#miracle i didn’t botch this on a moving train

[spaceman-spaetzle]

birthday boy

[sadoeuphemist]

Kids are just amazing. Think about it, they come into the world knowing absolutely nothing, and everyday they’re looking wide-eyed at the world, so curious about even the slightest detail of it. Why, just the other day, my little Lilah came up to me and said: “Daddy, why is the sky blue?”

Well of course I knew the answer right off the bat. “You remember how rainbows work?” I asked her, lifting her up on my knee. She nodded. I’d taught her about rainbows and prisms, with a hands-on demonstration, just a couple of months before. I gave her the whole spiel about light breaking up in the atmosphere, about how red light traveled further but blue scattered wider, and so that was why the sky was painted blue in the middle of the day but red at sunset, when the sun was far away enough that all the blues got scattered behind and only the reds traveled far enough to reach us. “You got all that?” I said. “Don’t be afraid to ask questions if you don’t understand.”

She got that little pouty frown on her face that told me she was processing it, and then she said “uh-huh” again dubiously, and then asked, “Why isn’t the sun blue?”

That caught me off guard. “What?”

“When the sun -” She waved her arm in a clumsy arc that didn’t really demonstrate everything. “When the sun’s—there, it’s all red, cuz the sun’s far away, and the - the red light goes really really far, so when the blue’s all spilled everywhere, why isn’t the sun blue, too?”

I set her down off my lap. This was an unexpected wrinkle. It’s funny how you can just know something nearly all your life, and never have questions like that occur to you. Why wasn’t the sun blue? Still, I believe it doesn’t hurt kids to let them know that sometimes their parents have to look things up, so I took out my phone. “Let me just find out, and then daddy will have an answer for you,” I said.

As a first exploratory impulse, I googled ‘why isn’t the sun blue’. The first few hits were asking why the sun, if it was so incredibly hot, didn’t burn with a blue flame instead of a yellow one. I didn’t offhand know the answer to that one, either, but it wasn’t relevant to Lilah’s question so I quickly skipped over them. The Stanford website, which I skimmed over, didn’t tell me anything that I hadn’t already said, aside from the added factoid that the sun’s visible light peaked in the green part of the spectrum, so technically it was slightly greener than anything else.

That didn’t help me either.

Finally, it was the NASA website that gave the answer. “It’s because the light is straight from the sun,” I told her. “When you’re looking up at the sun, it’s still pure white, but all around it at the sides, that’s where the blue’s scattering off in all directions.” The NASA website had an awfully condescending graphic, I thought, with a cartoon sun shining white light straight down on a cartoon dog, and the blue light going off at an angle. The dog wasn’t even looking up. You’d think NASA, of all things, would be able to come up with something slicker. 

“But ... doesn’t all light come straight from the sun?” Lilah said, interrupting my train of thought.

“Well, no—” I surreptitiously checked the diagram with the cartoon dog again. “’Cause if you’re looking at the sun, that’s the light, straight from the sun, and everything else—”

“But...” Lilah screwed up her forehead in thought. “Cuz when it’s daytime, that’s when the—half the Earth is facing the sun ...”

“That’s right, and on the other half it’s night, because they’re not facing the sun,” I provided, reciting an old lesson.

“So isn’t all daytime light from the sun?”

I tried, in my head, to picture a lamp shining on half a globe. Yes, every illuminated part of the globe was lit directly by the light bulb, so if a tiny person on the surface of the globe was looking up, wouldn’t the entirety of the bright daytime sky be the sun’s light? But then again, the sun was definitely only in one specific spot in the sky, so that couldn’t possibly make sense either ... I was beginning to suspect that I didn’t actually know how light worked.

“No,” I said definitively, trusting in the cartoon sun and dog, who were clipart images staring blankly at random angles. The sun’s eyes moved between images, I  noticed, as I scrolled up and down. The dog’s didn’t. “That’s not how light works, sweetie. When you turn on a light in the room—” I pointed up. “Everything’s lit up, right? But you can only see the light—the light-light—when you’re looking straight at it.”

She considered that while I held my breath, and I only let myself breath again once I saw her nod, a series of ponderous calculations still going on inside that cute little head of hers. Kids, I’m telling you, they’re really something. She wandered off to consider it on her own for a while, and I was trying to think up a sequence of words to google that explained the difference between light directly from the sun, and light that presumably was also directly from the sun, but you weren’t looking straight at it (my first stab of ‘ambient vs direct light’ of course only brought up a bunch of hits about home decor and 3D modeling) when I felt Lilah tug on my shirt sleeve once again. “Daddy?” she said.

I looked up, forcing a grin. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“If it’s all a rainbow, and red’s the one that goes the farthest, then why’s blue the one that scatters around the most? Shouldn’t it be...” She paused to mouth the words “Roy G. Biv” to herself. “Violet?”

I opened my mouth, and then looked down at my phone and quickly typed in ‘why isn’t the sky violet’. 

“Hrmm....”

“Daddy?”

“Okay,” I said slowly, still keeping one eye on the article. “It turns out that the sky actually is violet, but because of the way our eyes work ...” I quickly glanced up at Lilah. She was still with me, listening placidly as if I hadn’t just contradicted my previous explanations, completely willing to listen to her dear old dad explain the world to her.

“We have—we have cells in our eyes,” I began, “that are how we see color—they’re called cones—and there are three kinds. One is sensitive to—One sees red things, one sees green things, and one sees blue things. And so the—” I squinted at my screen. “Blue light makes the blue cones light up, right? But, it also, uh, tickles the green and red cones, just a little bit. So if when we looked up into the sky it was really all blue light, then to us it would look ... uh, slightly .... slightly greenish. Blue-greenish. Because the green cones are also getting tickled, so it would look kind of green!”

I ran one hand over my head, reading out the penultimate paragraph. “But because the sky is actually violet, that means our blue cones can’t see it all that well. But our red cones can kinda see violet, so if it ... if it was violet we’d actually see it as reddish ...” I trailed off.  “But since the sky is actually part blue and part violet,” I finished up, all in a rush, “the red and green cancel each other out, and all we end up seeing is blue!”

I made a sort of ‘ta-da!’ pose, a smile frozen on my face, and miraculously Lilah was nodding along as if my botched rendition of the science had made perfect sense. Maybe ... it did? Maybe according to the free-floating haphazard logic of a child who has no idea how the world works and has no choice other than to accept all explanations given, it was completely sensible that red and green should cancel each other out just like lights on a traffic signal, and that blue-plus-violet should equal blue, just as a fundamental property of math. I was almost congratulating myself on having provided a successful answer, when Lilah once again spoke up.

“So if the blue sky is really violet,” she said thoughtfully, fixing her big brown eyes on me, “at the end of the rainbow, what’s violet, then?”

I’ve done a lot of research since then, squinting at my tiny screen, and some of the information I’ve pieced together includes: that some of the colors displayed on my phone don’t actually exist, since different combinations of wavelengths of light stimulate different combinations of cones and make you hallucinate colors in your head; that violet is actually just dark blue and not purplish at all; and that yellow is just red and green light without any blue—but as to what they actually mean when they say “yellow” and “red” and “green” and “blue”—that part, I’m still trying to figure out.

It took me a while to even get this far. Lilah’s long since forgotten about the question and is now absorbed with watching Minecraft let’s plays on YouTube. They’re just incredible, kids. They’re born into this world, not understanding a damn thing about it, just having to trust what people tell them, and somehow they grow up into fully-formed individuals. I’m her dad, and I’m hardly responsible for a fraction of that. What else is it but a miracle?

And if anyone ever figures out what violet is, let me know.

[lechroniclerschronicles]

I was lurking around my old notebooks and found written summaries for Naruto fanfiction and I just wanna try and post it here. For kicks. Coz i'm bored and there's nobody around to kick me for my shitty writing.

[ Ascian ]

Just for reference, ascian means one without a shadow

Yamanaka Ino is special. She was. And she wasn't saying this out of arrogance or anything at all. She really was special because she had been blessed directly by their spirit guardian, Chouhana-hiko.

It wasn't much of a secret to the old and ancient clans about the spirit guardians. After all, even if they can no longer hear them speak words to them, it had never severed the innate connection they had with them. Just as the Naras had the deers, the Akimichi had the racoons, the Yamanakas had the butterflies. They had been the ones to bless them with their clan's hiden, taught them to live, to thrive, to survive. They granted her clan the blessing of nature and life, yet also made them see through the intricateness and delicateness of a human mind.

