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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 1 year ago

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By: Robert P. George

Published: Jun 15, 2023

After the Supreme Court of the United States handed down its decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization early last summer, Princeton University’s Program in Gender and Sexuality Studies issued a statement fiercely condemning the ruling. The director stated that the program stood “in solidarity” with the people whose rights had been allegedly stripped away by five conservative justices doing the “racist” and “sexist” bidding of the “Christian Right,” causing women to endure “forced pregnancies,” and waging an “unprecedented attack on democracy.”

I have no doubt that the statement reflected the views of a large majority of those associated with the Program in Gender and Sexuality Studies. But was the director, speaking on behalf of an official unit of the university, right to declare an institutional stance on the Dobbs decision?

I am myself the director of an academic program at Princeton—the James Madison Program in American Ideals and Institutions. A majority of those associated with the Madison Program believe that elective abortion violates the rights of unborn children. So: Would it have been appropriate for the program to put out the following statement?

The James Madison Program of Princeton University applauds the Supreme Court of the United States for rectifying a long-standing constitutional and moral atrocity. The so-called constitutional right to abortion, which had been imposed on the nation by the Supreme Court nearly 50 years ago in Roe v. Wade, lacked any basis in the text, logic, structure, or original understanding of the Constitution of the United States. It was “an act of raw judicial power,” to quote Justice Byron White’s dissent in Roe, which deprived the American people of their right to work through constitutionally prescribed democratic procedures to protect innocent children in the womb from the lethal violence of abortion. The Supreme Court has, finally, relegated a tragic error to the ash heap of history alongside such similarly unjust and ignominious decisions as Dred Scott v. Sanford, Plessy v. Ferguson, Buck v. Bell, and Korematsu v. U.S.

The Madison Program put out no such statement. Nor did I, as director, consider even for a moment issuing such a statement or asking my colleagues to do so. My understanding of what is proper was and is that, although I may certainly speak for myself, and identify myself as a Princeton faculty member while doing so, it would be wrong for me and my colleagues to identify the university or one of its units with a view of the rightness or wrongness of the Dobbs decision, or to make sweeping pronouncements on the justice or injustice of abortion.

The reason is as simple as it is clear: These are matters on which reasonable people of goodwill in our community disagree. One should feel welcome at Princeton—in the Madison Program and any other unit of the university—whether one is pro-life, as I am, or pro-choice, as a great many others in our community are; whether one thinks of Roe v. Wade as a violation of human rights or as a vindication of human rights.

No one in the university or any of its departments should be made to feel like an “insider” or “outsider” depending on his or her views about abortion or the moral status of unborn human life. No one should be counted as “orthodox” or “heretical” in the Madison Program or in any other department or program of the university for his or her views—whatever they happen to be. We are, after all, a university—an academic institution—not a political party, or a church, or the secular ideological equivalent of a church. And especially in a moment when American society is deeply polarized and people of different political perspectives are more likely to demonize than to engage one another, universities like Princeton must provide a model for a healthy community where people of different viewpoints can engage each other in a civil manner and coexist.

There are, of course, religiously affiliated universities. Princeton, however, is not such a university, and has not been one for a long time. It is a nonsectarian institution. At Princeton, our role is to provide, in the words of our president, Christopher Eisgruber, “an impartial forum for vigorous, high-quality discussion, debate, scholarship, and teaching.” To me, this means that we as faculty members and students should strive to engage one another on controversial questions in a robust, civil, truth-seeking manner, and that we should be free to do so without the university placing its thumb on the scales of debate.

As it happens, Princeton, like some other nonsectarian institutions, is currently deliberating about what rules we should adopt regarding statements made by the university’s various departments and offices regarding political questions that are not directly related to the teaching and research mission of the university—questions such as abortion, U.S. policy toward Israel, defunding the police, and reparations for slavery. What should those rules be? What principles are to be considered in devising limitations on institutional pronouncements?

To my mind, the University of Chicago arrived at the right answer more than 50 years ago, when it adopted, in the midst of the Vietnam War controversy and other matters of contention, the report of a committee chaired by the law professor Harry Kalven. The Kalven Report committed the university and its various units to institutional neutrality on political questions, encapsulating its rationale in the helpful dictum: “The University is the home and sponsor of critics; it is not itself the critic.” The Kalven Report did not forbid faculty, students, or staff in their individual capacities from stating their opinions publicly, or even from identifying themselves by their academic titles and affiliations when doing so. It did, however, generally forbid anyone from committing the university or its departments and offices to particular points of view on controversial political questions.

The Kalven Report embodied a particular understanding of the role of the nonsectarian university and of the conditions required for it to play that role. The university and its departments serve the cause of truth-seeking by providing a forum for members of the community to have full, fair, and open debates on fundamental issues without any institutional influence. Political tribes or sects can form within the university and its departments, but no tribe or sect may take control and make itself, in effect, the established religion on campus.

Still, why not authorize departments or other units to make statements when their members feel strongly about an issue and where there exists–let us imagine–an unmistakable consensus on the matter? Of course, there is a distinction between consensus on matters of empirical and verifiable fact, and consensus on normative questions of the sort that are not, and cannot be, resolved simply by establishing the facts. I would warn, however, that even in the natural sciences, history is replete with examples of scholars reaching a consensus on matters of alleged fact about which they turned out to be wrong. This, it seems to me, is a conclusive argument in support of freedom of thought, inquiry, and discussion, and for encouraging viewpoint diversity.

It is also a strong argument against committing the university and its units to a particular position unless doing so is absolutely necessary. (That would be a rare occurrence, perhaps a state law forbidding universities from hiring people who hold certain views or banning, say, the promotion—or “teaching”—of certain ideas. It would not extend to such matters as the Israel-Palestine dispute; the Ukraine War; abortion; the death penalty; how a jury ought to decide, or ought to have decided, in a criminal or civil trial; marriage and sexual morality; fracking; or whether to defund the police, legalize drugs, move to a single-payer health-care system, or abolish the FBI, etc.—all issues on which departments at Princeton or other nonsectarian institutions have released statements in recent years.)

