anything out of it.

It’s amazing how reading/listening to one can lead on to another one. But yeah hard to shake off once you’ve learned about them.

You’re performance on stage seems very honest and I love to see in a frontman.

Moving on to the music scene...Manchester in particular is buzzing at the minute. Did the band find it easy to slot in? What’s been your favourite gig up to now?

We did actually. We knew a couple of people anyway from being in previous bands but until now I'd always found the Manchester scene a little unfriendly. It's totally different now. Not only is it overflowing with incredible, original, exciting new bands but it's also full of amazing people, and in the year we've been gigging we've made some wonderful friends. There's a proper sense of inclusivity and community, a lack of ego and aloofness that wasn't there before.

My favourite, and I think the others would agree with me, is our first headline set which was at The Peer Hat last November. It was an Abattoir Blues night and they're always amazing. The venue was packed to capacity and the atmosphere was electric. It was the kind of big, simmering sweatbox that seems impossible to imagine in the current climate. I want every gig we play to be like that one.

Yeah it’s great to see bands appreciating each other’s music and plugging their stuff on social media etc. I love going to Manchester for a gig. It’s a great time for guitar music in the UK at the minute with bands like Idles, Fontaines DC and Sports Team doing really well. And also The Blinders bringing album 2 out very soon!

That gig sounds like a great night!

When all this is over and we get some normality back...what are the bands plans?

Well, we're heading into the studio later this summer to begin work on... something. Beyond that it's hard to say because like everyone else we can't really make plans at the moment. Like everyone else we're pretty much having to make it up as we go along. We do have gigs booked for November and December but whether they'll happen or not remains up to fate. Everything going to plan, we may be in for an exciting end to the year. Maybe.

Gonna be very exciting for all bands and music once gigs/recording etc can happen again isn’t it.

Got so many new bands I want to see. Have you discovered any new bands during lockdown? If not, what have you been listening to?

Lockdown's actually been really fruitful in terms of new bands releasing amazing stuff. I've been listening to a lot of Tinfoils recently, they're a delight! Also been loving new stuff from Cold Water Swimmers, The Red Stains, Richard Carlson Band, The Maitlands, loads of stuff. I've also recently discovered John Shuttleworth, a comedy singer from Sheffield who does weird Phoenix Club-type songs about stuff like margerine and vans. I love stuff like that, real end of the pier nonsense.

I love Tinfoils and down to have them on here in Wigan but then lockdown came. The other bands I’m aware of too but not the solo artists you’ve mentioned.

Yeah Tinfoils are great. John Shuttleworth has been around for years i think. I can imagine he won't be to everyone's taste. Richard Carlson Band are actually named after the actor Richard Carlson, who was in The Creatire From the Black Lagoon. There is no Richard Carlson in that band! They're absolutely ace, they released their debut single a few weeks ago and I've had it on repeat.

I’ll be sure to listen to your recommendations, love finding new music to listen to.

We’re coming to the end of the interview now, I’ve just got a couple of questions. You’ll get two options, you pick one answer...

Winter or summer?

Sex Pistols or The Clash?

Roast dinner or Chinese?

Film or Book?

Winter

The Clash

Roast Dinner

Book

Thanks for having me! Hopefully see you soon

Thanks Ben for taking the time to chat to us. Hopefully we’ll cross paths at a gig soon.

If you want to listen to the band please go and follow them on social media and their music is on Spotify etc.

[shutupandshipit]

With Stars in Your Eyes, Heart on Your Sleeve - Ch. 5

Summary: Her eyes wide with drink, she slapped both of her hands on either side of his face, squeezing his cheeks until his lips puckered. “Listen to me. Don’t baby him, just help him. Also, he’ll probably accept your help more than you think. Also, give him this.” She shoved a thin cylinder into his chest, waiting until he fumbled his fingers around it to turn back to her laptop.

“What is it?”

“Tell him he can be Daredevil now.”

Chapter: 5/11

Previous <- Chapter 4

Chapter 6 -> Next

Masterpost

“How is he?” Allura asked as Keith stepped out of his room, bags hanging low beneath his eyes, hair a tousled mess from the day's events.

He glanced up at her, eyes unfriendly and posture defensive as he blocked Lance's doorway. “I'm going to need everyone to stop asking me that fucking question. If he were alright, he'd be out here making a fool of himself. If he were alright, he'd be shoving his mouth full of food and running around with that stupid face mask he does every night and trying to challenge me to some idiotic task. If he were alright... it wouldn't be so damn quiet.” He sighed heavily, running a hand down his face. “Have you, Pidge and Coran come up with anything yet?”

Allura pressed her lips together into a thin line, watching him for a moment before continuing. “We have, but... We're going to need to get something before we can attempt to use it. We've found the Lance's optical nerves aren't detached, but...”

Keith's head snapped up sharply, fire blazing behind his dark irises. “But what?”

“There's a buildup of fluid behind his eyes blocking whatever is being sent to or from them.”

“Why can't you just... suck it out? Like Pidge did to get Lance's eye fluid? Can't you do the same thing? We have to do something.”

Allura sighed, shaking her head. “It's not that simple. We can't attempt to extract the fluid without possibly doing permanent damage to his eyes. We're not willing to take that risk, but we do have something else we're going to try. We just need to get the star dust first.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, he asked, “Star dust? That can't be a real thing.”

“It is, It's known for its exceptionally quick healing properties if distilled correctly. I need you to go with Pidge to retrieve it. She knows what it looks like.”

Keith was shaking his head before she'd finished speaking. “No. I can't.”

“Keith-”

“I can't,” he repeated, stepping back towards Lance's door, “I have to stay here for Lance. I'm not going to leave him alone when he's in a state like this. I won't. I won't do it. I did some pretty idiot things as a kid when I was like this. I'm not going to let Lance make my mistakes.”

“Keith, I need you to do this. For Lance. You're the best out of us when it comes to hand to hand combat, and I need you to go to keep Pidge safe. I don't know what the planet is like anymore. I don't know if it's hostile or peaceful, but it's the only place to get star dust. This is the last thing we need before we finish the solution.”

“Lance...”

“Hunk will stay with him. We've already discussed it.” Allura placed a placating hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Don't worry, Keith. Lance won't be alone at any point while you and Pidge are gone. We don't want him to get hurt as much as you don't.”

Staring back towards the door, he remained silent.

“Keith, please.”

There was something in her voice, something breaking and pleading that finally made him close his eyes tightly and nod. “Fine. I'll do it, but Hunk never leaves Lance's side. They managed it at the Garrison. They can manage it here.”

Allura nodded, her smile gentle. “You leave in an hour. I'll send Hunk.” Her hand fell away as he turned, slipping back into Lance's room.

…..

Lance groaned, stretching his limbs to the tips of his toes and fingers. He reached out along the bed, feeling for the body that should have been beside him. Frowning, he slid his hands over the cool sheets again. “Keith?” he mumbled groggily, flopping onto his stomach and pushing himself up. “Keith?” Panic rose like maple syrup through a spatula, delayed until it spilled over.

A large, very much not Keith's hand gripped his shoulder. Startled, he grabbed it and twisted the arm until he couldn't twist without breaking.

“Ow! Lance! Lance, it's me! Let go! Let go!” Hunk shouted, curved into a shape that no one was meant to stay in for long. “Lance, please, you're stupid strong. This hurts a lot.”

Lance released him quickly, slipping back across the bed to press his back into the corner. “Hunk? Sorry. I'm sorry. Sorry. W-why are you here? Where's Keith?” He pulled his knees into his chest, nausea slamming into him with the force of a bag bricks at the thought of Keith's absence, the thought that something had happened to him. “Is he okay?” His voice trembled, his lungs refusing to drag in breath normally.

“Well, he was alright when they left, but I think he's still fine. I'm sure we would have heard from them if anything had gone wrong. Don't worry, buddy, they're going to be fine,” Hunk explained easily, pressing a cup into his hands. “Something to drink, and I've got food here too.”

It took enormous amounts of will power on Lance's part not to show that he was quietly choking for breath. “Left? They? Where did they go? Who is they? Who else went with Keith? What are they doing? Are they going to be alright?” he whispered rapidly as he forced his body away from the wall, uncurling with his urgency. “What's going on Hunk? Why isn't Keith here? Where did he go?” He gripped mercilessly at the shoulder he'd twisted.

“Ow! Woah, Lance, slow down. That hurt, man. I'm still recovering from your arm twist.” Grabbing Lance's fingers, he pried them from his shoulder. “Just take a deep breath.” Taking his own advice, Hunk inhaled deeply, his body dipping the mattress as he sat on the edge. The weight of a plate was set on Lance's knees. “Keith and Pidge went to go get something to finish whatever she's been working on with Allura and Coran. They'll be fine. They've got Keith with them.”

Lance groaned, rolling his eyes harshly. He focused on steadying the trembling in his chest as he picked at the plate of food. “That makes me feel no better, Hunk. Who's going to keep him from doing something impulsive?”

“Don't worry. They'll be fine. They should be back soon anyway. They left a while ago.”

“Oh.” He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly against the nausea and painful lack of oxygen flowing through his lungs. Silence slid over them, uncomfortable for the first time since they'd met each other. He picked at the plate apathetically, yearning for Keith's warmth, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand against his, and then he startled. He came back to himself as someone drowning bursts from beneath water, gasping for air. All of his movements stilled, his eyes directed towards his hand.

“Oh crap,” he whispered, realization sweeping through him, overshadowing the nausea, the pain in his chest. Desperately, he attempted to derail his train of thought, that ache of his heart, the burn of his skin where he last remembered Keith touching him, but to derail the train would mean a larger mess at the speed it was going. There was no guarantee it wouldn't just continue to barrel forward even off tracks. So, he sat helplessly as it sped towards a destination he wasn't sure he was ready to visit. This time, he moaned, “Oh shit.”

“What? What's wrong? Are you hurt somehow? Are you sick? Are you going to be sick?” Hunk snatched the plate from Lance's knee and the cup from his hand before grabbing his shoulders. “Lance, buddy, you gotta give me something. Keith would murder me if anything happened to you under my watch.”

Pulling his shirt up, Lance buried his face in the fabric. It smelled overwhelmingly of Keith, a fact Lance was both mortified and gratified by, and he had to wonder if he was wearing one of Keith's shirts or if he'd just been around enough that his things had started smelling of him. “Hell. I guess you could say nothing except for that fact that I'm seriously stupid. I'm a fucking idiot! I'm a fucktard! Hell! Why would I do this to myself?”

“Do what to yourself? Dude, I can't help you if you don't talk to me,” Hunk told him imploringly, hands tightening over his shoulders.