And the same spirit guardian of her ancestors had granted her a twin. On the same day she had been born to their clan, a new butterfly guardian had been brought out of the cocoons that never seemed to open except for very rare occasions. And Ino's birth was a rare one, it would seem.

So yes, she was special. And she grew up believing she was, at least until the day she met her.

Haruno Sakura is an anomaly. She is. Her hair is pink. It's not even of the darker variation of the red hair of the Uzumakis, no, it was the light pink shade of cherry blossoms during spring. She had vivid green eyes that seemed to see past your body and through your soul. And to top it off, she never seemed to have any presence at all. (But Ino only realized the last one when she was older and they were lining up in the sun and Sakura had been beside her and she never even noticed. And that was not normal.)

She rarely spoke to them, sometimes not even bothering to make a sound and merely gazing at them as if her eyes were speaking but they could not translate what it was she meant to say. Her friends had also said the same and they agreed to steer clear of her. She was an anomaly.

And Ino had learned before that unknowns were always only two things: a miracle or a liability. She didn't know which one was Sakura. Sometimes, when she is older, she'd look back to that day when she decided to turn away from that lonely pink-haired child and would regret it to the deepest parts of her soul.

The more they grew up, the stranger Sakura got. She never spoke a word to them, never heard her open her mouth, choosing only to make sounds like a hum, a sigh, or simply writing things down for them to read. Her hair kept growing longer even after being cut through and she soon had to wear a mask that coveres half of her upper face, leaving only her lips and jaws exposed. They had joked about it, wondering why Sakura even wore such a thing. (Ino wanted to bash her younger self in now.)

When they had graduated, she felt a slight envy that she didn't get Sasuke-kun for her teammate, but also felt pity for her crush because he had to be saddled with Sakura. It was hard enough having to deal with someone with weak practical skills save for a smart brain, but they had to get the one who never spoke a thing and wore masks for kicks (probably). But Ino didn't have time to mull things over because she was busy training and trying to live up to her title as a clan heiress and as the one blessed by her clan's spirit guardian.

She only ever heard about Sasuke's team - Team 7, her mind supplied for her - from the grapevines and rumor mills. They were all sorts of unlucky and had so many botched up and misclassified missions they're probably the youngest of their generation to have completed an A-Rank mission and gotten out of it alive.

When she saw them, Naruto and Sasuke, they seemed oddly at edge, quiet and watching. They would glance around and shrink closer to Sakura's side when the girl made a single motion. She felt a prick of envy at that and wondered what it would feel like to be in her place. She didn't try to take over her body though, because she'd be skinned alive by her father if he learned she turned her own clan's hiden against a comrade.

She did get a chance to mindwalk into Sakura's mind. That moment is something she can never remember. She only faintly smells the scent of lavender and plums and then darkness. When her teammates asked her what happened, she could only smile it off and say that Sakura was stronger than they thought. She was genjutsu-type after all, was the excuse she had made.

The next time she sees Sakura again is in the open fields of her clan's land. It wasn't prohibited for people, in fact, it was open land and everyone just went there and took a seat or lay down on the grass. But that wasn't what bothered her.

What bothered her was that Sakura was there, surrounded by hundreds of butterflies that she knew could only belong to her clan. They were fluttering around as if they couldn't resist her and she was softly moving her lips. Speaking, Ino's mind had supplied for her.

Out of curiosity, she had inched closer and closer until she could hear her. Ino was, for lack of better word, frozen in shock. Her world felt like it had tilted from its axis and turned upside down on her. She felt drawn towards Sakura's voice, her steps moving against her own will to walk even closer and closer to the source of that enchanting and ethereal call. Her chakra was fluctuating. Singing, rather with how much it thrummed and hummed against her body, her skin, her flesh, her soul.

Sakura turned towards her, her eyes jarring and ethereal as they glowed vividly even in daylight. Her mask was still on and though her lips had pursed as she stopped speaking, Ino was already enthralled. She reached out, like a fool who had gotten drunk and felt her heart hammer against her chest. It was bliss, she thought.

She giggled when Sakura knelt down beside her, apologies tumbling down her handsigns and her eyes remorseful. Ino couldn't care at all. Her mind was thrumming to the tune of her chakra and she felt as if she could grow wings and fly away. Sakura moved towards her, hands outstretched and her face seemingly taut with tension. She mouthed an apology, again and again. Then drove two fingers to Ino's glabella, gently touching skin with skin.

When Ino woke up again, she was in her bedroom, covered by her quilt. She was wearing her nightgown and the moon hung pregnantly on the sky. She felt like she had been immersed in a dream that she could not forget.

The next time she saw Team 7, her eyes were glued on to Sakura. Some part of her mind growled enviously as she watched Sasuke and Naruto come close enough to touch her.

Seemingly as if an accident, blue clashed with green. Then Ino smiled.

Yeeep, I'm also not sure where this story was supposed to go. It's some old thing I found in my notes and aside from some minor spelling checks and edits, its still the same.

[shabre-legacy]

another random piece from princess rising because the feedback is motivating me to get back into this story

                                     AMBRINA

Ambrina straightened out of her battle stance and brushed her bloody bangs out of her eyes as she surveyed the field in front of her. The grass was mostly ash near her and further out was covered in blood and corpses. Her familiar, a massive gorgeous lioness, stood in the middle of a circle of mangled bodies, blood dripping from her muzzle and onto her claws. Ambrina had managed to take out all 6 without too much effort and only had to burn one of them, and Lyca, that wonderful cat, had taken down 3 at once.This was a job well done and the payout would be excellent when they delivered the target home. She moved swiftly over to the large rock at the edge of the field and reached behind it, pulling out the young girl hiding there.  The poor girl was clearly terrified, shaking like a leaf, with huge eyes. Ambrina sheathed her sword and pulled a knife from her belt cutting the girls binds. “ relax kid, I’m just here to take you home. Your parents sent me” the girl nods, still scared, but willing to do whatever would get her home. Ambrina led her over to the horse nearby, a large cream paint gelding, they mounted up quickly and headed for the nearby city. Lyca tailing behind them, just far enough for the girl to not pay attention, she slipped ahead of the duo and entered the shadows of the city, heading home as Ambrina went to collect their money. 

    A few hours later, Ambrina steps into The Singing Oak  tavern and collapses onto a stool near the bar, grabbing a bottle from behind the counter. She had successfully rescued the kidnapped girl and returned her to her parents and collected the large reward. Now she could relax for a few hours or until she got another job. The life of a sword-for-hire wasn’t the easiest but she was damn good at it and honestly enjoyed it, some days it seemed that the same fire that flew from her fingertips drove her to need a fight most of the time. This was the life, go out into the open air, kick a little ass, get paid for it and come back to cozy apartment or a loud, boisterous tavern with the best drinks in Sea City.   She leaned back against the bar and looked around the room, taking in the atmosphere and and the familiar sight of the Singing Oak. Full of the best people in Sea City. Thieves, Pirates, Mercenaries (like herself), former slaves, mages, sailors, ect. Hard-working people on the low end of society, rejected by others and trying to get by or to disappear. Honestly, this place was as close to home as Ambrina had ever known. Get rich or get drunk trying was how many of the people here, including her lived their lives. A group of sailors over near the back wall started a loud drinking song, Turning towards her slightly, she had had some good conversations with the guys over the few days they had been in port. She leaned over the bar and pulled a case from the shelf underneath. She lifted the fiddle into place and started a jaunty tune to go with the sailors song. Within a few notes the bar was full of people singing and dancing to her tune. This was her second favorite form of magic, the intoxication of music and the power her fiddle held over everyone who heard her play, at least in this tavern. After a couple of tunes, she let herself fall back onto her stool and swung her fiddle case back to it’s shelf as she ordered another round.  She leaned back and laughed as the day got later and the tavern swung into usual crowd and antics. A few crews of Sailors were sharing tales of the sea and trying to beat each others drinking records. A few games of dice and cards had sprung up among sailors and thieves and the few street gangs that were hanging around were staring each other down as they did all the time, it wasn’t that unusual for them to start glaring on site, but they would never fight inside. Those were the rules that kept this place the best place in all of Sea City.  Ambrina never felt out of place here, this was her world; her violence and anger, the fire that burned inside her was accepted and embraced. And yet strangely, it sometimes felt like she was part of the scenery of the tavern, like she was accepted but not seen, not belonging, simply there. There seemed to only be one person who saw her, like actually as a person and not another angry sword in a room of them, her roommate Lyra. The red-haired elven thief was her best friend in this city that she loved.  She burst out laughing as the girl entered and flopped into her seat. Ambrina reached over and clapped her shoulder, leaning over and grabbing another drink before swinging onto the bar and leaning over towards Lyra, “good haul today, I see” 

The girl sighed and pushed at her leg, “stop it” 

Ambrina pushed her drink at her, grabbing another and throwing a few coins on the Tavern owners tray as she passed, earning her She drained her mug and nudged lyra again. “Out with it” 

“Totally botched job, I mean, I got out with a painting, but I mistimed the return of the caretaker and almost got caught and had to leave almost all those other nice things behind, all that money gone.” 