History is also replete with examples of scholars making claims in the name of science that were, in truth, driven by normative beliefs and commitments. Sometimes the scientific community, or particular segments of it, reached a “consensus” (or something approaching one) on such matters. The case that should bear heavily on our consciences and serve as a warning to us—particularly in the academic world and the broader intellectual culture—is eugenics. As the historian Thomas Leonard has shown, eugenics was embraced and promoted by the academic establishment as if it were gospel—and with very little dissent.

Where there is a consensus on normative matters, or where a consensus is more or less clearly driven by normative beliefs and commitments, such consensus provides no justification for the university or one of its units to publicly commit itself to a political position. If anything, it raises the question of why there is a consensus on difficult moral or other normative issues on which, broadly in our society, reasonable people of goodwill disagree.

Where are the dissenting voices? Has groupthink set in—in a unit, or perhaps in an entire field? What message does the lack of representation of dissenting voices send to students? Has there been discrimination or favoritism based on viewpoint? If so, is it continuing? Has this affected hiring and promotion decisions, or created what is broadly known to be a hostile environment for people who dissent from established orthodoxies?

And there are more questions: Will discrimination result from, or be exacerbated by, the practice of academic units taking positions in political disputes? Might the practice motivate, or further encourage, people to take into account candidates’ moral or political beliefs for academic appointment or tenure? Will people hoping to be appointed to such positions be impelled to censor themselves, lest they jeopardize their applications? The dangers of the corruption of fair and ideologically nonpartisan hiring and promotion procedures are glaring.

Let me linger a bit on this last point. If academic units are permitted to make statements on political issues, then the following will be the case: When considering a job or tenure candidate, voting faculty members will anticipate that he or she, if appointed, will vote on future political statements. So they will perfectly reasonably want to know, and will take into account, the candidate’s ideological leanings and political views and affiliations in deciding whether to support or oppose the appointment. Of course, this is something that faculty are not supposed to do under existing academic norms for nonsectarian institutions. It is condemned, for example, by the American Association of University Professors. But putting into place a policy that permits departments and other units to take political stands and issue political statements would undermine this prohibition. After all, voting on political statements—if departments were to be authorized to do so and chose to act on that authorization—would be one of the things a faculty member is, as a practical matter, hired to do.

Of course, we should draw a careful distinction between the university and its official subunits and other entities, such as student associations, that exist within the broader university community. Student clubs certainly should have the right to devote themselves to causes (political, moral, religious, etc.) and take positions and put out statements advocating whatever they stand for. The key here is for the university to be nondiscriminatory in recognizing and making resources available to the clubs. The Democratic Club should be treated the same as the Republican Club. The pro-choice club should be treated no better and no worse than the pro-life club. The Islamic Society should be treated exactly as the Jewish Center or Baptist Chaplaincy is treated. And so forth. Funding should be distributed without discrimination, and any institutional support should be evenhanded.

Institutional neutrality protects the university’s fundamental mission of pursuing, preserving, and transmitting knowledge. This mission requires not only academic freedom and viewpoint diversity, but also principles and policies that enable us to avoid contests among people of competing ideological stripes for control of the university and its individual units. The university must belong to everyone in our community, not simply those who are on the allegedly “right” side of contested issues.

As I noted, Princeton was once a sectarian college: Until almost a century ago, it was affiliated with Presbyterian Christianity. Today, as a nonsectarian university, its mission no longer includes the propagation of sectarian doctrines. It is, in this crucial respect, unlike Notre Dame, Brigham Young, Baylor, Yeshiva, and Zaytuna. I have nothing against such institutions. In fact, I think they do great work. I’ve lectured at all of them. And I’m glad they are available to students and families for whom religiously based education is important.

But I believe that it is valuable for there also to be great nonsectarian universities such as Princeton, the University of Chicago, the University of Michigan, and the rest, in which people are united not by shared commitments to religious or secular ideological dogmas but by, and only by, a commitment to the pursuit, preservation, and transmission of knowledge—and an understanding that the cause of knowledge-seeking can be mightily advanced only by encouraging the critical engagement of ideas among people who have fundamental disagreements on normative and other important matters.

[ Via: https://archive.is/7BVsb ]

Higher education is supposed to be where people explore, develop and test their ideas. Not where they're handed down from on high.

Universities aren't churches. They have no business preaching.

#Robert P. George #academic integrity #academic freedom #orthodoxy #neutrality #institutional neutrality #higher education #academic corruption #religion is a mental illness

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thewestern · 8 months ago

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OFFROAD INTERLUDE

Young Chop on the beat

To the uninitiated, a guitar solo can seem self-indulgent, somewhat. Masturbatory, even, one could say, at the risk of surrendering to cliche. But there one is, moving one’s hand up and down a smooth, wooden neck. Contorting one’s face as one hammers on, pulls off, slides and bends one’s way up, down and around the G-major scale. Outstretching one’s fingers to hit just the right notes … that last one’s for you self-pleasing females out there, tapping your clitori like you’re Edie Van Halen. Okay, sure. But it’s more complicated than that, obviously. Like one getting off by one’s self, guitar solos sort of get a bad rap. It’s our puritanical culture that’s to blame. Did you know that supposedly there’s a version of Catholic hell wherein the damned are sous vide for all eternity in a bubbling cauldron? But the twist is that they’re boiling in all their own wasted ejaculate. Wasted, quote en quote, whereby the Pope’s lofty standards, would constitute all the jizzum not expectorated in the act of heterosexual, post-marital intercourse made in the god’s honest attempt at procreation. Well then likewise, perhaps for our purposes there’s a version of secular hell wherein one’s soul floats along a Lazy River Styx to the meandering tune of a never-ending, very noodly guitar solo. Good news: hell isn’t real. Better news: Heaven is. Ooh, it’s a place on earth. Yeah, baby.

Take a page out of the Plains Indians’ book. Although as recordkeepers, they were notoriously sparse, we do know that they didn’t so much dwell on the Life and Death of it all, or at least not on the difference betwixt them. Rather, they were early on the whole consciousness kick. We are one being. All but blades of grass, in the grand scheme. Buffalo grazes. Man eat buffalo. He go in the ground. (Likely on account of eating all that red meat.) Man become grass again. Buffalo eat man. At the end of the day, it’s the end of the day. You dig? Theirs was not a vengeful or a wrathful god. Nor was it even a god to begin with. Nigh, it was a Great Spirit. Non-personified and ungendered. None of this whole paternal bull shit. No daddy issues here. Now, they did have a Great Father. Actually that was what they called POTUS. But that was really more of a put on than anything. A bit of poking fun at our white devil bureaucracy. Fatherhood, as it were, was an altogether separate enterprise from the matters of church and state to the savages. Family in and of itself was more an extension of community. So then, if your Pop happened to up and die, be it he took a bullet off on a raid, or maybe he succumbed to the coughing sickness, it wasn’t no big thang. In a tribe, the Chief was everybody’s daddy. And he was a wise man, which is to say he didn’t just know things.