Inhaling a deep breath, his lungs struggling to expand normally, but opening enough for him to sigh, he muttered, “I think I'm in love with Keith.”

“Oh.” Huck sat back, relief obvious in the way his weight settled back on the bed. There was a little bit of disappointment in his voice. “Is that all?”

“Is that all? Is that all? Hunk, do you understand what this means?” Lance shouted, voice rising an octave to just brush against the octave of hysteria.

A chuckle slipped from Hunk as his weight lifted for a moment only to return, and the weight of the plate returned to his knee and the cup to his hand. “Yeah, it means you're bisexual. Congrat. It also means you two can stop this ridiculous mutual pining thing you've got going on. Really, we're all surprised it took you two so long with how much sexual tension there is. I would think this freak out would come before all the kissing and sleeping together though.” He paused, voice muffled when he started again. “Or maybe not. Maybe that's the point. Whatever it is, we're glad for you two.”

“How is this good at all?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused.

Lance laughed hollowly, wrapping his other hand around the cup Hunk had given him just to have something to hold onto. “How is this going to be good for anyone when I'm the only one catching feelings? One sided falling in love has never worked out for anyone. Maybe being blind has made me stupider too. Quiznak, and I was the one who pushed for this.” He dropped his forehead to the edge of the cup, pulling his body into itself.

Hunk stayed silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke again, disbelief rang clearly in his voice. “You really don't know?”

Lance's head popped up, turning towards Hunk. “Know what?”

“That's something you're going to have to figure out on your own,” Hunk said, standing from the bed, “I'm going to go check with Allura and see how those two are doing.”

“Wait, Hunk, what do you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Before Hunk could leave the room, though, Allura's voice blared over the intercom.

'Hunk, medical bay, now! Keith is hurt and Pidge needs help with the star dust while Coran helps me!'

Lance's heart beat to a stop, his stomach dropping out from under his feet. “Keith is hurt?” Before he had made the conscious decision, he snatched up his cane and tore down the hallway.

…..

Keith groaned loudly, not out of pain but out of sheer irritation, as he limped in, Pidge's arm wrapped tightly around his waist. If he was being honest, he was pretty numb, all things considered, which probably wasn't a good thing. “Why did you have to say it like that? Now he's going to be freaking out,” he groused, staring Allura down.

She shrugged, grinning widely. “I'm taking a page out of Pidge's book and conducting an experiment.”

“What kind of experiment requires making it seem like I'm dying and jeopardizing Lance's already shaky mental health?” Keith snapped, easing slowly onto the same cot Lance had slept in for a week. Even without lying down, he could smell Lance's unmistakable scent.

“A social experiment,” Allura chirped, flitting around the medical bay as she collected the supplies for his leg, “I guarantee he'll be fine once he gets his hands on you. I do have to say, I did think it was much worse when I made the call. That's a lot of blood, Keith. I didn't know it was just a broken leg and a few scratches.”

“Scratches,” Keith scoffed, wincing as Pidge quickly cut away his suit leg. There was the pain he hadn't been missing. As the fabric was pulled away, a mess of tissue and blood that had once been his leg was revealed. Maybe, possibly, hypothetically, it was a little worse than he'd been making it out to seem, but really, it was nothing he couldn't handle. Really, a few stitches and a splint and Lance's hand in his, and he'd be right as rain.

The world spun around him, and his head felt lighter than the only time he'd smoked a cigarette.

Her nose wrinkling, Pidge turned to Allura. “I think he's losing a lot of blood, Princess. We should probably stop that first. He looks like he's getting-” She turned, grabbing for his shoulder quickly as he started to fall back. Shaking him, she told him just the slightest bit frantically, “Hey, Keith, don't go passing out on us. Lance would kill me if anything more happened to you. He's already never going to forgive me. Come on, keep your eyes open.”

“Too bad this was all my dumbass fault,” he croaked through the pain, lowering himself back onto the bed. He had been right. Immediately, he was enveloped in Lance's scent. He held back a sigh of contentment.

Pidge laughed wildly, just bordering on hysterical. “You may be onto something there.”

The door to the med bay slid open, and all eyes turned to find Hunk and Lance gasping as they stumbled in. Keith sat bolt upright, blanching as the airiness of his head slammed into him. “Lance?” he managed to stammer before he was thrown back into the bed, Lance's arms around his neck. “What? What's going on?”

“Allura said you were hurt! Like really hurt!” he shouted, face buried against his neck, “Are you alright? What happened? What impulsive thing got you two into this mess? Where are you hurt?” He paused long enough to feel the warmth of Keith's blood soaking through his loose sleeping pants. “I-is that blood? Is your leg hurt? That feels like a lot of blood! How much is there? Why is no one doing anything about this?” He jerked his head to stare over his shoulder, missing both Allura and Coran by more than a couple feet. “Keith is bleeding out and no one is helping him!”

There was a lilt of humor to Allura's voice as she said, “Well, you're kind of in the way, Lance. Really, it's not as bad as it probably feels.” She refused to acknowledge Hunk's retching in the corner, smiling warmly despite Lance's lack of sight.

Keith sighed, letting his eyes slip closed to enjoy the weight of Lance pressing down on him if only for a moment.

“Yeah, and thanks for noticing I'm here too. 'Hi, Pidge, how was your mission?' 'Oh, it was alright. The planet was virtually abandoned, but I almost got eaten by some giant wildabeast/spider hybrid thing, but more or less fine. Keith was a hero, and saved me again.' 'Oh, well that's good. It's great to see you alive and well thanks to my boyfriend, old friend.'” Pidge rolled her eyes, turning to take the mounds of gauze Allura held. She pressed several thick squares to Keith's leg, shoving Lance over with her hip so he was lying more completely on top of Keith than before. “Lance, seriously, you're big Cuban ass is in the way. Go do something productive.”

“But-” Lance protested.

Keith pulled Lance's arms from around his neck, gently nudging him off to the side again. “I'll be fine. It's just a few scratches, like Pidge was saying. Go sit down. Get off of your knee.”

“My knee doesn't hurt right now,” he muttered petulantly, but he stepped back, his hand still clutched around Keith's wrist. “How am I supposed to calmly sit around when I know you're bleeding out on this quiznaking cot?” His hand tightened around his wrist as red crawled up his neck.

“Lance,” Allura called, watching him carefully, “Can you come organize these shelves for me while we fix Keith up? I'm going to need someone to bring me stuff while I work, and Pidge has already got her hands full.”

“Uh,” Lance started, eyes following the sound of her voice, “Um... maybe? I mean, yeah. Yes, I can do that! That is something I can do!” Stretching out Pidge's cane, he tapped over towards Allura.

“You're getting pretty good with that cane, sharpshooter,” Keith commented, grimacing as Pidge pulled the gauze up, blood spilling forward from the wound. “P-Princess, I really think we need to so something about my leg.”

Lance spun back towards him, nearly loosing his balance as he took a quick step back towards the cot. “Are you okay? Someone explain to me what's going on! It can't be good if Hunk's puking!” he demanded.

“Nothing, nothing, buddy,” Hunk gasped quickly, shooting Keith a reproachful glare, “Keith's just bleeding a little, and you know how I am with blood. He just needs stitches is all. Now, let's see about organizing this stuff.”

“No, I got it. I can do this,” Lance told him, nudging his hands against the pile Allura had created for him.

“Lance...”

“Go help Pidge and Allura. Or Coran! That way you won't be around for the blood. Coran definitely needs help with all that star dust or whatever, probably.”

Hunk and Coran glanced at each other quickly before Coran burst out, “Yes! I could really use your help, Hunk, since Pidge took my job. Good thinking, Lance. Come now, Hunk, let's get out of the Princess' way and get that star dust.” He moved towards the door quickly, worried gaze still focused on Lance.

Taking a last glance at Lance's trembling hands, Hunk sighed. “Alright, if you're sure.” Gripping Lance's shoulder one last time, he turned from the medical bay.

Flinching as Allura threaded a needle through the first of the lacerations on his leg, Keith said with the most even voice he could muster, “Lance, do you have your music player with you? We could really use something to listen to right now.”

“Yeah!” Pidge shouted enthusiastically, holding a tray of silver instruments out for Allura in her bloodied fingers, “Some music would be great right now. Not any of that old shit you like to listen to though. And dear god, no musicals.”

Lance spun, glaring in her direction. “Hey, that old shit is the classics, and you can never go wrong with the classics.” He crossed his arms petulantly over his chest. “And musicals are god sent, Pidge. God. Sent. Wicked is a masterpiece.”

“I think that's an argument we can have another time,” Pidge told him, grinning when his eyes narrowed to thin slits of blue.

“Fine, but this conversation isn't over yet, Pidgeon. Mark my words.” Carefully rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out the music player.

…..

Lance was lying on Keith's bed, listening to his even breaths that hitched with pain every few moments. He slept fitfully despite the pain killers Allura had forced down his throat.

The medication had sent him into the ether, making him loopy enough to laugh generously, leaning heavily on both him and Pidge. As they'd reached his room, he'd unabashedly brushed a kiss across Pidge's cheekbone that had her storming off with a screech. He'd barely shucked off his suit when he'd dragged Lance bodily onto the bed, and curled around him as a cat would a preferred toy.

He was aching and tired, his knee throbbing in time with his pulse, but he couldn't follow Keith into sleep. Every sound in the ship rang through his ears, the creek of metal, the hiss of ventilation, the squeak of the mice running passed the door. The tang of blood was strong in his nostrils, the unpleasant stick of Keith's drying blood on his pajama bottoms making him squirm. He wanted a shower, but he wanted to stay with Keith curled around him like he was needed, wanted. He wanted to see the sleep on Keith's face, but he wanted to feel the incessant heat of his body, smell the hints through the ship soap that were so blatantly Keith that he knew he'd lose if his sight returned.

Brushing careful fingers across the fringe over Keith's forehead, he carded them through the soft locks. His smile came unbidden as Keith released a small, softly content sound that was closer to a mewl than a sigh. Taking only a moment to consider, he shimmied out of his pants and slid down in Keith's arms.

He'd only just managed to get comfortable when he heard the hesitant staccato of a fist against the door. Stilling, he listened closely as the person shuffled in front of the door, waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, they knocked again, soft and a little dainty, and he sighed inwardly.

A sigh, and he knew who stood outside. Allura paced across the hall, returning to knock a third time. When he remained silent, hoping she would just leave, she shifted and knocked gently, quieter. “Lance?” she called tentatively, “Can I come in? I need to speak with you for a moment.”