Ambrina patted her arm  and downed another drink that was the unfortunate reality of their lifestyle, sometimes a job just doesn’t work out, but it always sucked when that happened. “ don’t worry bout it. I just finished a job, I can spot the rent till you grab something that’s worth a damn thing”         

She jumped off the bar and headed over to the job board. Her and Lyra had been sharing a small apartment above the tavern for a few years now and rent was usually a concern with how much she was trying to save. This taverns rep was known through the city and a few requests could always be found alongside the wanted posters and city decrees. 

This time though there was an envelope with her name printed on the fine paper in an elegant script pinned among the other papers. A small  She reached up and grabbed it. She’d open this later in her apartment. For now she wanted to relax. She turned and with a quick half step she leapt onto the nearest table, “Next rounds on me” she yelled to the jovial crowd. And as the drinks were ordered and the usual chaos of the evening crowd built up, she felt as close to home as she ever did.

                                                                   Kiria

Kiera sighed and continued to trudge through the forest. They would probably reach the galpin plains soon. This wasn’t good. She knew that they had to travel through the plain to get to Xaeria, where they should be able to rest for a day or two before moving to the coast. They couldn’t stay in Xaeria. Not with the position of Queen Varalyne on the existence of mages.  She couldn’t drag her brother into that. That same little black colt had been following him for as long as she could remember; that, plus how Daemon could disappear better than any of the others she knew. There was no way she could drag him to Xaeria or Prouba. They could possibly try the wild woods beyond Taeslaes, but that area was Elven territory and the only humans that were even rumored to be able to survive in those forests was some temple and Bluecall. They were a traveling troupe that made people vanish after every performance. Between the wild magic and the beasts of the forest, they might be able to survive, but it was risky. Their best option was probably to head to Everfield, catch a ship, and disappear to sea for awhile. 

    Since she ran, they’d already had to fight off the first two teams sent to bring them back. Daemon had to fight the people he had trained with and lived with and fought with for years. She couldn’t imagine doing that, though she knew in her soul that she would be forced to do the same to those she had called sister for years. But there was no choice for her, but to go on. When what you believe becomes incompatible with the popular line of thought, it is necessary to separate from that thought and find a way to build a life away from that which you can’t support. And she could no longer support a group of assassins that broke their assassins through torture and the torture of the innocents. Death was one thing, a life of pain and fear and relentless agony that goes on endlessly with no stop in sight was an entirely different situation. She had a broken rib, two head wounds and a stab wound in her side; her brother had a twisted ankle, a new head wound, probably a concussion and a few other injuries, both horses had injured legs, but right now, they had their freedom, and that was everything. 

    Unfortunately, it was under threat yet again as Daemon signaled that there was someone following at the same moment that Kiria felt eyes on her. She steadied herself as much as she could as the trees melted into brush and they entered the Galpin Plains. As they headed further in, Kiria noticed the trees seemed to part and in the distance she could see their pursuers. Raven-marked horses, four in red, three in black. This was an extermination group, a hunting party,  they had called them. They probably wouldn’t run them down. She knew their tactics, she’d led a hunting party or two herself. They’d stay back, far enough to be able to disappear if needed, but close enough to keep the pressure on and keep them moving ‘til they dropped or slowed down. Then they’d swoop in and wipe out the entire group they were chasing. It was a terrifying tactic, and and effective one. They would die at some point soon. It would take some kind of miracle to save them and Cornoth would never provide that. But even with that knowledge, Kiria wasn’t one to go down without a fight, no matter what she’d still try to fight her way out if she could. As she limped through the grass and shrubs to Daemon’s side and they trudged their way, limping and injured, she felt him reach out and gently squeeze her hand. He was scared, she realized, he probably didn’t know why he had left and more than she truly understood why she had. Yet he had come with her as soon as she asked. And he would die for it and he knew that as well as she did. “I wish I knew more than how to blend into shadows and blur tracks” he murmured “i’m sorry, i can’t throw fire or some shit like that”.

    She squeezes his hand back “At least we’ll die free from their torture and we’ll take a few of them with us.”

[aka-willow]

Lost

gif

Words: 952

Characters: Willow Wren, Ned Leeds, Peter Parker

Prompt/Tag: “I lost our baby.” x / @ragnar-rockandroll​

Summary: Willow starts to consider her past

Timeline: April 2015

Song: I’m Still Here - Sia

A/N: :)

—————————————————————————–

“Ned, Ned, I need your help,” I said the minute I found him at school that Thursday morning.

“What, what’s going on?” he asked.

“I lost our baby.”

“How did you lose an entire egg?”

It had been an assignment for health class—we were paired up and each given an egg to take care of for three days. Wednesday night had been my night to take care of the egg, and somehow, I had lost it between last night and this morning. It was supposed to discourage teen pregnancy or something, and it basically guaranteed I would never have kids. I couldn’t even keep an egg alive for one evening.

“I’m panicking here, Ned. I’m so sorry, dude.”

“Okay,” said Ned. “We have, like, three hours until class. Where can we get an egg before that?”

“You mean we’re gonna kidnap another baby and pass it off as ours?”

“It’s an egg. We just need to find a regular egg. How hard could it be?”

“Now this is an Avengers-level threat,” I said, quoting the common catchphrase whenever anyone in our class encountered a minor difficulty. “Bingo, wait, Ned, I got it.”

“What?”

“I’ll sneak out of school during lunch. Go to the bodega a block from here. Buy a single egg. Come back.”

“You can pull that off?”

“Sure.” It’s going to require some maneuvering, but I can get it done.

We stuck together for the rest of the morning, waiting for the perfect chance for me to sneak out and get the egg. In between, we had science class with Peter, and we spent most of the time goofing around after we finished our lab early. At the same time, all the baby talk this morning plus the IGH investigation earlier in the week got me thinking about where I came from. I knew it was a can of worms, but I couldn’t stop wondering. Who ran the Facility? What were they working on? What gave us those extra powers? What are they up to now? And where did I come from?

“What do you guys know about the Avengers?” I asked Peter and Ned suddenly, interrupting their debate about the homework assignment.

“What?” Peter asked. “I mean, they saved our city like three years ago. That was awesome.”

“They kind of destroyed it though, dude,” Ned pointed out. “My aunt had to move in with us because her apartment got taken out by some aliens or whatever.”

“Right,” I said, “but where did they come from? How are they… like that?” Growing up at the Facility, we had idolized the Avengers after the Battle of New York, even when the staff chastised us for it. I remember Pip making a Captain America shield out of cardboard he snuck out of the recycling. They were the only powered people I knew of besides Jessica, Kilgrave, and my siblings, and beyond the IGH lead, I didn’t have much.

“No idea,” said Ned. “Yo, I got slippers that look like the green guy’s feet though.”

“Why you asking?” Peter asked me.

“Just thinking,” I said. The bell rang, and we headed into lunch block. “All right, Ned, I’m going to go get that egg.”

“Ten-four,” said Ned. “Good luck.” He gave me a sloppy salute.

Sneaking out of the school was the easy part, getting to the bodega and back before lunch block ended was the hard part. This would go so much faster if I could fly.