And, furthermore, as for religion, insofar as they practiced it whatsoever, was all about arranging that harmony with the natural world. Maintaining life-life balance. Therefore, whatever you have to do to keep that homeostasis — to square the circle of life, so to speak — that’s your fucking sacrament. Could be singing, dancing, chanting, smoking. Regarding the ritual form, they didn’t so much care. They were very results-oriented. So you do you, essentially. Long before any framers or founders, the Native Americans who observed freedom to worship, assemble or speak however you please. In their honor, then, say a prayer, have a hootenany, recite the fucking pledge of allegiance or maybe, baby, just beat it. (It, whether we’re talking about the famous Eddie Van Halen instrumental break on his genre-bending collaboration with Michael Jackson [Beat it {beat it}], considered to be among the greatest guitar solos of all time, or your meat.)

Still not convinced? Fine. So what, then, if a guitar solo isn’t an act of patriotism or at least enlightenment? Maybe you’re even thinking to yourself it’s a waste of time. Okay. But, then, is that so bad? When you’re in the groove jacuzzi, what’s the sense in getting out before you’re fully pruned? Crank up the bubbles, will you, Reggie? Try a couple different angles on for size. Really explore the space. What’s the big rush, honey? Procrastination — there’s another thing that gets a bum rap. Our protestant guilt ethic at work again. For a fact, the term itself derives from the Latin Pro- meaning forward, Crastinus- of tomorrow. So, in point of fact, procrastinating is actually keeping things moving. Like if Time is like a big circle, then procrastination is just rolling along. Not bothering nobody. Searching a bit around the edges is all. Yeah. That’s the ticket. Us procrastinators are Searchers. Maybe it’s we’re searching for meaning, or maybe just searching for something fucking better to do.

For his part, Billy could procrastinate with the best of them. Case in point, having only recently set in motion an event chain that could jeopardize his family legacy and fortune, he was in no particular hurry to make his next move. However, in his defence, at Yayo-L’s urging, Billy had been prepared to log into his brand new tablet — purchased for the express purpose of being the perfect-sized device for watching pornography, on the go — and launch an online propaganda campaign, so as to curry public opinion in the favor of his fictional political kidnapping.

Me see pon de social media, youth make da ting go Turn Up. Intenet gon mad. Respek, yadono.

Alas, he could not remember his four-digit security code. Prior to being locked out, Billy attempted five combinations, reproduced below in reverse sequential order from most to least likely:

0824 [his birthday]

1017 [his mother’s birthday]

0420 [ayayayay: smoke weed every day]

6969 [nicenice]

0000 [factory default settings]

Having to reset his password or code nearly every time he tried to access one of his many digital accounts or tech gadgets was one of the great stresses of Billy’s life. That, and because darkness was washing over the sleepy town of Stone Rock, he and Yayo-L agreed to decompress for the evening and attack the morning anew. Although rather than retiring to the bunkhouse after a hard day of scheming, they set out for the barn to raise a little hell. Like the bipedal staff, the remuda of horses — six months out of the year they lazily grazed the surrounding pastures, tasked only with escorting guests out on the occasional horseback ride, or otherwise performing a purely perfunctory roundup — had been dismissed for the off-season. For them to winter in, Uncle Ernie had erected a state-of-the-art stables out on the mud flats over by the airport, complete with a highly sophisticated alarm system for thwarting any enterprising horse thieves.

(In protecting against horse thievery, Uncle Ernie took the utmost precaution. It’s no wonder why, considering how many Western Movies he had watched in his late father’s private picture show, a mid-century precursor to a home theatre or entertainment centre. Quite often some expository character or other would utter the warning: Y’know … horse thieving is a Hanging Offense, around these here parts. [Spits.] It’s true that the trafficking in stolen livestock was a major economic liability in the pre-industrial period. But still, wasn’t it a little heavy-handed to always clarify as such? Of course it was a hanging offense. Just about everything was back then. Turning your sprinkler on between ten in the morning and six at night … that there is a hanging offense around these here parts, etc. Maybe the emphasis was on account of in the days before they laid track for the iron horse (the railroad), horses and mules and the like were your only means of transport. So this was something beyond petty larceny. A crime more akin to Grand Theft Equine. Because a man without a mount was plainly immobilized. And around these here parts — in these United States — that just won’t do. We Americans got places to be. Or was it more likely because stealing horses was the stock and trade of some native American tribes. [Based off the way we was branded / Face it, Jeronimo get more time than Brandon.] But even to them, it was more meaningful than a mere felony. It was an art form. One to be honed, and to be celebrated. Whoever could sneak into the white devils’ camp under the cover of darkness and snatch the most or the best horses, that brave got all the finest squaws and biggest props. Debates would rage among the camps, who was the best horse thief — the most about that life. Bruh, they was telling me bout this one Comanche hitter from the Quahidi set. No cap this dude could clean out a whole damn cavalry in one night. Turn them ma’fuckas out on they asses. Back into infantry, y’erd. Yo, I heard tell this nigga stole the horse off this the other nigga, while this other nigga was riding it … on god … bitch looked down and he was saddled on some bricks, B, in broad daylight. Brrrdat.)

Therefore, the period-accurate Livery Emporium was vacant, excepting for those stalls which were paved over and as such reserved for Uncle Ernie’s off-road armada of ATVs, gators, dune buggies, snowmobiles and, of course, sick ass fucking dirt bikes. The sight alone — neon plastic on polished chrome — would have been more than enough to deal Hank a massive heart attack. Nevermind the evocative aroma of the sputtering exhaust, so pungent you could taste its vegetal tannins on the undercarriage of your spittling tongue. Nor even their battle hymn sound played in four-stroke harmony. Mmm-m. The Mick, for his part, would have creamed his fucking coveralls.