Sliding from Keith's arms and frowning as a sound of discontent slipped from his lips, he left his jeans on the floor and joined Allura in the doorway. “Keith's sleeping,” he murmured as he slid the door open, barring her entrance, “Maybe later.”

“I didn't come to talk with Keith,” she told him, mimicking the volume of his voice, “I wanted to talk to you. Pidge, Coran, and I developed something. I'd like to give you the first dose now, and... I'd like to talk, if that's alright.”

Turning his ear back to the Keith, he listened to make sure his breath had remained even before nodding. “Alright, but not in here. Let's go to my room.”

“Of course.” She followed him into his room, pausing in the middle the same way Keith had done those long days ago. She waited until he'd sat on the edge of his bed before continuing. “The star dust was the last component we needed to pull something together for your eyes. It has very precise healing properties, and with the samples Pidge took, we-”

“Princess,” Lance cut her off, sighing as he sagged into the bed, his shoulder sloping, “Not to be rude, but I'm not really interested in how you guys made it or what's really in it. I know you three aren't really doctors, and Coran is probably the only one with any medical experience. I'm basically a science experiment at this point, so I'd just kind of like to get on with it. I'd like to know as soon as possible whether I'm going to be blind for good or not.”

Allura was quiet, her breath hitching as if caught by a hook. Regret gripped him, but she spoke before he could allow it to fester. “Lance, we're not sure it's permanent. We've never really seen this before, and we can't find it in any database of past cases. There's a chance that it's only temporary, that your natural healing ability will correct it with time.”

“And then there's the chance that it's permanent,” he pointed out, running his fingers along the cylinder of his cane, focusing on the smooth seams of metal against metal, the barely noticeable dip around flush head rivets and screws. “How many times am I going to need to use whatever you guys have cooked up?”

Clearing her throat, Allura's weight dipped the bed beside him. “About three times a day. Once in the morning immediately after waking up, or after your morning routine. Once in the afternoon, sometime after lunch. Once in the evening, about an hour before you sleep. If you workout that day, and after your shower, it needs to be applied.”

“That's a lot of work, Princess...” He trailed off, unable to sustain the joking tone he'd been grasping for. Running a hand back through his hair, he glanced towards the dip of her weight. “What is it anyway? Eye drops? Pills?”

“Well, it's similar to a cream or gel. You'll have to apply it beneath your bottom eyelid. Only a small amount is needed. It'll be best if you have someone help you with it.”

“Okay... And I just, uh, let it sit there? Blink it around?”

“No, if you blink, it will naturally be secreted. Think of the way you get something in your eye and if you blink enough times it will eventually filter out. No, after application, keep your eyes closed for 10-15 minutes. That should give it enough time to spread. After that, just keep your hands away from your eyes.”

Lance nodded. “Are we going to do this now?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you for reminding me. If you could sit on the floor with your back against the bed.” He followed her instructions, sliding to the floor. She moved in behind him, bracketing in his shoulders with her legs. “Tilt your head back. Now just hold still. This will feel strange at first.” He flinched as she pinched his bottom eyelid, pulling it away from his eyes. Thick, viscous goo filled the cavity that had been left, and he shuddered involuntarily. “I'm sorry, Lance. I know it's not comfortable,” she told him as she moved to his other eye. “Just keep your eyes closed. I'll tell you when the time is up.” She sighed, brushing his bangs from his forehead.

Closing his eyes tightly, Lance surrendered himself to the gentle stroke of her fingertips over his forehead. He fidgeted, Allura's gaze like a hot iron against his skin. “You said you wanted to talk about something, Princess?” he asked, breaking the silence. He chaffed his hands against each other, breathing out a careful sigh.

“Yes...” she started but trailed off, contemplation in her voice.

“Is everything alright, Allura?”

Leaning over him, she set her hand atop his, pulling them apart and ceasing their constant movement. She pulled one up against her thigh. “I don't know,” she whispered, pressing his hand flat, running her delicate fingers across his palm, “I don't think it is. There are... broken pieces in the team right now. I... I wanted to talk about... about yesterday. About what you said in the hangar. Lance, are you alright? And please, do not try to deflect. I can tell when you're lying.”

Lance released a shuddering breath, forcing his hand to remain relaxed in her grasp. “I'm... I don't know. Maybe? Keith... he makes it better.” He laughed, running a hand down his face. “That's just not something I even thought I'd say. From rival to friend. My life is a regular YA novel.” Another laugh slipped between his lips. “He just makes things easier. Well, maybe not easier, just easier to bear, I guess. He... he understands. He makes me... happy. He makes me forget that I'm-” He bit at his lip sharply. The taste of blood flooded across his tongue.

Allura's fingers paused for a moment, only a breath, before resuming her careful examination of his palm. “Do you really think what you said in the hangar, Lance? Do you really believe that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible passed the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

“I-”

“Because you're wrong.” Her voice had grown stern, louder. He flinched, but her hand tightened around his, keeping him anchored in place. “You are so far from useless, it's laughable. You're the best shooter we have on this team. Above that, you're our heart and soul. You may not think so, but you are. When everyone is serious and strung out and stressed, you make the situation easier to bear. You remind everyone what we're fighting for. You remind us of the people that we fight for every day. You're fun and joyful and outgoing, but when you're solemn, everyone feels it. Things haven't been the same, and I know it's not easy. I'm not asking you to push through for us. I want you to keep gong because you want to, because there's something worth fighting through this difficult time for. While you're getting better, we'll be here waiting for you and supporting you. You might not believe it right now, but I hope one day you'll realize that you are what holds this team together.”

“Allura, I-”

Standing quickly, Allura stepped around him and pulled him to his feet. “You can open your eyes now. You should probably get back to Keith before he wakes up and hurts himself trying to figure out where you are.” Her voice was tight and watery, her hands trembling against his arm.

As she turned to leave, he told her, “Thank you.”

Her footsteps paused in the doorway. “You're welcome, Lance. I hope you can smile genuinely again soon. I miss it.”

[theoriginalkidwithapen]

Principia – De Motu Corporum XI

CW:  politics, foul language, abuse, violence against children, death, murder, drinking, generational trauma, alcoholism

Moreover... we may discover the proportion of a centripetal force to any other known force, such as that of gravity. For if a body by means of its gravity revolves in a circle concentric to the earth, this gravity is the centripetal force of that body.

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

The Southeast Corridor was a long tunnel 30 meters across.  Like with other examples of Lunar construction, it had been bored and excavated from an existing lava tube long ago, and was not covered from floor to ceiling in buildings, bridges, catwalks, and canopies, all punctuated and interwoven with pipes, ducts, and conduit placed wherever it would fit.  The lighting was warm and homely, the air rich is the strong, hearty smell of a dozen aromatic spices, and to Sara’s awe and perplexion, the tunnel walls rang with the sound of hundreds of people singing, accompanied by steady rhythmic clapping and the low drone of a didgeridoo.  All of this came together to create an atmosphere of primality and modernity, jubilation and solemnity, ritual and extemporanity, it was a hauntingly beautiful and profoundly…  human experience. “That’s amazing,” Sara half-whispered in awe, “What are they doing?”

“Havin’ a sing-songs,” Tahlia said contentedly as their coworkers began to join in, “Ahh, nothing like being back on colony after a hard day’s work, ay?” “I… wouldn’t know,” Sara said, somehow feeling a sense of loss at the richness of culture around her and the…  happiness, as if to spite the poverty present here, like in the other Selenite spaces she had seen here on the Moon, “Back home, everyone’s always so miserable and beaten.  You’d never have something like this in the Wards.” “Can you say that?” Tahlia asked, surprised, “Well, stay close to me, ay?  We’ll get you busted out laughing so we can scare those lows away, unna?”