I think the toughest part about the Facility is the missing memories. Entire weeks were gone there, entire chunks of my childhood. It seemed that the longer I was away, the hazier the useful memories were, and all I was left with the traumatic ones. Stupid idiot brain. I knew the Facility was in—or at least near—Boston, because that’s where I was when I escaped. Except, I knew that we moved once, when I was young, from another state, and I knew I was most likely born in a third city. So, whoever controlled the Facility had ties in at least three places, three states.

I got to the bodega and smiled at the guy behind the counter. “Could I just get one egg?”

He shook his head and pointed to the fridges. “Smallest is six.”

“But I only need one?”

“Six.”

I emptied out my pockets and scraped together the two dollars for a carton of eggs before dashing back to the school. And even though I was on my egg mission, my brain was still in Boston. I needed something, a word, anything, but it was like my brain was locking me off from anything useful again. Is there a reason it took me this long to start investigating?

I remembered the blue glowing thing that the Facility used in the later experiments, right around the time we were nine or ten. That stood out. Dr. Dawn Turner called us “her little miracles.” I remember lots and lots of training, honing our powers, and experiments. I remember right at the end, right before I left, where things started getting weird and highkey brainwash-y. The program changed, and I left.

October, shh. It’s time to play Monster.

I snuck back into the school and plopped the carton of eggs down on the lunch table, with still a few minutes left in lunch. “Got ‘em!”

“Yes!” said Ned. “Mission accomplished.”

“Looks like our baby had a bunch of clones,” I said. “Bet we could sell all the rest to people who also botched the assignment.”

“I’m just... how do you lose an entire egg?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “My mom misplaced an entire baby.”

“Wait what?”

“Kidding!” I said.

We laugh and start for health class, egg babies ready. I realize, that in all the energy I spent trying to remember the Facility, I forgot that I left our original egg in the fridge last night. He’s definitely scrambled by now. Oopsie.

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Coping Mechanism — Ch 4

[Previous Chapter]

     Izaya had spent most of the morning checking for phone notifications — one by one — messages that weren’t coming, yet he almost believed they would blip into existence the moment his eyes fell upon the digital screen. There wasn't much purpose for his action beyond preoccupation, he just couldn't admit how exclusively he waited for the goddamn bedroom door to open for hours that blended into a long minute. It was tiring, the impatience that drained his battery rather than his lack of sleep. Though how could he be patient when he knew Shizuo hadn’t slept more than a few winks; the heavy thump and rustles every time the beast tossed and turned practically broadcasted his inability to reach REM and it was painful just how long the lie that he slept the morning away was kept up.

So when Shizuo finally trudged the distance of his mattress onward to grace his presence, it seemed that everything surrounding the event was a blessing, even the racket of a loose doorknob attempting to initiate its mechanism was enjoyable. Even the extended, nail-biting buildup was accepted as Izaya utilised the extra time to meticulously dress up his nonchalant air for the grand entrance. His legs elegantly tied at the last moment, chin tipped up with a lazy prowess, he propped himself up by sheer will alone. Without further hesitance the door swung open.

    “Good morning, sweetie~!” Izaya twiddled his fingers in a wave.

He exuded expectancy in a fashion that looked as awkward as he tried to hide it — then again Shizuo did the same, despite his groaned out, groggy grumble.

    “You’re still here.”

    “Indeed, but that's what you wanted, right?” he winked.

Shizuo ignored as many pitiful flirts as he could — snuffed out his smile with a huff, and made his way to the kitchen.

He raised a section of his undershirt to scratch an itch just above a stretched-out waistband, every bit habitual as the series of cracks that rolled from his lower spine up to his shoulders. Izaya tilted his head as he spied, the same motion as Shizuo used while he forced his neck to crack with both hands. It was a fair bit of a cringe, given how familiar Izaya was to that particular strength, but knowing the outcome of each of his daily practices it wasn’t a worry that Shizuo might accidentally behead himself or something along those lines. It was a spectacle that lasted up until Shizuo paused his stretches. Curious of something upon the bar-top, he considered what to make of the object with dead eyes — the abnormality of a familiar carton that sat in a puddle of its own sweat.

    “You left the milk out,” Izaya pointed.

    “No fuckin’ shit?”

    “You also left the coffee on the heater. Not sure if you could tell, but the smell of burning mud is quite...pungent.” Izaya’s nose crinkled in jest.

    “And you couldn’t have done anything ‘bout it?” he rubbed at his eyes.

    “It’s not my place.”

    “...like that stopped you before, you damn brat.”

Shizuo went for an affectionate slap upside Izaya’s head, but it was evaded with an anticipated lean backward — a hum and chuckle in tow.

    He commanded Shizuo to stand down with a jab to the forehead. “Are you going to make it up to me?”

The sly tone alone drained colour from Shizuo, the touch did him in; it was technically their first form of physical content in months, though it was without nerves nor fear that his body reacted against his wishes.

    “H-hah?” His hand dropped to his side which directed Izaya to visually follow its course; drew his attention towards something that wished him a better ‘good morning’ than Shizuo had. “Are you serious?”

    “I meant coffee, Shi-zu-chan~. Coffee.” His brow raised, teasingly satisfied, his legs switched which topped.

Shizuo stumbled backward, the sudden lightheadedness worked against his balance, tripped him around the counter to create distance; perhaps hide. To recenter his thoughts he scrutinised the milk rather than face Izaya as they talked.

    “God, I—” he cleared the dry falsetto from his throat, “god, I fuckin’ I hate you.”

    “Tell that to your erec—”

    “DON’T!! Don't start, you asshole!” Red flowed back into his cheeks.

In a burst of emotion, he made a quick decision to prove his might with a pitch of the carton into the sink where it impressively exploded into a mess of white.

    “...what will I do for cream?” Izaya laughed easily.

    “I’m makin’ your damn coffee, just shut up and take what you get!!”

—

    Per usual Izaya fell into observance, this time it was a particular movie of morning ritual, overplayed and overperformed. Even though he wasn’t able to watch the second actor — that is, himself — the strain of rusty muscle memory told Izaya that he too kept close to the script of waiting for his lackluster brew and his unwillingly, willing bartender to join him.

They were lone actors stuck in a loop of endless takes in the midst of a dance around the same rickety set; their awkward passion had, and continued, to disappoint a hypothetical director with a perfect vision they could hardly live up to. It exhausted the couple’s ability to keep at it day-to-day in the past, hence how they both suffered through dry ritual before Izaya inspired a...hiatus of sorts. Time without it made it clear just how bored they had gotten; what rut they’d dug themselves into.

Rewatching it, though, made for good theatre.   

    While he maneuvered, Shizuo looked back and forth between his task and Izaya; off and on, he’d make eye contact only from a side-glance, but grew more and more anxious every time.

    “Would you stop that?”

    “Stop what?”     “Staring at me,” he messed with pre-ground coffee in the bag, “it's annoying…”     “You never seemed to have a problem with it before.”

    Shizuo paused, “funny how things change.” The words appeared unsatisfactory to his disposition, but he slipped back upon the rails to avoid a negative train of thought.     The retired monster further fumbled through setting up the coffee machine again — a round two of what was botched hours back. The cord tangled around his wrist, his frustration crackled as if the coffee had already begun to brew.

It shocked Izaya that he didn’t crush the cheap thing in the process, rather he moved onto scooping grounds with care — only half made it to the filter. What little mess he swept into his hand ultimately made it to the floor when he dusted off the rest on his boxers. With a snap of plastic and a beep the machine began its broken melody.

Izaya could’ve watched Shizuo — his performer — for hours; his own heated cheek lying in his palm, relaxed fingers curled around the arc of his head as it lulled to the side, completely in awe. He felt as if watching the romantic slice-of-life tragedy could make up for lost time — erase what mistake he’d made and perhaps turn it around. In the end, as predictable as the steps had become, no matter how boring they’d grown, Izaya realised he missed this silent film. It glossed his eyes somber.

When Shizuo turned, he was startled out of step; honestly, like he'd forgotten Izaya ever occupied the bar, except he couldn't have forgotten as he'd been impossible to get off his mind all morning. So he had no retort but a harsh intake of air, equivalent to five breaths or more. His chest filled out broad and his shoulders gained height; his long-term depression was corrected by a miracle. Shizuo forgot to exhale.