(In actuality, it’s the two-stroke engine which emits that sweet, sweet smell — you know the one, that reminds you of yard work and your dad. The website Motorcyclist Online once asked a professional perfumist to analyze the fragrance profile. Paraphrasing now, her trained nose picked up traces of benzoin and balsam (tree resins), cade oil (a species of juniper), and just a slight hint of patchouli. She described the olfactory experience as: ancestral, ritualistic, ceremonial, and medicinal. Altogether, she said, the smell is very human.

[Hey, ladies. Looking for the perfect stocking stuffer for your husband? How about a two-stroke scented candle, handmade with gen-u–ine, high-grade lube. Per the marketing copy: with this candle, we’ve strived to engineer a nostalgic, reminiscent product, and still remain nontoxic, while achieving as close as possible olfactory experience with out burning raw oil and fuel inside your home.])

For their moonlight ride, Billy and Yayo-L selected the mini bike and mini ATV, respectively, on for which to convey themselves away. (Yayo-L was woefully inexperienced with extreme motorsports, so Billy suggested they start small. Not that he minded none. After all it was Uncle Ernie who always said, the minis were just like mopeds or fat chicks. Fun as all heck to ride, just so long as your friends don’t find out.) On their way out of town, they stopped off at the San Ernesto for to raid the robust wine cellar. Although Billy was deathly allergic to beer, he did enjoy the occasional glass of Burgundy, of which Uncle Ernie happened to be among the Western U.S.’s most prolific collectors. With an audacious nonchalance, Billy chose a bottle at random. Then, trudging back upstairs to the saloon area, he fetched from a sleeve of four white styrofoam cups he had previously stashed in a cupboard, dividing them equally between himself and Yayo-L. (Ayo, real quick, let’s talk a bit about styrofoam cups. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But ask yourself … if we don’t who else will? Okay, so, what we commonly know to be the styrofoam cup isn’t made of actual Styrofoam, which is in fact a brand name — it’s sort of a Kleenex or a Xerox situation — trademarked by the Dow Corporation, which developed the substance, albeit completely by fucking mistake, in the forties. [Inventor Otis Ray McIntire was going for more of a rubber replacement. Dow would go on to merge with DuPont in the mid-twenty-tens, at last joining the two largest American chemical companies in holy matrimony.] The generic name is extruded polystyrene, and the genius of it lays in the extrusion, which is basically the titular process of foaming. The result is this super material, that’s ninety-eight percent air, making it incredibly lightweight. However, it’s also so dense that it’s extremely durable, as well as it’s buoyant to boot. Thus qualifying Styrofoam for a range of use cases, from military-grade personal flotation devices — how it was first used dating back to World War Two — to building insulation — its primary present-day application. Now, quote-unquote styrofoam cups, as well as similar food packaging products, are likewise molded out of polystyrene, a synthetic polymer made from monomers of the aromatic hydrocarbon styrene, however rather than being extruded, it has been expanded. So suffice it to say, it’s even lighter than styrofoam, but considerably less durable, which makes sense given you only need to use a cup the one time. [The only downside being that it’s still durable to the extent that it doesn’t decompose, and boy is it a real bitch to recycle.]

William A. Dart of the Dart Container Corporation developed the expandable polystyrene cup in the early sixties. His sons, Kenneth and Robert Dart, after inheriting the company, would go on to renounce their U.S. citizenship in the mid-nineties, explicitly as a means of avoiding taxes on their foam cup fortune. [Listen, there are all kinds of tax dodges out there, but renouncing your fucking American citizenship is on another level, dude. Fucking sick.] The brothers Dart subsequently established a relationship with the nation of Belize, and generously offered to turn their shared residence — a mansion in Sarasota — into a consulate, with themselves serving as sibling co-consuls, thus shielding their estate from any further action made on behalf of the Internal Revenue Service. Alas, the State Department intervened, thwarting their entrepreneurial attempt at sovereign diplomacy. Shortly thereafter the place in Sarasota burnt down, suspiciously, and the expatriates fled to the Cayman Islands, which famously has a zero tax rate on income earned or stored. Freed at last of this burden, the reclusive Ken, for his part, has gone on to become the territory’s largest private landholder. Some Caymanians speculate he owns more than the government itself. Real estate speculation has emerged as the primary business of Dart Enterprises, as it’s now incorporated. It also trades in distressed foreign government debts, making a killing on the global financial crisis of the mid-two thousands, as well as tobacco company stocks. As for the foam container business, Dart has since spun it off.) Into these their grails, he poured three parts red wine, one part lemon-lime soft drink — fresh out the soda gun. Here was his own special blend, although he had not given this his proprietary wine cocktail a proper French name. Let’s all try together then. S’appuyer, sil vous plait? Or, how about, Boisson Violette? Phonetically, would it be, L'année, perhaps? Mmm. And what a bonne fucking one it was. Mixed with a coveted vintage worth in the ballpark of three times the blue-book value of Kitty’s fucking car, despite its being some decades older.

(Unbeknownst to Uncle Ernie, this bottle — as well as those from several similarly-appraised cases he had successfully over-bid for — was a counterfeit. Concurrent to this time, a young connoisseur out of Encino had been exploding onto the rare wine scene. Over the course of the previous calendar year, his vast collection had fetched him north of thirty million dollars at auction, the record for a single consignor. Alarm bells would be raised however when it was discovered by one suspicious estate manager that some of his wines were indeed so rare that they had in fact never fucking existed in the first place. One in particular, from a year inwhere a famous French vineyard had quietly suspended its harvest, owing to a catastrophic infestation of Japanese beetles. Of course, this good samaritan would swiftly alert his dear friend Uncle Ernie of the discrepancy, who would hire a Perlmutter Agency private dick on the WolffCo company dime to investigate matters further. This Brother Shamus sniffs around a bit, takes some pictures with a telephoto lens, slides them into a manilla folder, marks confidential care of Werner Wolff, calls it a day and tips off the feds. Thereupon raiding his seedy one-bedroom apartment, with a gen-u-ine Italian sports car conspicuously parked out front, the FBI would recover reems of label forgeries, every last one of them painstakingly hand-distressed like a pair of designer blue jeans. Working out of his kitchenette sink, often blending cheap grocery store wines — we’re talking two-buck chuck, here — this regular-ass dude successfully duped the entire fine wine world. And not just suckers who had it coming like Uncle Ernie, neither. Mother Fucking, Master Sommeliers, may it please the Court. Those whose palettes are tuned like a musicologist’s ear or trained like a police dog’s snout, so as to detect even the faintest subtleties of terroir or whatever the fuck. One whiff of a fart, it’s said, and they can discern without a shadow of a doubt what he or she who dealt it had for breakfast. But then here comes some guy, this criminal mastermind, an fucking alchemist apparently … and he takes them all for the ride of his life. In a fucking Lambo, no less. Mercy, mercy, me.