Tahlia led Sara and, by extension, the rest of the group, left to the tunnel wall, up the stairs two floors, then a right, down past the large air vent with wind chimes hanging off the front, and another right across a bridge until they came to a triangular sign with 10 black circles connected by black lines to look like a shrugging cross, laid against a yellow background.  Sara had seen thee signs along their path, and that Tahlia had turned every time they encountered one, as if she were avoiding them. “Catchya inna bit, fullas,” Tahlia called out to the others, “The Earthfulla here needs some schooling.” The others let out a hearty laugh and continued ahead.  Tahlia directed Sara’s attention to the shrugging cross sign.  “That right there is a marker for the Mara-Tea Dreaming,” she began, “It’s important to my mob and to my colony, which is why it marks our custodial lands.  We fullas are the Chladni Community of Sinus Medii – our roots, customs, and culture came from the custodians of the lands of Australia way back in the way backs, but in the centuries since, we’ve welcomed Moonfullas from other backgrounds into our colony.” “And how does Sharqi fit in with all this?” Sara asked. “He’s one of us,” Tahlia replied, “Earthgubbahs put him in welfare during the moonquake of ‘49, so he never got reared up proper – he got sent to an Earthfulla family that were part of the Organisation.  He came back all growed up, and in a real blackfulla way, he uses his position to get us Moonfullas jobs so fewer of us have to be on the pension.” “You sound like you admire him,” Sara said. “For a Stolen Gen,” Tahlia replied, “he’s a fulla who’s strong in his culture.  Now, let’s get some grub, ay?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The inside of the restaurant was lively and raucous, full of people talking, laughing, eating, drinking, even singing – and just generally enjoying each other’s company.  The air was alive with the smell of hearty food grilled in the open air – the aroma of onions and bell peppers, cooking oils and barbecue sauces, marinated meat and golden grains – Sara had never salivated like this before. The fry cook behind the counter was a giant Aboriginal man with both arms heavily scarred at the elbows, which was where flesh and bone abruptly gave way to the metal and silicone of his cybernetic replacements.  His apron had the words, “Black And Proud” printed in large, friendly letters across the chest. “Ay, there you are, sistagirl,” he said jovially, “I was wonderin’ what a fulla’d have to do to get his li’l darlen to come back to her dad’s!” He noticed Sara quietly following her, unsure of how to interact in this sort of setting.  “Tahlia,” he asked, “who’s that fulla?” “This fulla’s our new gunna be docker, Sara,” Tahlia replied, “She came up here from America.” “Shair, auntie girl,” he scolded, “Are you ignorant or what?  You know gubbahs don’t get us.” “This one ain’t a gubbah,” Tahlia explained, “Nan says she’s my sista from another mister, and I believe her.” “Shame job, Doris,” he sighed, and he gestured to the TV on the far end of the bar, which was airing an interview with the next prime minister of United Earth, a morbidly obese blowhard whose spray tan and toupee were in such appallingly bad taste that they had to be some kind of incomprehensible fashion statement, “Earthfullas are all like that one – they’ve got no respect.” “I’ll flog her myself if she doesn’t,” Tahlia said to Sara’s astonishment. “I’m still here, you know,” Sara commended, “and I’ve picked up enough Moonfulla talk today to know that you don’t like me very much, and I gotta know if we have a problem.” “Ay, little woman now,” the man answered, “don’t be a sookie.  I don’t bar fullas unless they’re violent or mission managers.  What’ll you have?” “Two of your finest,” Tahlia ordered, “and a flagon each.  Don’t skimp on the peppers this time, ay?” “Got it, Tahli,” he affirmed, “Ay, Christo!  Fill two gooms for these fullas ‘fore I bust you up!” “Ay, boss!” a younger Aboriginal man shouted in response before filling up two fist-sized glasses with some kind of clear liquor from a tap made from old copper pipes.  He slid the two glasses down to Tahlia as the older cyborg turned to his stovetop to grill up their orders. “I’d watch out, if I were you,” Tahlia cautioned as she handed Sara her drink, “This grog’s deadly solid, and it has but one redeeming quality.  Mooms up!” Sara joined her in knocking back the sterile, corrosive liquid, fighting the gag reflex its stench evoked as it went down her gullet.  Apart from the overpowering alcoholic sting, it had a distinct metallic tang, probably from the pipes and whatever it was stored or distilled in.  Even she, a seasoned moonshine drinker, found herself coughing and wheezing after choking it down. “Damn, that’s fucking good!” Sara winced. “It’s also too deadly a machine degreaser,” Tahlia concurred, just as impaired. “Literally,” Sara groaned as she struggled to find her equilibrium, “I might need a new liver after this.” “Dad’s right,” Tahlia said, “You are a sookie.” “Am not!” Sara protested. “Therem therem, sookie,” Tahlia teased, “Auntie Tahli’s gonna love you long time.  Two more, Christo!” “Ay, tidda!” Christo called out in response. “Maybe we should go slow on this next round,” Sara suggested, “You have any mixers back there?” “Got some cookin’ oil in the deep fryer!” Chrito replied loudly. “Ay, don’t try to be a blackman now, Christo!” Tahlia yelled, “You’ve got lemon juice and sugar back there, unna?  Mix us some hard lemonades, budj!” “Yeah, ay?” Christo answered, “Ay, she’s a big shot now, unna?” “True that, buddah!” half of the people in the room called out in response before going back to their business. “Shame,” Tahlia muttered to herself.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The headquarters office for the Life Support Utility company’s Grimaldi branch was a cylindrical prefabricated structure that jutted out from the water treatment plant like a barnacle, as if it were tacked on as an afterthought.  Finchley noted the enormous water main going up through the cavern ceiling to the space elevator.  It was the non-descript jugular vein that provided the water, air, and propellant that without which, Grimaldi Station and all aboard would die. He and Nguyen continued across the stark concrete bridge that spanned the trench housing the electrical conduits servicing the power needs of the entire Grimaldi Space Elevator complex, and approached the front gate, which wasn’t really much more than a steel barricade set inside a gap in the chain link fence surrounding the facility.  Finchley pressed the button on the intercom.  Nothing happened.  He pressed it again.  Still nothing.  Nguyen began restlessly looking around, and noticed that although the door’s security equipment was in place, the bolt holding it locked had been cut. No, burned. Nguyen thought that a laser cutter or acetylene torch had been used here. With one hand and a sideways motion, Nguyen slid the barricade aside with little difficulty, to Finchley’s surprise.  “Ewan,” she said as she pulled a bundle of wires out from behind the intercom, which had been cut with electrician’s pliers, “just how, exactly, did you become an inspector?” “My maths were too poor to be an accountant,” Finchley confessed dryly, “and I’m too much of an arsehole to be a project manager.” “So much for the excellence of United Earth’s Civil Service,” Nguyen snarked.  She and Finchley drew their sidearms and cautiously approached the office building. They crept up to the front door and flattened their backs against the wall, flanking the doorway.  They could hear muffled, indistinct voices on the other side.  Nguyen pressed the button to talk on her collar microphone.  “Nguyen to Stationhouse,” she whispered urgently, “I’m with an MOI inspector at the LSU Grimaldi Branch HQ.  Possible breaking and entering, requesting immediate backup.” She glanced at Finchley, and he returned her gaze.  Finchley stepped in front of the door and, after silently counting down from three, he kicked the door open violently and entered, with Nguyen following closely. “Ministry of Inquiry!” Finchley barked at the occupants, “Don’t move!” The six people inside, all wearing LSU uniforms, looked up from apparently mundane tasks with surprise and alarm.  Everyone waited in apprehension as detective and technician alike were unsure of how to proceed.  Finchley and Nguyen slowly lowered their guns. “Stationhouse, this is Nguyen,” she reported in annoyance, “disregard.  Situation is under control.” “Are we under arrest?” a supervisor-type asked obliviously. “No,” Finchley replied with greater annoyance than his partner, “No, you’re not fucking under arrest, you twit!”  He holstered his weapon, and Nguyen did the same. “Good,” the supervisor said, “Now, if you don’t have any business here other than harassing utilities technicians, please leave.  We are extremely busy!” “Obviously,” Finchley snarked, “You didn’t notice that someone had disabled your security system.  We thought someone had broken in!” “You didn’t notice it either,” Nguyen commented offhandedly. “A break-in?” the supervisor asked, “We’ve detected no break-in here.” “How could you?” Nguyen countered, “All the security devices at your front gate have been disabled!” “Besides, you didn’t detect us until after we kicked in the door,” Finchley added. “Fair point,” the supervisor conceded, “and I would send someone out to repair them if I could spare anyone, but I’ve been down to a skeleton crew here ever since all those algal blooms cropped up in Surveyor City.  Even with everyone working on that crisis, we’re still working double and triple shifts every day.  You can thank your wretched colonial government’s shortsightedness for that!” Nguyen put a hand on her hip.  “That’s a hell of an opinion,” she critiqued, “especially for an employee of that government.” “Is it?” the supervisor asked, “I guess I’ve been too busy making sure that half a million people don’t die to notice.” “Right…” Nguyen narked as she rolled her eyes. “That said,” the supervisor said, “I must insist:  What business do you have here?” “We’d like to talk to you about the technician you sent to service the CELSS unit at the Governor’s Residence the other day,” Finchley said. The supervisor paused.  “Kovac, take over here for a minute,” he ordered, “Officers, step into my office, if you please.  I think we may want to discuss this in private.” They followed him to a plexiglass cubicle with no door.  The supervisor plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk and turned to face the detectives. “You wanted to know about a technician that LSU sent to the Governor’s Residence?” he asked as he tapped his desk with his finger, calling up a holographic display with graphs, charts, spreadsheets, and tables, all hovering like cyan specters, “Ah, here it is.  Konstantin Dibra, Journeyman Utility Technician Grade 1, assigned to perform the monthly diagnostic test on the Governor’s Residence CELSS unit for January 2293 on 22930112.” He poked the work order for more information.  “Huh,” he said in subdued curiosity, “It says here that he accepted the job and completed it within the time allotted, but never reported in for his next job.  In fact, he didn’t show up for work today.” “Is that unusual for him?” Finchley asked. “Most definitely,” the supervisor replied, “Konstantin started here as a Grade 4 Apprentice, and in the 12 years he’s worked for the company, the only time he’s ever taken off from work was during the labor strike of ‘87.  The man’s a workaholic – he’s always taking extra shifts whenever they become available – even the few times he’s been sick or injured, he insisted on working his full shift.” “The ‘87 labor strike?” Nguyen asked, “So he’s political?” “I don’t have that information,” the supervisor said, “but everyone in LSU was there protesting the pay cuts and having to pre-fund 100 years of retirement pension payments, thanks to your wretched colonial government again.  I don’t think he had the time to get involved in politics, he was just standing up for his livelihood like the rest of us.” “But he’s still a trade unionist,” Nguyen pressed, “Doesn’t that imply a political affiliation?” “Not necessarily,” the supervisor corrected, “Everyone – and I mean everyone, down to the secretaries – who work at LSU is a card-carrying member of the LLT.  They don’t have to agree with the League’s politics, they don’t even have to like it, period, as long as they pay their dues, they get to work here and receive all the benefits that League membership confers.  Konstantin’s paid his dues on time every quarter for 12 years now.” “Could we get a copy of his employee jacket?” Finchley asked. “Certainly,” the supervisor answered, and summoned the technician’s dossier, which he sent to the detectives’ handsets with a flick of his wrist, “Anything else I can do for you?” “No,” Finchley concluded, “but we’ll contact you if we have further questions.” “Well then,” the supervisor dismissed, “good day.”  He gestured for them to leave. As they exited the building, Nguyen spoke up.  “So, where to now?” she asked. “I’ll question Ms. Yousafzai again,” Finchley stated, “I want you to go follow up on the Dibra lead.  Go to his home, try to locate him.” “Understood,” Nguyen responded.