Once more he followed their tried and true script. Without hesitation he reached over the counter to rest his hand on Izaya's shoulder in trial of what he was allowed to get away with. The blunt laminate edge pushed far into his gut, yet he pressed onward without notice. All he was focused on was how flush Izaya had became as he massaged warmth over his cold shoulder; how his ex-partner melted into the touch and his shoulders rolled forward into a comfortable hang. Their exchange felt like coming home to experience their past.

Izaya eased himself off the chair, smooth and casually — metal scritched across the tile flooring as he moved closer to Shizuo to let him stroke his cheek with a feather touch. His vision closed off the world; he was relaxed enough to finally let his sleep deprivation take over, though was alert enough to will the moment to move faster towards what he wanted.

    "Seriously...” Shizuo hesitated, “...why the hell are you here, Izaya?"

Words waited in queue somewhere on the back of Izaya’s tongue, jumbled with an incomprehensible answer. The failed phrasing was more a stumble through various syllables that he tried to figure out the taste, but only managed a stutter. One language was too much a challenge, but his body puppeted him though straightforward communication; he moved closer and hung just short of them conversing through touch.

His fingers weaved with the golden half of Shizuo's locks and tugged hard at the brown roots. They hiccuped — choked on hot air before they went to steal more oxygen from the other. Only the rough of their lips grazed and only a second delay from an inconvenient interruption — a wail of the coffee machine.

Both men jumped apart; the machine’s alert continued on, as did their stare.

    "Let me get it." Izaya shook off their eye contact. He peeled away with his hand at the back of his head.

    “No I’ll do it.”

    "It's fine."

    “I started the damn pot, I'll finish it.”

    “How about you don’t press your luck, Shizuo,” he snipped, far humourless than his light, snappy tone, “alright?”

    “Luck?! Is it luck that we almost fuckin’ kissed?”     “Please,” he looked pained, “you know it was!”

Izaya regretted his snap judgement as soon as the shock spread wide on Shizuo’s features. The expression — the hurt — made it hard to ignore, how the look of betrayal was similar to one of another accident still shiny and new. What broke them apart and hadn't been addressed due to silent respect that Izaya probably didn't deserve.

Undeniably it was possible for Shizuo to forgive him, Izaya knew it; decidedly it was impossible for him to forgive himself, and he despised it.

    “Fine. Do what you want, Izaya. Leave it burning again for all I care. I need to shower for work.”

    “I need to leave as well.”

    “No! You stay put. We need to talk!” Shizuo bellowed. “So caffeinate yourself or somethin’, but hell, if you leave, the next time I see you I'll bury your smug-ass grin into the damn concrete!”

    “You sure don't look like you want to wait until next time.” He narrowed his eyes, but his voice wavered, “what happened to your controlled temper?”

    “You happened!!”

    “Oh…”

    “Yeah, ‘oh’,” he growled.

    “...”

    "Tch, what happened to your nonsense monologues...” Shizuo muttered as he turned towards the bathroom.

Izaya held his tongue as if he even had any dialogue to hold back. If he actually did, the cry of the door on its hinges would have interrupted the spew anyway. It slammed near to splinters; surprisingly it was more apt to claim it was forced into its cradle, snug and intact.

    “...looks like I will need that drink after all, Shizu-chan.”

AN: These awkwardly stubborn assholes...

[christophe-delorne]

Good Dog

Chapter 3

Pairings: Gregory x Christophe

Warnings: Swearing

AU: Adulthood

“Stop messing with my god damn tie.” Christophe growled for the fourth time this evening. They hadn’t even made it to the party and Gregory was already fussing over his attire like some sort of mother hen. Some might find his concern amusing, the Frenchman just found it bothersome. It was bad enough he had to dress up in a suit and tie, not to mention dealing with Gregory cutting his shaggy hair. Christophe was adamant about not letting people near when they had sharp objects around, resulting in Gregory having to learn how to style hair or else Christophe would simply cut it haphazardly with the nearest sharp object.

“Well, maybe if you tied it right in the first place, I wouldn’t have to.” Was the return quip, making Christophe even further aggravated. He had tried to convince Gregory could go by himself or at least with his current girlfriend, but the man was adamant. Christophe understood why, involving an innocent was always a bad idea and it was always handy to keep Christophe around to do any dirty work. Didn’t mean Christophe had to like it any. Oh, he’d be able to kill someone just fine but there were worse things than getting his hands a little bloody.

Such as the grand estate that rests in front of him, lights shining through windows as if the place was a god damn miracle sent from heaven. He could here the crowd inside, not quite loud but more refined. As expected. He’d been to upper crust parties before, with or without Gregory as sometimes his job lead him to blend in to any situation. It wouldn’t be so difficult if Gregory didn’t hover around him so much, already he was craving a cigarette and the party hadn’t even started yet. Luckily, the man at the door distracted Gregory away from the Frenchman, giving their names so the man could check the list. Of course, Christophe already had a fake name, being so low born meant he could go wherever he wished, be whoever he wished. Gregory on the other hand had no such luxury. Such a popular face had its perks, but also its downfalls.

For now, Christophe had to play a up and coming model from France, one Gregory had scouted out and decided to support. From there, their relationship grew in secret until Gregory decided to take Christophe as his fiance. It took a great amount of effort to not yank his hand away from Gregory’s when the other man grabbed for it, he hated the way Gregory so easily played the sickly sweet partner. If anyone really knew what he was like, the man wouldn’t have so many girlfriends over the years. If anything, the Brit was a grade A actor, so convincing that even the keenest of eyes could be fooled.

As they were granted access into the mansion, Christophe was greeted with the same boring affair. Men dressed to the nines, women all dolled up and glittering like diamonds, drawing the eyes of nearly every man in the room. It was basically a chance to show of a person’s wealth, any excuse to boast about how well off they were. With the work Christophe did, he could be in such a group but this scene wasn’t his. He cared little about spending big and most of his money he either put away in a savings or Gregory took. He traveled far too often to bother owning a house and Gregory always insisted he stay over at his place. Mostly just to make sure his prized guard dog was groomed properly.

“I’m going to go mingle for a while, so don’t cause any trouble.” Gregory broke Christophe’s train of thought with a obvious display of affection by pressing a polite kiss on his cheek before going to seek out the host of the party. It would be customary for Gregory to bring Christophe along, but it seemed the Brit wanted Christophe to be as forgettable as possible. Not wanting to stand there looking lost, the Frenchman made his way over to the table lined with finger food. None of it looked really appetizing and the portions were too small. He figured one serving would be as much as a month’s worth of food for him. However, he couldn’t not eat, it would give him something to do and might as well eat while the food was free.

He picked up what appeared to be the world’s tiniest sandwich, masking his look of disapproval as he turned to catch a waiter who was serving what he expected to be flutes of some expensive champagne. He’d definitely need alcohol in his system if he was going to be dealing with pompous pricks all night. Even if it was some fancy poodle drinks. Delicately, he plucked one from the tray and began to idly weave his way through the crowd, looking like he moving directly towards something so he could avoid interruption and conversation. Gregory hadn’t been kind enough to let him in on why exactly they were here, just that Christophe was meant to be the muscle if things went south. Gathering intel in places such as this wasn’t exactly Christophe’s specialty.

Hours passed, Christophe had to stop a few times to converse with random party goers so he didn’t get caught sticking out of the crowd. It was always a challenge to curb his way of speaking. His accent was less course and more fluid, his low voice just having the slightest scratch that could be deemed smokey. It was pleasing to the ladies as they seemed to slowly gather around him, chatting away about topics Christophe had to pretend to enjoy. At least talking to the ladies was more entertaining than talking to the men, who only discussed the economy, the latest news, or politics. Women tended to give information out more freely, gossiping about their partners, laughing over antics that Christophe supposed were normal.

However, music started to pick up from the orchestra at the other end of the ballroom and soon the women dwindled away, taken to dance by whoever they had come with for the night or single men looking for a bit of fun. It was a relief when Christophe finally found himself alone, finishing off his champagne in one swig and it still wasn’t enough to give him a slight buzz.As he set the empty glass on a tray of a passing waiter, someone tapped on his shoulder. Looking over he noticed Gregory was there, the first time he’d seen the other male this evening since arriving.

“Did you have fun gossiping with the other ladies?” Gregory teased, making Christophe bristle and narrow his eyes. The blond knew all the right things to say to get under the Frenchman’s skin.