Shame then his ride had to end. The Encino Kid, as folks took to calling him, was indicted by the U.S. Attorney’s office representing the Southern District of New York, which had all kinds of time on its hands leftover from recusing itself of any prosecutions as it pertained to the perpetrators of the global financial crisis, the fallout to which was also taking place concurrent to these events. Perhaps the white-collar crime statutes were too opaque to be applied practically. All the while our antihero became the first defendant in the esteemed history of our justice system to be convicted on counts of what the presiding judge officially deemed, Wine Fraud.

[Voiceover: In the criminal justice system, wine-based offenses are considered especially heinous. {Fade in title card.} In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vinos Unit. These are their stories. {Cue music, b-roll, intro credits: Starring Joe Pantoliano, Carla Gugino, Flea, etc., etc., From Executive Producer Dick Wolf.}]

Subsequently he was sentenced to ten years of which he served six. BOP #62470-112, incarcerated at the Ward County Detention Complex in Big Springs, Texas, a publicly-owned, privately-operated correctional facility ranked eighth on a list of the Ten Worst Prisons in America by the online edition of Mother Jones magazine. A distinction earned after widespread riots were provoked in response to, among a litany of other indignities, the sub-humane level of medical care made available to inmates. This after ongoing incidents culminated in the death of a prisoner held in solitary confinement, who despite repeated pleas from his family to fill his long-standing prior prescriptions for epilepsy medicine, had only been treated with ibuprofen for his severe seizures, to which he ultimately succumbed. Shortly thereafter, his comrades reported seeing his lifeless body being carried out in what appeared to be a garbage bag. Upon questioning, prison officials deflected, claiming that all healthcare services were subcontracted to a third-party provider. This was true. However it was also true that said third-party was awarded the contract strictly on the basis of its explicit promise to reduce the county’s expenses by cutting back on prescriptions, and other such costly Wellness Amenities. That, and some years later, State Senator Omar Uresti was brought up on charges of conspiracy to commit bribery, citing evidence that he colluded with Ward County commissioners to approve the contract in exchange for kickbacks and promises of future payments.

To reiterate, none of this has or had happened at the time of this writing. As far as Billy knows, the bottle he poured into that double cup was the real deal. Though he didn’t much care either which way. Had he known this was a phony — that he was consuming physical evidence in a federal case — well he would have been amused by that fact. His Uncle Ernie, on the other hand, when he would eventually find out he’d been had, would go on to blow his fucking stack, predictably.)

With one hand on the handlebars, they proceeded with abandon through the empty thoroughfare, past the JK Corral, and into the Curtis Hixon Sportatorium, an arena Uncle Ernie had erected for hosting VIP rodeo-based fundraisers for right wing political candidates and other conservative cause célèbres. (Hoedown for Hardline Immigration Reform, Giddy Up for Responsible Gun Ownership, Do-si-do for Subsidies-backed Domestic Crude Oil Production on Federal Lands.) Billy’s master key opened the announcer’s booth, where Yayo-L was able to get his MPThree player hooked up to the aux cord on the PA System, which previously had played only two songs — God Bless the U.S.A., words and lyrics by Lee Greenwood and The Star-Spangled Banner as performed by Alan Jackson. (His affinity for that particular rendition notwithstanding, Uncle Ernie was of the steadfast belief that the former should replace the latter as Our National Anthem, and had lobbied as such repeatedly to his dignified guests, of whom included several U.S. senators, three of the five conservative justices on the Supreme Court and one sitting vice president, among many other figures of political prominence. It was an issue he had great passion for. Also, Lee Greenwood was a friend.)

For his part, Billy had recently been put on to this rapper, Chief Keef, a Chicago-based artist from the city’s infamous, rough-and-tumble SouthSide projects. His shit had been blowing up online. Notably the music video for the smash hit single, I Don’t Like, had spoken to Billy. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, and he’d been watching music videos on television — as well as even television shows about the making of music videos — for the longest. Billy was like an art historian for music videos. They say jazz is the only American art form. Nah, son. Music videos. Mosaics of money, hoes and clothes. (All a nigga knows.) Although, notably, this particular music video had none of the above. Mostly it was just a bunch of dudes with no shirts on. Chief Keef, only sixteen years old, and all his homies in a living room. Not a baller living room neither. No flat screens or stripper poles or crush velvet couches or exotic fish tanks to speak of. Only visible cracks and stains in the drywall. And all they were doing was smoking blunts and making gang signs. One guy was flashing his piece, a matte grey pistol with a High-capacity Magazine. And there was no breakdancing or otherwise elaborate choreography. Just headbanging. Chief Keef sported a mane of dreads, about the length of a Beatles mop top. He was rapping not about the lofty heights to which they aspired, but rather the lowly existence to which they seemed generationally relegated. As if their’s was a despair so routine to them, that it had metastasized — as despair so often does — in the form of these petty grievances with everyday life. That’s That Shit I Don’t Like, or These Are A Few Of My Least Favorite Things. Bootleg designer jeans, felony indictments, disloyal friends (a.k.a. fuck niggas, snitch niggas, bitch niggas … ahem, Jaime), shwag weed, parents that just don’t understand, so on and so forth. Billy thought it looked like the most fun ever.