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A savory, meaty, bready aroma heralded the arrival of Sara’s salivatory entreé – a breaded steak, buttered mashed potatoes and gravy, collared greens, and a pair of southern-style biscuits.  Never before in Sara’s life had she seen such a feast, let alone had one prepared for her.  She found herself unsure of how to attack it. Tahlia saw the apprehension in Sara’s eyes.  “Somethin’ wrong with it, darlen?” she asked. “No, it looks great,” Sara said, “I just can’t believe that all this is for me.” “Well, eat hearty,” Tahlia advised, “A docker’s gotta keep up her strength, unna?”  She took her own advice and began cutting into her steak. Sara stuck her fork into her cutlet and carved off a lice.  She put it in her mouth and began to chew, and the flavor – the tang of the salt, the cream of the buttermilk, the sinus-clearing power of the peppers and the garlic – it was more than merely delicious. It was painfully, profoundly beautiful. As she swallowed, she could feel her eyes moisten.  The moisture turned to wetness, the wetness to tears that rolled slowly down her cheek in the 1/6th gravity.  Before she knew it, she was sobbing uncontrollably, grieving for…  something.  The girl she was never allowed to be; who could have eaten like this sooner, perhaps.  Her grief turned to regret and self-hatred.  She wished she had never tasted such a morsel – that way, she wouldn’t have ever known that such a delightful thing could possibly exist, or that she could ever sample such a glorious delicacy.  She felt as if she had taken her knife and fork and cut out a piece of herself instead.  It hurt her more deeply than any wound she had ever suffered in her life, and it was agonizing. Good things didn’t happen to her.  She couldn’t accept that they might. Tahlia was surprised at Sara’s reaction.  Her dad’s cooking was good, but she had never heard of anyone being reduced to tears after only one bite.  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Sara continued to bawl inconsolably.  Tahlia didn’t know what to do – she had never seen a grown woman have a sook like this before.  Her tears weren’t born of pain or petulance, or of grief or gladlessness, or of heartbreak or hopelessness.  Hers were complex, conflicting tears which tugged at the tapestry of her soul in every direction until the threads frayed and it began to come apart at the seams. Tahlia couldn’t comfort Sara because Sara didn’t know what she was feeling herself. “Mad deadly, ay?” Tahlia asked Sara tenderly, “Gorn den, the second bite’s better’n the first.” Sara wiped her tears away on her sleeve, almost stabbing Tahlia with her steak knife on accident.  She regained just enough composure to take Tahlia’s advice and eat another bite of her impossibly heavenly steak dinner. “Why now?” Sara wept wretchedly, “Why not sooner?” “My dad cooked it as quickly as possible,” Tahlia replied, trying to raise Sara’s spirits by comically missing the point. “Not that,” Sara continued, “I just…  never ate like this before.  Nothin’ like this where I’m from.  I’m not sure I deserve this.” “Can you say that, auntie girl?” Tahlia asked, “You deserve to eat hearty and be happy like any fulla.  Now eat up.  Auntie Tahli’s gonna treat you right, ay?” Sara kept eating, still weeping as she did so.  Tahlia turned to face her dad behind the counter. “Ay, dad!” she called out, “Is he ignorant or what?” “Who?” he asked back. “That gubbah,” Tahlia clarified as she nodded in the direction of the screen, which was still showing the interview with the overflowingly gelatinous Prime-Minister-In-Waiting from the United States, George Paramount, “He’s got so much shit packed in his head, it’s spillin’ out his mouth!” “Ayy, no respect that one,” Dad replied, “They had him on earlier, busted for behaviour his nan shoulda flogged him for when he was a little fulla.  He’s got no shame.” “What sort of behaviour, dad?” “Oh, he was yarnin’ up big time about grabbin’ mootchas and other shameful shit on an Earth chat show last month,” Dad explained, “and get this – the host let rip on him for that talk, and the dish licker called her a liar, even when she showed him the fucking video of him sayin’ his exact words!  Then he stood over her and lapped her up over mobbin’ him up with slander and fake news!” “You’re gammon!” Tahlia dismissed, “Good go, dad, but not even!” “I’m bein’ straight out, baby girl, I’d swear he was grog sick there,” Dad contested, “The loon’s an even bigger sookie than this one, here!  If that’s the flashest the Earthgubbahs can pick, we Moonfullas might be best off lettin’ rip on those mission managers in the Colonial Government and stand up for our land rights.” “Nahhh, Earthgubbas have got all of the guns and none of the respect,” Tahlia countered, “If we rise up against them, they’ll turn the city’s tunnels into one great massacre site, and then we’ll all be in for some sorry business, unna?” “Shair, auntie girl,” Dad articulated, “There hasn’t been a massacre on Luna in a hundred years.  Gubbahs haven’t got the boobles for more than the occasional bust up.” “Dad,” Tahlia protested, “Mum and Nan were killed in the last ‘bust up.’  I don’t want any more in my mob to die.” “Is it better for us Moonfullas to die slowly as the Earthfullas replace us?” Christo chimed in. “Fuck off, Christo!” Tahlia snapped, “I swear to God I”m gonna bust you if you don’t!” “Then let’s get busted!” Sara shouted, “Christo, two more!” “That’s ‘hammered,’ sista from another mista,” Tahlia corrected.

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Amsha was rudely awakened by percussive, metallic banging on the door of her cell before the bolt slid open and the door swung open, blinding her bleary eyes with the light from the corridor outside.  A short, stocky, night-black silhouette blotted out the light and set foot in the room.  Amsha quickly wrapped herself up in her bedsheets to preserve her modesty, but she wasn’t quite able to cover one of her ankles in the confusion. “Tell me about the LSU technician,” Fichley asked without breaking stride, “Every detail, you can remember, every impression you had of him, everything!” “What is going on!?” Amsha asked in a shocked manner. “The technician!” Finchley repeated, “Tell me now!” Amsha had to take a moment to organize her thoughts and recall what had been a routine and thoroughly forgettable encounter. “The technician was courteous, efficient, professional,” she replied nervously, “The job was completed within half an hour – at the time, I thought it was satisfactory – there weren’t any problems with security, no apparent difficulties or delays–” “Describe the technician,” Finchley ordered, “How tall was he?  Was he an Earther?  Spaceborn?  Selenite?  Did he have any identifying features, like scars, birthmarks, prostheses, tattoos?” “Th-the technician was 170-odd centimeters tall,” Amsha anxiously answered, “I think she might have been an Earther, but it was hard to tell with her baggy coverall–” “Wait a minute,” Finchley interrupted, “‘She?’” “Yes,” Amsha affirmed. “The LSU technician was a woman?” “Surely that’s not unusual.” “It isn’t,” Finchley interrogated, “but in this case, it’s impossible.  The technician that LSU dispatched to the Residence was male.” “What?” was all that Amsha could manage in her astonishment. “The technician, Konstantin Dirba, was a man,” Finchley clarified. “Your information must be wrong,” Amsha denied, “The technician who came to the Residence was definitely female.” “Ms. Yousafzai,” Finchley said sternly, “why are you lying to me?” “I’m not,” Amsha countered, “I was there.  I spoke with her for five minutes.  I am certain that she was as much a woman as I am now.” “Indulging in this ridiculous fiction will not derail this investigation,” Finchley accused, “Who is it that you are protecting?” “I’m not protecting anyone!” Amsha protested, “With merciful God a witness, the technician was a woman!  Why won’t you believe me!?” “Because your story is unbelievable,” Finchley conjectured, “Now, let’s try this one:  Your sister died from anatoxin poisoning due to contamination in the water supply, which the terrorist organisation he belonged to attributed to deliberate incompetence on the part of the Earth-appointed colonial government.  Grief-stricken and grasping for meaning, you joined up with the Selenite Liberation Front to carry on your sister’s work.” “This can’t be happening,” Amsha whispered with a quivering voice, “I’ve never committed a crime in my life, I’ve never harmed anyone–” “After being radicalised by Selenite nationalists, the Front exploited your exemplary criminal record to infiltrate you – a sleeper agent – into the Governor’s staff,” Finchley raised his voice as he speculated, “When the time was right, all you needed to do was look the other way while a Front operative sabotaged the Residence’s life support system, and avoid drinking the water while you stood by and watched the maladroit magistrate got his just desserts – death by anatoxin poisoning, just like your sister and thousands of other Selenites.” “–How many times must I tell you that I’m innocent?” Amsha continued, “Why do you keep accusing me of a crime I didn’t commit?” “Of course, your role in this sinister plot could be easily dismissed a negligent, for want of conclusive evidence or culpability,” Finchley pressed, “but under section 132 of the United Earth Code of Laws, lying to an Inspector of the Homeworld is considered perjury, which is a felony offence punishable by up to 120 months’ hard labour, a fine of more than 20,000 Global Exchange Option credits but not exceeding 25 million, or both.” Amha was aghast.  20,000 GEOs was more than she made in a month, and the Lunar Civil Service paid her for her work in the Residence much better than most jobs her fellow Selenites languished in.  She wasn’t even sure that she had 20,000 GEOs saved. A perjury conviction would ruin her, but she knew that she was not wrong about the sex of the LSU technician.  She had no choice but to persist. “I’m not lying, Inspector,” she answered with renewed determination, “the technician was a woman, and I had no knowledge of a plot to sabotage the Residence or assassinate the Governor-General.  You can check the security logs, they’ll prove that I’m telling the truth!” “We’ll see,” Finchley said coldly, “Get dressed.  We’ll start again in five minutes.”

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It wasn’t until she knocked back her fifth “flagon” of “grog” that Sara loosened up, stopped crying, and felt that warm, contented feeling she remembered from the hard-drinking days of her squandered youth. The booze was her happy chemical. “Auntie Tahli?” she drawled at her drinking companion, “I think I’ve found the grog’s one redeeming quality.” “Yeah, deadly ay?” Tahlia slurred back, “I’ll admit, you smashed those flagons like a killer, sistagirl!” “I can thank my dad for that,” Sara uttered, “It’s because of that motherfucker that I can hold my booze like I do.” “Was he a drunkard?” “Yeah,” Sara miserated, “Hardly had any money for food, but somehow he could always afford a bottle of moonshine for himself.  Whenever he got drunk, he’d hit me ‘til I was blue all over.  He wouldn’t stop until he passed out, and I learned to cherish those moments when he was too drunk to hurt me.  I’d bandage myself up as best I could, get a couple hours of quality shuteye, and pretend that he hit me because he loved me.” “Aww, poor darlen,” Tahlia commiserated, “How’dja get out?” “I was 8 when I got the idea that it was the booze that made him violent,” Sara yarned, “So one day, after I got thrashed so hard that three of my teeth broke, li’l Sara waited until he passed out, then stole his booze and ran away to throw it out somewhere.” Sara gulped nothing before continuing.  “Of course,” she confessed, “it wasn’t until I was halfway to the river that I realized that my dad would hit me for takin’ his rocket fuel away, so I decided not to go back home, which turned out to be the best decision I ever made.  I knew that alcohol made for a good disinfectant, and because I was still bleeding from my dad’s ham-fisted dental work, I took a swig from the bottle, endured the burning and the pain, and after a few more self-medication sessions throughout the day, I developed a taste for white liquor.” “Your mob’s river people?” Tahlia asked, apparently only catching the middle part of Sara’s tale. “Yeah, that’s us,” Sara sighed drunkenly, “Minneapolis – the Megacity of Lakes.  Straddling both banks of the mighty Missississ…  Mithithipp…  some big-ass river south of Canada, anyway, like a hooker fucking a storm drain.” “That’s a big fucking hooker,” Tahlia mused disjointedly. “Chonky,” Sara concurred. They sat there for about a minute, basking in the sophisticated poetry they had just crafted collaboratively.  They expected to win the 2293 Rhysling Award for their creative genius. “Mississippi!” Sara shouted out victoriously, “That’s the name of that goddamn river!  Fuck, I’m wasted!” “Glad we got that sorted,” Tahlia declared as she stood up, “I’m gonna go ring my flannel.”  She lurched over to a door marked, “Djillawa,” and stumbled inside. The George Paramount interview was interrupted by a news flash.  “Breaking news at this hour,” an impossibly comely news anchor announced, “Farouk Al-Amir Najjar, Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies, was found dead earlier today in the Governor’s Residence from anatoxin poisoning.” “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gubbah,” Dad grumbled as he wiped the counter down with a microfiber towel. “What’d he do?” Sara asked with inebriated curiosity. “That dish-licking mission manager’s been bleeding us Moonfullas dry for over 30 years,” he replied bitterly, “His ‘work programmes’ created thousands of jobs for Earthfullas while millions of Moonfullas are starving in the tunnels.  His government have prioritised tourism over life support, pouring money into expensive hotels overlooking the Apollo sites while children suffocate in their homes and algae blooms kill their parents.  He and his predecessors have been perpetrating a genocide so they can replace us with Earthfullas who will do as they are told, and every time we hoola to be heard, they make us drink contaminated water, breathe unrecycled air, and starve on crumbs thrown to us by ignorant visitors who care nothing for the hardship we Moonfullas suffer at their own hands.  That is what that Douligha fucker has done!” Sara paused for a moment.  “I’m one of those ignorant Earthfullas sent to replace you, you know,” she countered. “Tahlia says you’re a goodfulla,” Dad replied, “That’s good enough for me.” Sara thought about that for a moment, and she decided that she liked that.