“They were better company than you’ll ever be, branleur.” Venom dripped from his voice, not bothering to conceal his irritation over the whole charade now that no one was around to see.

“Such a foul mouth, you shouldn’t say such things to your future husband. Especially since I came over here to ask you for a dance.” Gregory held out a hand, offering it to Christophe in such a proper manner that the Frenchman wanted to slap it away. However, he knew better than to cause a scene in such a public place and Gregory knew that as well. With that pleasant grin hiding his sadistic amusement of dragging Christophe through hoops, knowing the man couldn’t fight back without severe consequences. Christophe wouldn’t botch a job due to his own preferences.

After making Gregory wait just long enough to irritate the blond, Christophe finally took the offered hand that no amount of lotion could smooth out. Gregory seemed pleased by the victory, only serving to make Christophe’s jaw clench as he was led out into the dance floor. Already dancers were twirling around in what Christophe determined was a Viennese Waltz, not that a majority of the dancers were professionals, merely trying their best to move with the music. It was dreadfully boring, but then again such a dance was meant for more romantic dancing, proper courting. Things that should’ve remained dead long ago but still had a prominence because it was deemed high class and elegant.

Christophe had been taught to dance various ballroom steps with Gregory when they were younger, when the Brit would tease him about being a pretty princess when Christophe was anything but. When Gregory pulled at one of his hands, Christophe fell into the motion like a well trained dog, letting Gregory take the lead as he wont to do. Many times when they were children Christophe demanded to be the lead, dancing in itself became a battle to see which one came out on top. Gregory’s lighter feet held more confidence on his toes and eventually Christophe resigned himself to follow after the blond.

From a man so crass like Christophe, one wouldn’t expect such delicate footwork, but the dance of anticipation and graceful twirls was perfect to the point that Christophe’s mind blanked, falling into old patterns. Gregory guided him through the motions, those eyes sparked with amusement as he watched Christophe obey without hesitation as the music built up to its crescendo. The world melted away as he tended to do during such dances, making Christophe unaware of people watching them as they seemed to float circles around the wooden floor, polished so perfectly that he could almost see his reflection off the boards.

Christophe didn’t know how long they spent dancing, as he wasn’t one to give in to tiring before Gregory, to win out over the Brit in stamina as a punishment for pushing him into this. Eventually the orchestra came to an end, leaving both men slightly breathing heavier, closer than what should be appropriate for this certain kind of waltz, making Christophe’s eyes narrow in warning. He could see it written all over Gregory’s sophisticated face, the hooded gaze eyeing him like some sort of raw steak before a starving mongrel. Funny how it was the master panting after him like a dog instead of the Frenchman.

Christophe could feel him lean closer, his face taking up a majority of his vision until he was close enough that Christophe could feel the warmth of those lips radiating onto his own. His own heart betrayed him by picking up its pace in excitement and more anticipation that the waltz could ever truly provide. He swallowed even though his mouth felt dry, his body moving without a thought, leaning forward with impatience for a kiss from the cruel man in sheep’s clothing before him. This only served for Gregory to laugh with a husky tone to his voice before pulling away, bowing politely to press a kiss on Christophe’s knuckles just to keep up appearances before moving off into the dispersing crowd.

Whatever magic the waltz had inspired dissolved, leaving Christophe feeling even more bitter than even before.

When would he ever learn.

[thederivativeofrad]

Update

It’s that time of year when the new years thing happens and I make a post that has something to do with either what happened or what I want to happen and honestly I don’t know if I have the energy for it

It’s really surreal to think that some of you won’t have your blags anymore after whenever that drop date is. There will be writings lost to the void, a lot of... meaning just kind of snuffed out, and I couldn’t really have anticipated that. I was worried that mine would be gone, but I don’t believe that will be the case. I’m pretty sure hers will be, though, and even though I haven’t looked at it in two months and hardly at all before that back to July, I can’t help but be pained by the realisation that soon it might just not be there anymore. It’s nice to have that ability to look for a moment and go “ah, you’re still here”, but now that’s being taken away, and it’s not even by the choice of the author.

That sounds awfully dramatic for a blag being erased, but it’s more than just a blag I suppose. I have a lot of important writings here about college politics, about drugs, rambling about how lightsabers work and if computers can think, and I think I’d be pretty devastated to attempt to log in here again after however long I go without looking only to find it just... wasn’t there anymore.

There’s a reason why I just kind of stopped using the site rather than deactivating. It’s an archive, as well as somewhere to kind of peek back at, somewhere to put an update here and there or poke around and see if I can give myself an existential crisis by digging too far back into the personal tags. Albums are still alive here, little jokes that grew into whole developments, a large digital footprint of myself and friends and all the trends we were a part of. It’s a bit like losing family photos in a fire, flood, or to a strange person who comes over to party and steals the photos to put in a personal collection in a secret room off his room. There wasn’t much current for me here any longer, but... there [is] plenty to look back at, or to check in on to see if it’s still moving, and I think the sentiment of that is very powerful and is making me very ramble-prone. 

There are some blags that I just like knowing they still exist, that something will pop up once in a great while, that they still exist in a friendly way, and now, soon, they may not be here any longer. There are some blags that put out little things that are important to people who mean a lot to me, and those may soon be gone, as well. It’s just difficult to come to terms with, and even more difficult to tell what sort of impact it may have. Maybe something good comes of the purge, maybe nothing changes [for me] at all. It’s something to ponder nonetheless, especially as I look recently at some URLs frozen in time, unflinching, unsuspecting, unafraid. All qualities I want but know better than to wish for, because what’s a life without that little buzz of stress and adventure? I just wish there was less of it from time to time--much different than having it all taken away.

So there’s that...

And then there’s life stuffs.

For better or worse, no matter how much I wanted to, I didn’t give up on my secondary education, yet. I joined the CIS department board for the community college I’m currently attending and helped with a partnership between our college and a four-year university that has a degree program that I was thinking about doing about five or six years ago. Computer security and forensics is one of three majors available to our students in our program, two of those majors (aforementioned included) can be taken on-site rather than having to travel to the university. This development has cancelled my plan for a break between my Associate’s and Bachelor’s, but it’ll only be... sigh... it’ll only be one(?) extra year, supposedly, so I guess it’s worth it. See “so, this college thing” for the roots of my scepticism about this whole system. I guess I’m a part of the system, now. I guess I literally made this for myself. 

Academia is hell; what’s new?

I’ve been at my place of work for just a couple weeks over a year. I love my job as a whole, but things are not ideal. 

Y’see, I work in the IT department, under IT managers. I work for the surgery department, alongside surgery managers. I really despise my team, my direct coworkers, the people I’m supposed to be able to count on--the rest of the deskside team. Slackers, painfully inefficient and unobservant, power hungry, whiny, back stabbing; they’re those little goblins that computer people turn into when they develop a complex, when they’re so full of themselves or so apathetic about what they do that they are not only arrogant, but horrifically lazy. My manager and coordinators aren’t any better. I’m convinced the coordinators are called that as some sick joke that I’m not in on, as they do very little coordinating at all. I’m not sure they know how to coordinate, because most of the plans they put together fall through very rapidly due to poor planning or no follow through. They’re worse together, they somehow become so much worse. Exception to that? One of them is a buffer, likes to keep the peace. The other is a hothead, and he’s shown me that side of himself before. That went straight to the manager after I cried about it and was convinced by one or two of my worth-something coworkers to talk to her. That’s when I first began to notice she does nothing but placate. She lies and panders and says just about anything to everyone to make it look like she’s doing something, like she’s worth something, like her department is excelling and deserves more. 

It doesn’t.

One good thing about her is that she helped me to realise that I do that, too. That perspective and some other relevant thoughts running through my head around the same time brought that picture together for me. The last month I’ve been actively trying to do better with that. I think I’m beginning to make progress breaking that habit of trying not to disappoint people by making promises and giving time estimates that are unlikely if not impossible to fulfil. What a weird way to spell that...