He downloaded the mixtape and had been banging it, on repeat, ever since. Back From the Dead, it was entitled, in reference to one time Chief Keef got in a gunfight with the police. According to the responding cop’s accounting of the events, after a brief on-foot pursuit, the suspect turned and brandished a blue steel-plated handgun. His partner squeezed off two shots in the assailant’s direction and missed. Then yada, yada, yada, and the unsub was then apprehended without further incident. However, in contradiction to the official police report, somehow word on the street got out that Sosa had died in that officer-involved shooting. At least that’s what his opps were saying. On account of nobody had seen him around the block in a minute. But that was because, in point of fact, he was serving a sentence of thirty days’-home confinement at his grandmother’s house. So then he called his subsequent release BFTD as a tongue-and-cheek way of saying to all his haters: Surprise, Bitch, I’m not dead after all. I was at my Nana’s this whole time.

Billy had always loved hearing stories like that, about rappers putting in work. Back at Canaan Country Day, during certain art electives they were allowed to listen to music on the radio at a reasonable volume. Billy took Metals especially for that reason, and also because you got to use a blowtorch. It was the only class he would arrive to early, so that he could set the FM dial on the boombox to the local rap radio station. (Also for to call dibs on the blowtorch.) Sometimes, right before class, he’d even sneak into the Laura Bush Teachers’ Lounge, and dial nine for an outside request line.

Caller Number One?

Hey, DJ Clay! It’s your boy Billy Rolling on Dubs, reppin Canaan Country All Dizzay. Can you please play In Da Club by Fifty Cent?

Alright coming right up for ya, lil’ homie. Now shout out the radio station that gave you what you wanted.

Wild n’ One-Oh-Eight Point-Eight, Today’s Hottest Hip Hop and R&B!

Go (x6)

Go, Shorty

It’s your birthday

We gonna party like it’s your birthday

We gonna sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday

As the good Dr. Dre’s unconventionally off-beat rhythm harmonized with the cacophonic choir of circular saws and cross-peen hammers, Billy would try to endear himself to his rail splitting classmates by regaling them in Fifty’s escapades. Did you know he was shot nine times? How sick is that? As always when it came to matters of Billy, they just thought he was being weird, and pretended like they didn’t want to be distracted from whatever they were working on. Well, jokes on them, because It was Billy’s piece — the pimp cup with a soldered-on AK-47 — that was selected to the CCD Permanent Collection, where it remains to this day. His teacher Mrs. Reese heralded Billy’s chalice, as she insisted on calling it, to be: a subversive artistic statement on the relationship between toxic masculinity and violence in schools, or something to that effect. Shouts to Mrs. Rza. You da real MVP.

Do you know that feeling of falling in love with a song with your whole heart? Whether it’s a melody or a lyric or just a riff, it worms its way through ear canal and hooks onto the squishy part of your brain that controls your impulse. And then it keeps nibbling at it, scratching, so that you are compelled to listen again and again. And again, for days on end, until you can listen no more because the sound makes you physically sick to your stomach. Seriously, do you know that feeling? It was the kind of feeling Billy had that was so powerful, it made him wonder how anybody else could possibly could relate to it. The kind of feeling that if we all — people of earth — felt it at once the world would end probably. Maybe I just connect to music more deeply, he thought.

(If you’ve ever attended your favorite band’s concert, and seen tens of thousands of others sing along with the very same songs you know by heart, you’d know that music resonates strongly with lots of folks. Billy, for his part, hadn’t attended hardly any. Concerts, that is. Actually, not a single one. Sure, he had the means to afford the toughest of tickets, but have you ever been to a show alone? That’s some loser shit. Once he tried to run away from home to join the aforementioned Gathering of the Juggalos, where famously no one is alone. Rather, at the Gathering, when you’re here, you’re family. [The Gathering: Tonight’s the Night You Fight Your Dad. The Gathering: These Pants Aren’t Going to Shit Themselves.] He made it all the way to the airline ticket counter where he attempted to use his mother’s diamond-encrusted wolf broach — the closest thing to hard currency he could get his little hands on — to barter for a boarding pass to Lambert International Airport in Missouri, the very same from whence Charles Lindbergh took flight on the Spirit of St. Louis, which according to the directions he printed out in advance was a short three hour’s-drive from the site of the Eleventh Annual GOTJ, held at Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, a small hamlet on the banks of the Ohio River. [The namesake cave{-in-rock} was an infamous refuge stronghold for frontier outlaws and river pirates beginning in the late Eighteenth Century. River pirates, huh? Cool!]

Blast, as the albeit well-meaning ticket agent predictably snitched on Billy, handing him over to the proper authorities. In retrospect, though, he may have been lucky to have missed out. Many ninjas cite that year as a turning point for the festival. The Jugallos’ Altamont. Their Little Bighorn. In addition to the Psychopathic Records stable of acts, including Twiztid, Dark Lotus, Anybody Killa and Blaze Ya Dead Homie, all of whom were mainstays of Gatherings past and future, beloved by Juggalos the Midwest over, ICP, Inc. had padded out the lineup with more celebrity guest appearances than ever before. This in part to promote the world premiere of their second straight-to-DVD feature film, Big Money Rustlas, a slapstick Western prequel to their critically-overlooked debut, Big Money Hustlas. This year’s gathering is sort of like an ode to the Wild Wild West, says sweet Sugar Slam in the infamous infomercial, touting the Nation’s Only—True Underground Music Festival—With No Corporate Sponsorship. Luminaries of West Coast hip hop such as the regulator himself Warren G were in the hiz-ouse. Naughty by Nature, Vanilla Ice and Tone Lōc too. And since Juggalos are so well known for their axe-sharp senses of humor, comedic stylings would be provided courtesy of Gallagher (melon smasher), Tom Green (bum rubber) and Ron Jeremy (both of the above). Despite or perhaps because of their A-List statuses, to marquee names the likes of these, the Jugallos were often hostile. That is if the performers didn’t come correct with their A-Games — bring the wicked shit, per their parlance — they were liable to be booed, or worse, by the ninja throngs.

Tila Tequila was for what it’s worth, arguably the first-ever Social Media Influencer, amassing a following of one-and-a-half million Friends, mostly by way of posting sexually suggestive photos to a popular proto-social networking site. She parlayed that success into reality television stardom. And it was from that black hole of American culture that she attempted to revive her career, such as it was, with a pivot to rapping. Thus was the sequence of misfortunes that led her to the Gathering, where she was foretold to be the objectified of the Juggalos’ disaffection, taking the stage some three hours late on what festival organizers had quite optimistically billed to be, Ladies’ Night. Just as soon as she started in on lip-syncing her smashed single, I Fucked the DJ, the audience began pelting her with partway full cans of beer and other debris. [When they weren’t mixing Faygo-based cocktails, Juggalos were known to enjoy the Pack-line of sub-premium Wolffenbeir products.] Nevertheless, she persisted.