“How did you get a job on the docks, anyway?” Dad asked, “The LLT aren’t in the business of giving jobs to Earthfullas.” “Sharqi pulled some strings,” Sara answered. Dad’s expression was one of understanding.  “A jambi job, unna?” he wondered, “That fulla’s a cheeky one, ay?  Must be because he’s a Stolen Gen.” “Why does a crime boss have so much pull over the Moonfulla community?” Sara asked. “He’s got no more ‘pull’ than anyone else, at the end of the day, we’re all just blackfullas anyway,” Dad answered, “but there’s no denying he’s a respected person in our mob – he’s done more for the Moonfulla community in five years than the Earthgubbahs have in fifty.  The Organisation give the LLT the moolah and the muscle they need to stand up to the ration dolers in the colonial government.  LLT protect legit jobs for Moonfullas, while the Organisation look out for our little buddahs and sistas who have to act shameful to keep from cadjing in the tunnels.  Since Sharqi took over the Organisation, fewer blackfullas have gone missing, especially the sistas.” “So they throw you a bone every now and then, and in return criminals get your undying loyalty?” Sara asked, “Sounds like a bad deal for you fullas.” “Don’t be a mission manager like those fullas,” Dad scolded, “We’d rather not be associated with criminals, but the Earthgubbahs have left us no choice.  When the rules are made to keep you under some other fulla’s heel, no one should be surprised when you don’t follow the rules.” “Naw, I get it,” Sara replied, “I really do.  Where I’m from, following the rules means a race between overwork and starvation, and see which kills you first.” “For more, we go live to our correspondent on the scene at the Governor’s Residence, Guiseppina Conti,” the anchor reported, “Peppi?” “Grazie,” an Italian reporter said as the screen switched over to her, “The Governor died while eating dinner, when he was served drinking water contaminated with anatoxin-a, a neurotoxin created by the bacteria that live inside toxic algae blooms.  He was dead within minutes.” “Does the investigation have any suspects?” the anchor asked. “They have the murderer in custody,” Peppi answered, “and there’s a manhunt for a co-conspirator going on as well.  While official sources refuse to comment on whether this was an isolated incident, reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination–” The bar erupted in an uproar. “Ay, look out!” Christo shouted, “There’s gonna be blood on the walls now, buddahs!  True!?” “True that, buddah!” the patrons of the bar shouted in response. “Listen up now, young ones!” Dad roared, “Now I don’t wanna hear no more talk of risin’ up or of revolutions or of havin’ a crack at the Earthgubbah, at least not when they might be within cooee, unna!?” The uproar died down abruptly.  “That’s him,” Dad said with satisfaction, “Now, they’re just trying to flush us out, ay?  They’re out to irritate us – pull our beards, flick our faces – to make us fight on their terms.  Now, when the time is right, we and the other communities will sing out, and we will be heard.  Until then, we just oughta take a deep breath and cool our jets.  No sense in getting violent when it would do no good, ay?” “True that, Elder,” the bar murmured.  Dad turned the screen off. “Now clear off,” he said, “Go home and get some rack time.  Another hard yakka await you in the morning.” The bar began to empty out, and Dad clapped a synthetic hand onto Sara’s shoulder.  “You too, sistagirl,” he said, “Bar’s closed.” Sara got up and stumbled out the door.

“Ay, Sara!” Tahlia called out from behind her, “Where you goin’?” “Home,” Sara muttered distantly, “wherever that is…” She continued to follow Sara for a bit, until Sara stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. “Ay, I’m such a boofhead!” Tahlia declared, “Your salary won’t come ‘til sundown, so you’ve got nowhere to go!  Cooee, you can camp with me ‘til then, unna?” “Only one day?” Sara asked despondently, “Where will I stay tomorrow?” “Nah, auntie girl,” Tahlia said reassuringly, “sundown’s not for 18 days.  Sunup-to-sunup here on Luna is about a month long.” “All right,” Sara consented, “let’s go.  Lead the way, Auntie Tahli.” Tahlia turned Sara around and led her back into the tunnel.

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Finchley exited the interrogation room and answered his handset.  “Inspector Finchley,” he said. “Ewan, it’s Anh Lihn,” Nguyen replied, “I’ve given Dibra’s hole a once-over.  He hasn’t been home since Wednesday morning, when he left for his first LSU job.” “He’s been gone for nearly two days?” Finchley asked, “Did any of his jobs require that he stay overnight elsewhere?” “No, they were all within two hours’ travel on the metro,” Nguyen answered, “The last job he accepted before he disappeared was the routine diagnostic of the Residence’s life support system.  How’s the interrogation proceeding?” “It’s been three hours, and she still professes her innocence,” Finchley answered, “She insists that the LSU technician she met was a woman.” “A we saw, the security footage was inconclusive,” Nguyen acknowledged, “but I came across an entry in his diary which describes a recent romance with a woman.  Apparently his work schedule required that they postpone a romantic getaway several times, and they were about to finally go when Dibra was called away to work on his last job.” “Did he call for a replacement?” Finchley asked, “Did LSU send someone in his place?” “No,” Nguyen replied, “he accepted the job, and later submitted a completion report.  As far as we know, that’s the last anyone heard from him.” “Try retracing his steps,” Finchley ordered, “I’ll follow up on the girlfriend.” “Got it,” Nguyen affirmed, and hung up. “Have Ms. Yousafzai moved back to her cell,” Finchley ordered one of the guards, “we’ll hold her for further questioning.”

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“...Reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination…” the screen in Sharqi’s champagne room played.  The room was dark, and Sharqi was brooding.  Esteri and Rosita had been showering him with affection, and he them, until his consigliere told him to watch the news.  Now, they were torn between trying to cheer him up and their own terrible awe at what their ears were telling them.  Sharqi tapped the tabletop exactly thus, calling his consigliere.

“Forbes,” he said between gritted teeth, “get me Rong She immediately.  I want to know what that serpentine fucker and her psychopathic sister were thinking when they had the Governor murdered.”

[sanctuarynoire-blog]

like a distilled kind of theory in love                                                               Awuor Onyango

23:20, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: I'm sort of half asleep but this is always The best time to answer those questions I guess. My mind if always clearer at night. Yes I had coffee with her. I feel like a terrorist ever since the depression because everyone is so fucking scared that I'm unhappy they want to cake my face up with their own happiness. In her case she's madly in love and I'm here for that, but I was sitting there trying to say I'm not suicidal and I'm doing shit with my life that I can be proud of even though its hard and challenging and that I've reconciled my heart and my brain and won't be hunger striking any time soon. And she goes Like...that all sounds coool, but what about your love life? And I'm just kind of sick of everyone telling me to function. I'm sick of being told your time is up, you can't grieve over The shit that happened to you all that time ago and you have to move on now. And I don't know, maybe I'm taking this negative hedonism thing a bit too far with the entire pleasure is evil thing but am I something to be pitied and prodded into relationships just because I'm not in one? And I swore I wasn't going to say anything negative about women of colour and you know I love her to shits, probably less passionately than I did when we used to talk more than five times a year, but its still there my love for her. And I wanted to point out that women actually perpetuate misogyny so fuxking perfectly we don't even need men hating us any more. But I said nothing and I smiled because my mind was just churning out this vitriol like there's 36 words for love in Persian. And don't take my word from it, it'd something I got off the internet and haven't been able to find the words but if for a second we accept that premise that there's 36 words for love in Persian and this isn't even like a distilled kind of theory in love. You have 36 fucking words for it, some of them positive some negative yeah. And if you're out of your kind in love with , like you fucking out of your mind love this man, woman

23:21, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: Non gender person or whatever the most you can feel for them

23:22, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: The MOST is like maybe 25 types of love and that leaves 11 types of love you've got

23:34, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: Left to explore and be fulfilled by and to learn from. That's 11 types of love you close yourself of off right? And are these loves then less important and less desirable and less worthy of experiencing? And is this the shit that haunts you at night and makes you feel incomplete? And I asked Kahira about it and he was like...well, you have to be prepared for this shit, for your girlfriends pitying you because let's face it, you're very unlikely going to be the married mom type and that's all they've been taught to grow up to be. And I never talk about my love life with anyone for shit. Like Malcolm was asking me why I don't date because there's always some weird guy who is rich or famous or both offering me international holidays or whatever as seduction like I give a fuck about those things. And maybe Lula is right and I don't give people much of a chance...but I refuse to have a mediocre love. I refuse to be that intense person in a normal world, because, and I was telling Fiona this when she was complaining about always being called intensely this or that, I said think about the inverse for a second, are we intense or are we just normal people roaming an intensely apathetic world? Like do I think too much or does everyone else not think enough?

23:42, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: I don't know what I'm saying anymore. What was your question even? Tuqburni might be one of the words for love, its the kind if love that's so deep you wish the other person burries you and not the other way around. The Greek had what? Seven words for love? I can only think of the popular four though Agape,Stargos, Eros and Philia. But I guess what English lacks in vocabulary it makes up for in adjectives and poetry.