The department I work for is filled with new friends. I know so many people, even by name. Someone as horrible with names as me actually recognising people, remembering things about them, holding conversation, it’s brilliant! It makes me feel like I belong there. They feel like family, I feel like a part of their team. I am a part of their team. I’m the IT guy there, if they need anything worked on they know they can count on me to be right there and take care of it effectively, even if it’s not our department’s equipment. If I’m comfortable with it at first glance I’ll try at it, because there’s a person on the table right now and we don’t have the sort of time to wait for biomed or Stryker or M.E. or someone on a different team in IT to come in and fix the issue. I have tools, I have knowledge, I don’t give a fuck what my coordinator says is and isn’t my job. The other teams are okay with me punching cables, moving connections in the closets, modifying group policy, playing with AV equipment, and resetting oxygen monitors, Spiro devices, x-ray imaging devices, and EKGs. I have access to applications I never knew existed because other teams recognised that I could do those things, saving them a trip not only downtown into the hospital, but into a sterile area where they’d need to be wearing special attire. Let me stroke my ego: I am a goddamn miracle worker. 

I am an ambassador. I am not the leader of my department, but I speak with leaders of other departments as a present part of my own. I have knowledge they don’t, I have something that they need, and for that they place me on-par with them. I smile so much walking down the manager hallway no matter how I’m actually feeling and it brightens their day. I know everyone’s personalities well enough to make the right jokes and ask about the right things, to be careful with Dan because this is the time of year he gets depressed because he misses his family, to avoid talking about certain things with Kerry because she raised family near Hopkins and she knows some people I’ve been in awkward situations with, to come to Jenny with all the juicy gossip from surgery, my life, or the office, and to not send Jess hearts on Skype because she just finds it weird. I have so many phone numbers, they ask me so many questions, they trust me so much it just feels good to be so open with people and to be able to help them and provide a necessary service without them having to be worried about how long they’re going to wait. I love my job. I love that I get to work with my hands, that I get to work with such amazing people, that I get to go into rooms where people are getting cut open, where just the most unimaginable procedures take place with such a wide array of instruments that I get to watch be cleaned and repackaged for use. I get to see every step of a surgery from check in to PACU, and all the behind the scenes parts that patients wouldn’t even think of on their own. Every call is exhilarating, a positive stress, I feel so comfortable in a room shoved with millions of dollars in equipment and random tables topped with liner you can’t touch or you botch it all. It’s a time trial on a rope course with a hostage in the middle. It adds another layer to the challenge. It keeps me utterly focused out of necessity. 

I even have my own locker. Not even Damon had a locker. I didn’t even ask for it. People have handshakes with me in the hallway. They all know my name, they all know I’m someone they can trust, that I’m someone that can help them. It’s absolutely glorious. It makes me proud to be a part of the surgery department, to be a staple to them, to be someone they are legitimately worried about not being there for a week because the department I’m under is forcing me to cross train at a location that doesn’t need any help and won’t ever need more than the people who are trained to go there already in order to take care of it. Brian and I do BSH. Nolan and James to BLH. D, Sujith, and Andrew do BMH. Mike and Jim do BBC. There is no need for any more trained techs off main campus. There never will be a need until one person quits, moves up, or dies and that position needs to be refilled. Then we train one more and we call it a day. We shouldn’t waste time and money sending every tech to every other location just so they can stick their hands under their butts for five full workdays while they aren’t at a location long enough to learn people places and things but are there long enough to realise that they’re there for no reason because everything is already handled just fine by one person and the backup person would be just fine on their own since they were cross trained using a much more thorough process. I feel like that sentence was never going to stop. 

Regardless of the positives and negatives, I don’t plan on staying here. After my education is finished I’ll open myself back up to possibilities of finding work elsewhere. I already get job offers, but I’m not uprooting myself again until I finish what I’ve started/continued here. It won’t be that much longer until I have what I’ve been trying to get for twenty years or I surrender to the fact that I’m just not cut out for college. Overall, career-wise, I’m not happy being here permanently, I have no interest in moving up the chain. I’d rather move on.

So here I suppose I can talk about the new years thing since that is what this was supposed to be about, anyway. It’s pretty ironic that the first year I’m actually able to have a place to myself and would be able to be with someone special to kiss at midnight that the only person I’d care to do that with won’t be there. I’ll probably be asleep, anyway, as I work holidays--the ORs are closed so I can pop in and out of them as I please without interrupting cases. I take those opportunities to update the place. They’re the only days I can actually plan work projects.

I have my love-hate relationship with school, my love-hate relationship with work, now I need a bit more time working out the love-hate relationship with myself. I’ve been doing well with most things. I wake up at 0400, listen to the news for about 15 minutes while I am rudely shoved awake by the fact that all of the other countries in the Paris Agreement mk 2 signed it besides guess who, I do some stretches and I hop in the shower. I prep myself for the day in various ways, take some time to read or watch a video, finish up homework or write crap like this in a more private manor, and I get to work around 0600 after an only approximately 10 minute commute. 

Moving was only lovely for half as many reasons as it was going to be in my head, but that half has been more than worth it. I’ve been getting a good amount of sleep despite waking up so early, I drink plenty of water (not that I’ve ever had an issue with that), I remember to eat... sometimes... okay that one is kind of a work in progress. My finances are stable, and in six months I’ve raised my credit score from 560 to 770, which is basically from “I don’t even know if I can rent a decent apartment if they’re going to run a credit check” to “yeah you’re sending me offers in the mail because I can pick whichever one I want and you’d be lucky to have me”. I’m where I wanted to be on an individual financial basis by the time I moved out, I’m just occasionally sorry I couldn’t get there sooner.

Things are much better here, it’s just lonely. 

So the goal for whatever year is coming up is to focus on keeping my environment positive and to keep up and improve the work I’m attempting to do on myself, whatever that means. It probably means finding ways to make me not want to hurt myself over homework, remembering to eat semi-regularly, and learning. Really just learning. 

Here goes nothing:

I want to learn more about myself, what I like and don’t like, and how to continue this positive change into someone that I’m proud of so that I won’t feel like people are lying to me when they say they’re proud of me, too. 

I want to compliment myself without feeling conceited.

I want to convince myself that this impostor syndrome is only a collection of intrusive thoughts. 

I want to be how my families make me feel. 

I want to be the best me that I can be when it’s time for me to move on, however many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years out that is.

I want to know that we all need room to grow, and that forcing my help onto others, by putting everything into them that I can to keep them comfortable with where they are instead of allowing them to grow is not helpful.

I want to see that we all came from somewhere different, and that we all need to figure things out in different ways that can’t be forced, but can be guided subtly, all from love, never from manipulation.

I want to remember that we all can take all the time we need, and that sometimes we need longer than we thought.

So let’s do a silly little thing: let’s help ourselves to remember those things by writing them down somewhere safe, somewhere personal like a blag, somewhere that your digital footprint lives on and can be theoretically investigated by anyone. Let’s see if it stands the test of time, or if it gets wiped away like marked profiles on a shitty blue website. 

Happy New Year.

[placetobenation]

Now that my mission statements are out of the way I’m going to get into some lady wrestlers (well, talk about them at least) starting with one of my favourite people on earth, and one of yours too I should hope, the lovely and talented Molly Holly.

If the goal of a wrestler is to make the other guy look good, Molly Holly is one of the very best. She had the magic touch. There’s not a lot of wrestlers of whom you can say the entire standard of wrestling improved when they walked into the company, but Molly is one of them.

When she turned up in late 2000, things were not pretty. Lita and Trish were still as green as… something really green, Jacqueline and Ivory were around but not exactly having good matches, the focus on wrestling was as low as it ever was, and the woman on the roster who got the most shine was Stephanie McMahon. What I’m saying is, there wasn’t much wrestling going on in the ring. However, Molly debuted in WWF in November 2000 as a Holly cousin, jumped straight into the women’s division, and immediately things were looking up.

The women were working at a certain level beforehand, and then Molly would wrestle them and they would all look twice as good, as if by magic. Trish looks a bit lost in her first few months wrestling on television, not gonna lie. Then her and Molly wrestle on Smackdown this one time and she looks great, they have this fun little match and suddenly you see that potential in Trish to actually be something. And Molly grabbing someone who could go like Jacqueline and wrestling away on Heat or something is manna from heaven during this period of WWF and the women’s division.

As I went through this chronologically watching all the matches, the first one I even dared to call a good match was Molly and Lita dropping some bombs on each other on a Sunday Night Heat almost 10 months into my project. And the first match I felt was legitimately great was Molly Holly vs. Trish for the title at Unforgiven 2002. Molly is the driving force behind the women’s division developing and reaching these new levels of quality in the early 2000s. She literally lifts the standard of wrestling.