Cream in my middle like an Oreo

Got you on rock ride cock like the rodeo

Drop like stock you can check the portfolio

Cuz my pussy pop like it does e-44

Robert Hunter writes — in the preface to the book Box of Rain, a career-spanning compilation of his contributions to the Grateful Dead canon in his capacity as proto-poet laureate — that song lyrics are often embarrassed by print, and that some of his are no exception. Rhyme, rhythm and manageable phrasing impose restrictions on what may be said, he says; fortunately, once and a while, the very limitations help to create something which could be said no other way.

Tequila later alleged that she had been struck in the face by human feces that were catapulted from the mosh pit that night at the Gathering. Trying in vain to appease the seething mob, she acquiesced to their demands that she remove her sequined halter top. Regrettably, the gesture of baring her surgically mutilated bosom only aroused their ravenous delirium the furthermore. The fervor reached its apogee, when according to Tom Green’s eyewitness account, she was chased offstage to her trailer, hotly pursued by a posse of horny men in full clown makeup.

To this day, Juggalos and their apologists maintain that the frackas was wrought by rogue elements in the Gathering masses. That these were non-ninja, agent provocateurs. They submit into evidence how earlier that very day, at the ICP annual seminar, Violent J specifically implored to the Juggalo delegation that no harm be brought upon Tila Tequila’s acutely angular head. [Did you, or did you not, order the Mountain Dew Code Red?!] However, on cross-examination, the prosecution would be remiss not to establish for the record what Violent J’s partner, Shaggy 2 Dope, said immediately after that. Yeah, because I’M trying to fuck that bitch.

Whether or not this insurrection marked a loss of innocence — a failure, if you will, of their grand experiment — will surely be debated by generations of Jugallos to come. For Ms. Tequila, it could certainly be considered the incident that precipitated her own precipitous downfall. When her worm began to turn, as it were. Not unlike the aviator Lindbergh, her coping with this and other traumas manifested in a public flirtation with the tenets of national socialism. Starting with her sharing to social media a photo of her infant daughter, Isabella, miming history’s most infamous moustache. Hashtag: BabyHitler. Her radicalisation then crystallised with an entry to her blog, evocatively entitled — Why I Sympathize with Hitler: Part I. Shortly thereafter she posted a crudely photoshopped self-portrait, costumed as a scantily-clad, femme-Nazi, superimposing in front of the Birkenau gatehouse, straddling the train tracks that led directly to the gas chambers at Auschwitz II, a Waffen SS cap resting atop her shoulder-length bob, an auburn hue of blonde that could only be achieved alchemically, one hand held aloft bearing an American-made, nickel-plated Colt 1911, the other placed defiantly on her hip, so as to more prominently flash a red swastika armband, and probably also somehow to appear skinnier still.

And here's to you, Mrs. Tequila

Jesus loves you more than you will know

Whoa, whoa, whoa

God bless you, please, Mrs. Tequila

Heaven holds a place for those who pray

Hey, hey, hey

[Sung to the tune of Mrs. Robinson, by Simon and Garfunkel. {Made famous by the movie, The Graduate, although technically it doesn’t count as a needle drop, since it was written specifically for the film. Well, sort of. You see, the director Mike Nichols had been using a separate Simon & Garfunkel song, The Sound of Silence, off the duo’s debut album Wednesday Morning, Three A.M., released the year prior, but only in the editing bay as a placeholder and pacing device. However, when Nichols tried to substitute it with a track from the original score, nothing seemed to work as seamlessly with the images on the screen. So he paid dearly for the rights to keep that two-part harmony — Hello Darkness my old friend … — over that famous title sequence of Benjamin Braddock, the avatar for postwar suburban youth malaise, floating there in his parents’ swimming pool, no doubt obscuring a disaffected gaze behind his acetate sunglasses. Woe be unto you, Dustin Hoffman. Nichols’ use of a pop record on a film soundtrack was considered unusual for that time, if not altogether unheard of. Thus making TSOS among the first, if not The First Ever needle drop. [Surely someone could easily find this out. Surely.] Boy did they knock it out of the park with that one, huh? First pitch fastball. There’s a drive deep to left field by Castellanos, and that’ll be a home run.

For a fact, Nichols was so enamored by the way that melancholic arpeggio ascended the diatonic scale to his antihero’s disillusion in those opening frames, that he appealed directly to the guitar player himself, Paul Simon, commissioning him to write another song specifically for the film’s denouement. He wanted their music to bookend his story. Simon didn’t think he had the bandwidth to compose something from scratch, on account of he and Garfunkel were touring at such a breakneck pace. But there was this one idea he was working on, about times and peoples past — Joe DiMaggio, John Lennon, Jack Kennedy. It had been tentatively titled Mrs. Roosevelt, in reference to the first verse about the former First Lady Eleanor being institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital, which she never actually was, although there are probably several named after her. Simon sang Nichols the opening melody — Dee (x13), Doo (x9), Dee (x13). Nichols stood up out of his chair and said, whoa … kid … stop the record. I’ve heard enough. [Dramatic pause … Simon feared the worst. Say something!] It’s not called Mrs. Roosevelt anymore. It’s Mrs. Robinson. And the rest as they say is history. It went on to become the first rock and roll song to win the Grammy for Record of the Year. It would also have taken home the Oscar for Best Original Song, in all likelihood, had it not been deemed ineligible on a technicality. Fucking Garfunkel forgot to fill out the paperwork to submit it, of course.