23:55, Jul 29, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: I'm drifting off to sleep now so in conclusion I'm bracing myself for a lifetime of pity I guess. Its not like I'll never date, or whatever but I think marriage in the traditional sense is really The most boring of narratives as far as love is concerned. And I have you guys and I love each and every one of you in very different yet completely fulfilling ways and I learn from you and grow with you and shit. And maybe I'm used to bare minimums and that's why this is enough for me and I don't feel like I need more, maybe I'm happy in this cage of close friends and family and that's a danger to more traditional ways if fulfilment. I don't know. But I found Malcolm's frustrations more understandable than Lula's, just because Mal and I have been through the same thing and he might have in us own skewed way been trying to Josh Grovan me (you are loved). He might have been trying to say you're not spoilt goods and you don't have to go through this shit alone for fear of placing your burdens on someone else. Maybe that's what he was trying to say, more to himself than to me because I've known him six years and there ain't been any kind of boyfriend in his life. And maybe he's trying to avoid that fate for me. Maybe the demons get louder the longer you stay with them. I don't know. I was much more forgiving of him. But Lula... I was just like...feeling attacked and for a second I missed being depressed because at least then the only person whose feelings weighed on me was me. Now I'm back to taking care of everyone else and their little realities .

00:06, Jul 30, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: I don't know. Maybe I just need some time to calm my tits. I feel like Babhani Bhattacharya sometimes! So many angers! (You're not the only one raised in the ways of a bad-pun-ninja.) I guess if anyone asks you should say or know for a fact that I'm happy. I am. I love what I do, I love who I am, I love my family, I love my Harem, I love my body, I love nature, I love the path I've chosen for myself and I'm just fucking going where the water takes me. If someone comes by and I don't get that weird urge to be quieter, less smarty, less anything around them then we'll see where that goes but can I just enjoy the moment for now please?

00:09, Jul 30, 2014 - Awuor Onyango: Sorry I got ranty. Just needed to get that out. Don't you just love how adorable and dark you and I are? We're rainbows and sword fights you and I. Someone once said to me that I was that spot in the universe where cute met morbid. Why do people say the weirdest things to me? Also...string theory is for fools #MicDrop

[a-brief-history-of-magic]

These New Gods

Part 1: Stranger People Have Met

A dreary morning rain settled over the town of Seyla in a blanket. It misted before the eyes, and ran in dribbling rivulets down the stone sides of the little hovels lining the streets. It would break by noon-time, or there about. Luciya could sense that much, even if she could not, necessarily see.

She had little to do to prepare herself for the day. Her home a dingy collection of fabric scraps and wooden slats, propped against the holes in the shop owner’s vacated backroom. He didn’t know she was there. She didn’t make a lot of noise. For Luciya this was an ideal partnership.

There was a little bowl on the floor, filled with murky water. She reached for a rag, only to realize it was clean.

Sutel …

He must’ve washed it when he stayed here last. Luciya smiled a little to herself. Sweet kid.

She washed herself, careful to push off whatever muck had clung to her in her sleep. It was impossible to be clean when her home was so caked with grime, but she made an effort. Then she wrapped up every inch of her body, careful to leave no inch of skin visible. Her shoes were the soundless kind, soft black slippers that let her walk and not be heard. Her trousers and shirt were a murky grey-black, flexible, though resilient. Around her head and face she wore a headscarf. It left only her eye and a bit of her wiry brown hair visible.    

Luciya slipped from her ramshackle home, into the streets.

There was no sun. 

Bearing the sins of the old gods, the sun devoured its own light. The dreams of the world’s children sat before the sun, throwing them all in an unending darkness. Minute shifts gave way to time. Luciya had heard stories of a land outside of this fallen world, where seasons still reigned, but it was distant to her.  

A few miserable citizens loitered in Seyla’s streets. If their bodies weren’t emaciated, their eyes were haunted. If their eyes weren’t haunted, they weren’t moving. Luciya was always of the opinion that people came in three kinds: starving, hallow, and dead. Nothing she saw proved any different.

Across the muggy streets, Luciya spotted her destination. The apothecary was mired in a breaking street, whose muddy path was slushed and blurred. The whole building bends, sinking beneath its own weight, swollen with the wet residue of the last rains, and its own age. No sun broke the wet air. It would hang. The wood would consume the water, and the wet coldness of the air would linger for days until it moved on in a suffocating cloud to some other, miserable, town.

She yanked the door, jammed at first. One, two, three pulls and it broke free of the caked mud at the base. Someone should take care of that. Luciya probably wouldn’t, unless Lady Kavian asked her to.

The yanking, grunting, grinding sound of the door drew attention from the shop’s occupants.

“Hello, and welcome!” The voice was bright, cheery, young. Luciya felt her mouth wobble, fold in with the desire to keep her smile hidden.

“Sute-” Before Luciya could get his name out, he tackled her. His scrawny little body made next to no impact against her, but she pretended to take a bit of a hit.

“You’ve gotten bigger,” she said.

“Lucy, you saw me yesterday!”

“And you’ve gotten bigger,” she said, bopping the top of his head, and pushing him away. Sutel smiled with a handful of broken, and chipped teeth, as if he couldn’t be less concerned with the world. His body was thin, brittle, and stretched. There was a redness to his hair that was unnatural.  

“Luciya, I need your help for a moment,” Lady Kavian called from the other room. Luciya wandered into the back workshop where Lady Kavian was hunched over a bowl of something.

“Pass me the honeysuckle,” she said. Luciya scanned the shelf and brought her what she needed. Lady Kavian snatched the sprig from her hand without looking and grunted in reply. This brusqueness pleased Luciya, even as it annoyed her. They passed the next few moments in companionable silence, while in the shop front Sutel puttered around, playing at being a shop keep. No one would be coming in, Fields knew no one in this fucking city had the money, the means, or the energy to come asking for help. Lady Kavian would give it to them anyway. She was stupid like that. Or maybe she was kind. Luciya bristled under that thought, as a guilty part of heart squirmed. She didn’t trust herself to do the same. And why would she? She had to cower, hidden, because everyone in this Fields forsaken shit hole-

“Stop brooding,” Lady Kavian said. Her eyes were still on her bowl, and whatever mixture was inside.

“I wasn’t brooding.” Luciya said, even as her mind wandered back to the people she robbed and passed. They shunned her for her scars and called her a monster when her perspicuous tendency couldn’t save their starving family. She wasn’t a miracle worker, only monstrously unlucky.  

“Have you eaten today?” Lady Kavian asked. She turned from her bowl and stared Luciya down with an intensity that Luciya shrunk before. She was not this woman’s child, she had a son out there making deliveries from the farms. And yet Luciya felt like a child before Lady Kavian all the same.

“I’m an adult you know? You don’t have to baby me like Sutel. I don’t even live here anymore.”

Lady Kavian paused in her work to raise a singular skeptical eyebrow, and roll her eyes at Luciya. A hot flush of embarrassment ran up the back of Luciya’s neck. Lady Kavian was soothed by that reaction and went back to her bowl.

“I’m twenty-four,” Luciya muttered. Lady Kavian sighed and sat up from her work cracking her neck.

“And when you’re one hundred and twenty-four I’ll still ask you, have you eaten today?” she said. Luciya grunted and began to gravitate towards the exit. She really only liked hanging around the apothecary when people weren’t fussing, or asking questions.

“Come taste this,” Lady Kavian said, sitting back from her bowl. Luciya crept forward and eyed the concoction. It reeked, a thick and pungent herb smell that made her light headed. She dipped a finger in and tasted it, gagging immediately. She spat the mixture out, scrubbing her mouth.

“What-”

“That bad?” Lady Kavian stared down at her mixture, vaguely puzzled.

“What was that?” Lucia scrambled around the kitchen, scrambling for water. No matter how much she drank, the taste wouldn’t go away.

“I’m trying to make a food substitute, something that can provide the nourishment people need.” Lady Kavian sighed, dragging a hand through her knotted brown hair. The oily strands stuck to the back of her hand, and her fingers, leaving dirty smears through the green residue and flecks of bitter mixture in her hair. Her eyes skated over to the front of the shop where Sutel was playing house.

Luciya grunted, moving again for the exit.

“Are you going to be alright?” Lady Kavian asked. “If you have strange side effects let me know.”

Luciya drew her scarf tighter around her face, and nodded.

“Oh, and there should be a new food shipment coming in today. Ask after Loretto would you? It’s been ages since he visited home,” she called as Luciya slipped out the back door. Luciya grumbled her agreement, but she couldn’t help the swell of resentment. Loretto had never been anything but ambivalent towards her, but he had always had a bed to call his own, and she could never forgive him for that slight. Luciya slipped out the back door, and went about her work.

Beneath the murky light of the eclipse Luciya moved like a shadow. Her fingers grazed against pockets and side bags, slipping coins and shiny bits from them as she passed. One, two, five, pennies. She could do this all day, but it amounted to nothing. Seyla was dying. If the food shortage didn’t kill them, this poverty would.

Then wonder of all wonder, she saw strangers. From the third floor of an abandoned building Luciya watched as the three men made their way through the city, spots of absurd color among the dreary morning air. One had blue hair, and was gesturing wildly as he talked. The sound of his voice rose from the street bellow, but she couldn’t make out his words. Another wore a blood red cloak. It obscured his face, but for the life of her, Luciya couldn’t understand why someone would cover their face but wear a cloak that eye-catching. Must be a prick. The third member only became apparent after she watched him for a few moments. He was long and lean, an average young man, gangly and reserved.

Ah, and they were gods.

That much was obvious.

Beneath the permanent eclipse their nimbi glowed. Luciya slipped a spyglass from her pocket and focused through it. The dark world around her drew into sharp focus; it’s murky colors distilled.

A glow surrounded the men, bending into bright points of holy light. The one with the blue hair had a crown, spinning and unwinding in thin whips above his head, as if it were made from thread. His clothes were finer than his face, and had a newness about them that was strange when she took in the smudges of dirt on his face and the wear on his leather backpack. The one with the red cloak had an old face, or rather, he looked only a few years older than Luciya, but his eyes were deep-sunk and heavy with purple bags. The flaming halo above his head only made the shadows on his face worse. The last of the party, the young man, was surrounded by a faint glow. As he walked dandelions pushed up through the cracks, brandishing their yellow faces in an act of resistance against the sunless world. They persisted for only a moment, before he walked beyond where they could see. Then they folded in on themselves, fading back into nothingness.

This same young man had a bag at his hips. A very full looking bag judging by the way it bounced a long as he walked.

She probably shouldn’t take them for marks. Looking at those guys, she figured that bag was all they had. And they were just like her, a fledgling part of some ineffable whole. She felt her own divinity burn sometimes. It itched in the memory of the scar on her face, a remnant of those who would hunt people like her. Over her head, her own divine nimbus glowed, an enormous third eye. Perhaps one day they would all belong to the same pantheon for all they were human now. That immediate, ever pressing mortality made the kinship she felt to these gods all the stronger.