And not only that but it’s how she does it. She’s one of the great carriers, and made everyone look so damn good, no matter who they were. A bunch of women whom you’d never accuse of being any good in the ring, Molly took them by the hand and lead them through some astonishingly decent matches, and not just that but she made her opponent look good in the process, which is where the real skill lies as a wrestler I think.

There’s one match she has with Terri Runnels on Raw, for example. Terri, God bless her, was a terrible wrestler, she really had no business being in the ring. Molly grabs her one day and they work some holds and wrestle away for a hot minute, and this match is so flabbergastingly decent for a Terri match that I felt it spiritually. In my SOUL. I declared it a wrestling miracle and started calling her Saint Molly of Minnesota in my notes. She was out there doing the Lord’s work carrying the dorks of the world like this.

Like Jackie Gayda! Jackie, God bless her, was a terrible wrestler, in fact she’s best known for having a bad match, that infamous mixed tag on Raw with Trish and… two dudes, and it was two awful botches of Jackie’s that earned its reputation. Anyway the point is Jackie was no good, but don’t worry, Saint Molly to the rescue!

And it’s not even a match that Molly had against her, but they were tag team partners one week, and then Molly turned on her the week after (I guess because she sucks) and they get into this brawl. It starts backstage and they come out to the arena and go all around ringside and into the ring, and it’s this wild, intense thing outta nowhere. Molly beats the crap out of her and Jackie is fighting back and they’re trying to kill each other with a giant lead pipe… and Jackie Gayda never looked more like a wrestler than she does in this moment.

There are so many examples of Molly doing this with people. Chyna – they had a match on Smackdown and Molly is the only woman apart from Lita who got ANYTHING decent out of Chyna. Nidia – she didn’t set the world on fire during her run but Molly was one of the few who always had good matches with her. Torrie Wilson – Torrie always looked really good in there with Molly.

And my word, Ivory!

I went on record on PTBN social media during GWWE saying Ivory is the most mediocre wrestler I’ve ever seen. I just watched four years of her career and I still couldn’t tell you a single move of hers. She is impressively mediocre. But on the 4th of May, 2003, The Lord God sent his most humble servant, St. Molly of Minnesota, down to Raw. And St. Molly took Ivory by the hand, and… proceeded to beat the crap out of her arm and have this genuinely good wrestling match with Ivory based on arm work. Praise be.

And that’s something that Molly Holly did, and did well, more often than most of the women, and that’s targeting body parts, working the arm, working the leg. Last week I made the point that it’s hard to do limb work or sell a body part satisfactorily when the matches are so short, since there’s no time to really let that play out. Molly Holly said “To hell with that, time is a human construct!” (I imagine that she talks like me) and just did it anyway, and had a lot of good matches based on limb selling.

One of the best Trish and Molly matches has Molly attacking her neck like a madwoman. She takes Nidia’s arm home with her one day, on a Raw just after WrestleMania XX when she’s bald. Her and Jacqueline had roughly a million matches on Heat in 2002, and one of the best ones sticks out because Molly worked over Jackie’s leg so well.

And when she did work over something it was so good, because Molly was just so good on offense, mechanically speaking, and she would always make it really interesting. She wouldn’t just sit in a hold, she’d grab someone and snapmare them so their bad leg would hit the bottom rope, for example. Just little things like that – things that you can imagine Arn Anderson doing to a leg. Molly Holly is the Arn Anderson of the Divas. Think about it. They’re both from Minnesota. Both bald (at one point). And both are endlessly selfless, endlessly useful pro wrestlers.

But back to my original point, there is an interesting name to add to my list of carryjobs that might somewhat surprise you, and that’s Gail Kim. Now I preface this by saying that Gail Kim is definitely not a dork, she is a fantastic wrestler, and was a fantastic wrestler for a very long time. But when Gail first came to WWE in 2003? Not so much.

There was a bad confluence of events there, she was dead on arrival from the booking and had zero heat, but she was also botching things badly and not having good matches. It was just a bad time, so she quickly dropped the belt (to Molly, as it happens) and then turned heel and joined forces with her. They were a regular tag team for the next couple months.

Let me tell you, Gail before Molly and Gail after Molly are two completely different wrestlers.

She improved exponentially. They were a pretty good old school heel team and Gail visibly grows taller every week working with Molly. And of course because Gail was a worker, she was trained and athletic and eager, just super green, she took that crash course and aced it and then just ran with it. She was miles better in 2004 back on her own, and obviously she then went to TNA, they started the Knockouts division and the rest is history – Gail Kim is one of the very best wrestlers in the history of that company. But I think it’s pretty clear if you watch it that she was not having good matches until Molly got a hold of her.

That’s the beauty of Molly Holly the worker. That’s why it’s not always as simple as judging a wrestler by how many four star matches they had, or Great Match Theory, anything like that. Gail Kim went on to have a plethora of matches that were better than any match Molly ever had. I think the title match vs. Trish at Unforgiven 2002 might be Molly’s only truly great match. But that’s beside the point. When you watch these years, when you can see how Molly raises the bar, when you see how she brings everyone up to her level, how she makes everyone better, you can tell Molly was a special talent as a wrestler, in a way that not a lot of wrestlers are.

By the by, this woman has been retired since 2005, that is thirteen years ago, and in January she just walks out to the ring like Mighty Molly and nails a Molly Go Round and does her business like she had never, EVER left. She is phenomenal.

She was also phenomenally undervalued. The list of women who were wasted in this era that they could have done more with starts with “everyone” and goes from there, but Molly is a particularly egregious case. She only had seven singles matches in her career that went longer than five minutes. I mean, Molly Holly. You don’t give Molly Holly time to wrestle. Get in the garbage, WWE.

Even when she was holding the women’s title she was often pushed to the background for whatever Trish or whoever was doing. And of course for a big chunk of her run they ran that terrible angle where they called her fat and unattractive and a virgin, accompanied by truly some of the most hideous commentary ever heard, even by Divas standards. There were little kids holding signs in the crowd that said “Molly is fat!” for God sakes.

I’m not going to get into how misogynistic and disgusting all this bullshit is – if I stopped to make a Fuck This Company speech every time something sexist happened in the Divas era I’d never get to talk about any wrestling. So just assume that Fuck This Company is implied.

But the thing that gets me beyond that is that Molly spent all this time as a misogynist punchline, and as a heel, when really she was a tremendous babyface and should have had a much bigger run as one in the division. Those early years when she was doing things like the love story with Spike Dudley, that stuff was great and so cute, but she never really got to use that character in the women’s division much. When she does wrestle as a babyface she is so damn good, using her wrestling skill and busting out all these cool moves. The fact that she never got to have a babyface showcase against a 2004 heel Trish, or a Victoria when she got going, it makes me mad.

Plus Molly Holly is like the sweetest person in the entire universe, how could anyone possibly want to boo this girl?

You know, I’ve got through this whole thing and just sort of realised that Nora in real life is super religious and would probably hate me blaspheming all over this in the name of her wrestling career. I didn’t even mean it like that! I’m just trying to express how she made me feel, and that’s how it came out because I’m just in awe of what she was able to do. I already knew she was great beforehand, but she was still one of the biggest revelations to me of this project. I am endlessly impressed with Molly Holly.

So that’s my book on Molly. I’m submitting her list of wrestling miracles to the Vatican, I’ll let you know if I hear back. I’d love to hear back from you guys too, hit me up. You can find a list of the matches I’ve been talking about below if you want to check them out for yourselves.

Next time I’ll be making quite a leap, from the wrestling saint to a psycho killer who went on an all time violent rampage. Stay tuned.

Check it out: Molly Holly vs. Chyna (SD, April 19th 2001) Molly Holly vs. Lita (Heat, April 29th 2001) Molly Holly vs. Terri (Raw, May 13th 2002) Brawl with Jackie Gayda (Raw, July 1st 2002) Molly Holly vs. Trish Stratus – Women’s Title (Unforgiven 2002) Molly Holly vs. Jacqueline (Heat, November 4th 2002) Molly Holly vs. Ivory (Heat, May 4th 2003) Molly Holly vs. Trish Stratus (Raw, July 7th 2003) Molly & Gail vs Trish & Lita (Unforgiven 2003) Molly Holly vs. Nidia (Raw, March 29th 2004)