But hey, fuck the gods. It was about time she had a pay day.

She tucked away her spyglass, checked that her whip was coiled securely by her waist, and swung down one, then another floor using the building’s railings. The group was only about two blocks ahead of her, and meandering through the street as the blue-haired one continued his story. His hands did more talking than his lips, and form the looks of it he was talking incessantly. The garish ring of fire above the other one’s head flickered as his companion talked. She chuckled at it, but they didn’t notice her. No one noticed her. Even the guard, fiddling with his pocket watch on the corner, didn’t see her. All the unwitting people in the streets-they were no observers. If they could not notice Gods among them, how could they notice a petty thief?

When she was just a step behind the youngest boy, she oh-so-silently reached for his bag.

Something shifted, she didn’t quite catch it, and then a voice said.  

“Do you mind? I’m trying to tell a story about a cross-dressing bastard daughter masquerading as a butler in the home of her father. You’re kind of ruining my flow.”

Luciya slowly looked up from the young boy’s bag, and found that the blue-haired man was staring her dead in the eye.

Her heart leapt into her throat, palpitating at a frantic pace. He saw her. No one ever saw her.

“W-what?”

“Yeah, long story short I was a party with a Duchess in Mehergan, and someone was murdered. You see, it’s actually a very lucky thing I was there, I could tell from one look that the wound was made by a candlestick, not a-” The blue-haired made a vague gesture, something akin to ‘shoo’ as he turned back to his companions. As if he weren’t at all bothered by her attempted robbery.

Luciya blinked. And then blinked again. They were so…colorful. Especially the one who had spoken to her. And it had been a while since someone had said that many words to her without expletives. Lately, the townspeople of Seyla had taken it upon themselves to blame her personally for the economic hardships of the town, as if her weird bits of Sight could somehow change their futures and she had been holding back from them.

She couldn’t save their children.

She couldn’t make food.

And so anytime they looked at her, they tried to take their recompense in a pound of flesh.

But this wasn’t that and she didn’t understand.

So Luciya followed her natural instinct and fled down the nearest convenient alley, heart pounding in her ears. She slid behind a rubbish heap and doubled over, panting, even though the short sprint should have never winded her. And she hadn’t even taken the boy’s money! What a coward. What a failure. She couldn’t let a silly group of three fellow gods throw her off her game. They were simple, careless, stupid boys, wandering around in a dead city. She couldn’t care. She couldn’t bother with fools like that. After all, didn’t her scar still itch? Didn’t she remember the folly of her parents, and the blood, and the screaming, and the fire, which left her looking like this. It would be nothing short of stupid to let herself be taken in by fools like them.

It would be stupid.

Unforgivably stupid. 

But what if she did it, anyway?

Wasn’t it just as stupid to waste away in this city, to seep  herself in hatred. Who knew when their fears and anxieties would next boil over, and she would once again be sunk in the brutality of these people.

The man who had spoken to her hadn’t sounded vindictive, only a little flamboyant. She had tried to rob his friend, and he was annoyed that she interrupted his story. He wasn’t a paragon of virtue, that was obvious, but he didn’t appear to mean ill. And he had some valuable things besides. Hadn’t he said something about a banquet with a Duchess? They could be … companions of a sort, or they could still be her marks. Neither of the other men seemed upset either. She could … maybe she could find a place among them.

Luciya straightened from behind the trash heap. She adjusted her headscarf to be sure her scars were masked and returned to where the gods stood, still congregated together.

The blue-haired one was still talking, looking between his two ambivalent friends.

“Did anyone else see the giant floating eye above her head … That wasn’t just me right? Seriously though-”

She decided not to think much about his words.

“What…What are you four doing here?” she demanded. Her voice broke into a screeching and grating thing, that was two-parts hostility and one-part fear.

Well, that was a great first impression, Luciya. 10/10. You should have run away while you had the chance.

The man with the halo of fire scowled at her, and then glanced at the younger boy, who seemed a little too preoccupied with the daisy that was growing up from a crack near his ankle, to pay attention to Luciya.

The flamboyant one studied her with a serious and thoughtful look. She felt anxiety mounting. It was clear to her that the other two must take their cues from him. If she were ever going to get into their group, it had to be with his permission.

After a moment he shifted ever so slightly, and then opened his mouth.  

“Doesn’t having only one eye fuck up your depth perception? How do you not just run into door frames after you rob someone?” he asked. The other two groaned and rolled their eyes, but Luciya was too busy fuming to notice.  

“Doesn’t having such ridiculous hair fuck up anyone taking you seriously? How do you not just-”

As soon as she got too far into the retort, Luciya regretted it and stopped herself short. Here she was, actually confronted with a group of gods, and she was taking bait and making cracks about other people’s appearances. Hypocrite.

She was about to turn tail, and slink off again, when the one with the halo cuffed the flamboyant one over the back of the head.

“Shut up.”

The younger boy looked at her and snickered.

“Nice one,” he said, cutting his eyes to the flamboyant one.

“Hey that hurt,” the flamboyant one wined, holding the back of his head and pouting at them.

The sheer absurdity of this situation baffled her. No one in their right mind went around the Nightlands acting like some kind of stupid slap-stick troupe, especially not gods.

The question of place, and whether they would offer her one, seemed so stupidly small now. If nothing else, these guys needed to know just how dangerous their situation was. Watching eyes were everywhere, and she didn’t want these strange people (with at least one good bag of money for stealing) to be taken. She had found them first.

“I don’t know if you all are just passing through, but if you are planning to stay here overnight, there are some places you definitely don’t want to be. Because…well.” She lowered her voice. “The Order doesn’t have a strong presence in Seyla, but if you don’t know where to hide, they will find you. I can show you where to go…if you want. I’m best at hiding, and you need it.” Her eyes skated back over the blue-haired one. “You’re conspicuous.”

They had very little reason to trust her, and Luciya fully expected a slap in the eye. Her instincts got the best of her, as she took a few, careful, steps back. Just in case.

The one with the halo and the flamboyant one started in on what appeared to be a silent conversation. The boy looked her over once, and then snapped his fingers.

“I have a suspicion of what you want from us,” he said. He brought his bag into the light. He loosened the string and spilled it contents. A steady trail of seeds fell from the bag, and several seconds after it should have emptied in full, it kept pouring. Soon a pile began to build on the streets. It was an unending sea of seeds, scattering among the grey bilge-water. Then he tightened the bag again and returned it to his hip. “There is nothing of worth between us.”

“Excuse you,” the stupid blue-haired one began. “I’ll have you know-”

The one with the halo growled at him.

“Shut. Up.”

Luciya felt what seemed to be all her blood rush to her face at once. Of course the twerp had infinite seeds in the bag instead of money. And come to think of it, the garish one’s story about the dinner party was probably all talk. It seemed very unlikely they would have anything worth stealing. The dust and dirt which smeared their bodies spoke to a poverty that denied them beds.

They couldn’t be marks.

She should just quit them and be done with them.

She should.

But … But if they lived they would be her pantheon. It was a distant and murky concept, but the possibility of it lit a faint hope in her heart none the less.

Guess the only way forward now was to try and play nice.

“Right. The offer still stands, if you wish to take me up on it. Else…yeah. I won’t try to rob you, I swear,” she scuffed her toe against the ground. Either way, she needed to be out of there soon. The street was much too conspicuous for her liking.

“I personally appreciate your offer,” the young boy said, “but I’m not sure how the others feel about you. I’d like to have a place to sleep, but I’d like it if you didn’t murder me in my sleep. If you do, you lose out on something much bigger than simple coins.”

She stared at him for a few moments, but the boy didn’t seem to be forthcoming.  

“And that is?” she asked.

“Friendship,” he said.

“Right …”

The blue-haired one waved a hand, as if to wave away the lingering dregs of that conversation. He addressed his friend:

“Listen Wendrii, I don’t mean to undermine that deep and powerful philosophical point, but uh, you also picked up Cael off the street, so I’m going to have to say that you’re not the best judge of character.”

Well that was a glowing endorsement. At least she had two names now. Wendrii, the young boy with flowers at his heels. Cael, the man with the halo of fire. And then there was this last one, the as-of-yet unnamed Gaudy Slinger of Insults.

His eyes had an uncanny sort of machination to them as he considered her. The frivolous swipe of blue makeup underneath his eyes did nothing to soften the fierce and analytic way he catalogued each of her features. He tilted his head to the side, but the serious face he made looked no different than it had before he brought up the depth perception thing, so Luciya was not entirely sure how to feel.

At long last, he said, “I think we should put her to a test.”

She hated the way he said that, with a wry smile and a low tone, as if he already thought she would fail. It would serve him right if she just turned and walked away, but Fields. It was really, really hard for her to resist a challenge.

“It’s a little ridiculous that I’m having to prove myself so I can help you. Seems like a case of an inflated ego. Don’t go around-” she let slip an almost-smile at her own cleverness- “getting a god complex.” She let the horrible, horrible joke land. The three boys looked back at her with dead expressions. To cover the deafening silence, she asked, “What do you want me to do?”

The blue-haired one’s eyes widened slightly, and he shifted his backpack, as if it’s weight were bothering him. Then he looked over his shoulder with a wide and open expression, as if someone were speaking to him. He nodded slowly and looked back at her. His eyes were somewhere else though, far on an imagined horizon.

“I wonder,” he began. Then he shook his head, and the profound look in his eyes faded to the same mercurial gleam he’d had since the moment she met him. “Never mind. Your task is simple. First, there was a guard about twenty feet behind us that carried an antique pocket watch. I saw him fiddling with it earlier. Bring it to me.”

Of course she had noticed the guard. He had been a consideration as she sneaked up behind the party to steal the bag in the first place. He was associated with the City police, rather than the Order, and therefore posed very little threat. She had even seen him in the streets of Seyla before, although he had never come after her, so she wasn’t familiar with him.

The watch couldn’t really be all they wanted from her. Even the gaudy one could probably snag the watch. But Luciya was pretty good at reading what people wanted, and she wasn’t picking up on anything besides a genuine desire for a good time. And anyway, it would be a good chance to smooth her ego, after she had been caught trying to steal the seeds. She still wondered how he had seen her…

The gaudy one turned his head again, as if listening to someone, though no one in the group was speaking to him. Wendrii and Cael had gone back to talking between themselves, something about a fire and a table that Luciya didn’t really care about.

“Feel free to come with me, but stay back. I can’t have you all interfering or blundering through.” Without waiting to see if they intended to follow, Luciya pivoted and sprinted back down the street.