Years later, at an Italian restaurant on Central Park South, Paul Simon bumped into of all people Joe DiMaggio, whose name he of course drops in the final chorus — Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you / Ooh (x3). What I don’t understand, Joltin’ Joe says, is why you say I’ve left and gone away / Hey (x3). I just did a Mr. Coffee commercial. I’m a spokesman for the Bowery Savings Bank. I haven’t gone anywhere! I’m Joe D, for chrissakes! Demredly as he could, Paul Simon replied that he didn’t intend any disrespect, clarifying that the lyric wasn’t meant to be taken literally. On the contrary, Simon considered him, DiMaggio, to be an American hero, and this song was explicitly about this turbulent time when those were in short supply. DiMaggio accepted the explanation, the two shook hands and parted ways. Shortly thereafter, Simon made a guest appearance on the Dick Cavett Show alongside none other than DiMaggio’s pinstriped slugging successor, Mickey Mantle. In point of fact, as a Jewish kid growing up in the Fifties, playing stickball in Brooklyn, probably — — everybody in Brooklyn in the Fifties played stickball, apparently — it was the sweet-swinging Mantle who Simon idolised, rather than DiMaggio, who by then had past his prime. Aware of his generational appeal, during a commercial break, the Mick came straight out and asked him: say, if I was your favorite ballplayer, how come you put that old Wop in the song instead of me? Put into the unenviable position of having to elucidate his creative process to yet another Yankee legend, Simon said, well, it’s because of the syllables, you see. Rob-in-son, Di-Mag-gio. (Roo-se-velt, Te-qui-la.) Three syllables. Three beats. Where have you gone, Mic-key Man-tle? There’s an extra syllable. Rhythmically, it’s no good. Although, and he didn’t tell him this, but metaphorically it wouldn’t have worked either. Mantle was nobody’s role model. He was like Elvis, Simon later told a reporter for the New York Daily News. An incredible burst of vitality and youth, and its eventual corruption.

(Mantle was asked to recount his favorite memory of the old Yankee Stadium, on the eve of it’s fiftieth anniversary and imminent closure for a multi-season rennovation project. He had a Hall of Fame career’s-worth of achievements from which to choose. Such as, during his triple crown season, hitting a home run to right off the famous outfield facade, which would be replicated in the renovation and re-replicated in the new Yankee Stadium. (Actually it’s known as a frieze in architecture circles.) That thing was up longer than Alan Shepard, remembered an onlooking little boy from Brooklyn. Paul Simon. Just kidding. Actually, it was Billy Crystal. And he was from Long Island if memory serves.

Rather, Mantle responded in writing, on the ballclub’s letterhead, to this the prompt of recalling an outstanding moment in his storied career at The Stadium, that he once received a blow job under the right field bleachers, adjacent to the Yankee bullpen. To the follow-up question, when on or about did this event occur, it was around the third or fourth inning, by his recollection. I had a pulled groin and couldn’t fuck at the time. She was a very nice girl and asked me what to do with the cum after I came in her mouth. I said don’t ask me, I’m no cock-sucker. [Sic. {According to the Guardian style guide, the only available online source and thus the authority on the subject, it’s cocksucker, one word. Cock-sucker and cock sucker are both incorrect.}]

Signed: *Mickey Mantle

*The All-American Boy)

DiMaggio died at the age of eighty-four in Ninety-Nine of natural causes. (Natural as in complications from lung cancer, resultant of keeping up a three-pack-a-day chain-smoking [redundant] habit throughout his Big League career and beyond. Those were the good old days, when a professional athlete could take a mid-game smoke break without having to worry about losing an endorsement deal with some bogus sports drink or energy bar. For a fact, DiMaggio himself was a pitchman, for cigarettes! You Bet I Smoke Camels. [Garcia’s brand.] Along With All That Swell Flavor, Camels Are Extra Mild, For That Fantastic Finish, Like A Walk-Off Home Run, Deep In Your Lungs.) As a companion piece to his New York Times obituary, Simon wrote in an OpEd about how his lyric had been a sincere tribute to DiMaggio's unpretentious and modest heroic stature, in a time when popular culture magnifies and distorts how we perceive our stars of stage, screen and sport. Quoting now: In these days of Presidential transgressions and apologies and prime-time interviews about private sexual matters, we grieve for Joe DiMaggio and mourn the loss of his grace and dignity, his fierce sense of privacy, his fidelity to the memory of his wife and the power of his silence.

So then he was the strong silent type. Gary Cooper. Also that explains the bit about Mrs. Roosevelt. You see FDR didn’t let his withered legs slow him down from chasing skirts behind his wife’s back. Before you weep for her, Eleanor was getting it on the side herself, as well as possibly even batting for the other team. (She was oft-rumoured to be a barely closeted lesbian.) But that’s beside the point, which according to Paul Simon was that whatever they were up to, they all kept their mouths shut about it, and also that such tawdry gossip hadn’t yet been commoditized as tabloid fodder. (Infamously, although it wouldn’t have been reported at the time, DiMaggio’s picture-perfect marriage to Marilyn Monroe had been marred by abuse — substance and spousal — behind the scenes. Quite literally, crew members recalled a violent incident on the set of Monroe’s star turn in the Seven Year Itch, wherein she has her famous closeup of the skirt blowing up from under the subway grate, the sight of which sent Joltin’ Joe into a jealous rage.)

The April following DiMaggio’s passing in March, for a special ceremony in his honor, Paul Simon performed Mrs. Robinson during the seventh inning stretch, making a lousy-fucking fill-in for Take Me Out to the Ballgame, thought most Yankee fans, probably. Singing to a sellout crowd, standing there alone in centerfield donning a baseball cap just like the one the players wore, beneath a billboard advertising a big-box electronics store local to the Tri-State Area that read — Nobody Beats The Wiz. You can faintly hear the Bleacher Creatures trying helplessly to clap along in four-four time over the sound of Simon’s tuned-down dreadnought guitar. That afternoon the Yankees beat the visiting Toronto Blue Jays by a final score of four-to-three. Second-baseman Chuck Knoblauch scored the winning run from third, batted in on an eleventh-inning, walk-off bloop single to the gap by Bernie Williams, DiMaggio’s fellow center fielder, as well as Simon’s fellow singer-songwriter. Bernie and the Bronx Bombers went on to win the World Series that fall, their twenty-fifth such title, sweeping their National League nemeses of the Nineties, the Atlanta Braves. Simultaneous to this, their second consecutive championship run, plans for a first-of-its-kind music festival were being conceived by Jumpsteady, brother of Violent J. The idea germinated while he himself attended Gen Con, the largest tabletop game convention in North America. The subsequent summer, the first of the new millennium, the inaugural Gathering of the Juggalos was convened at the Novi Expo Center in Novi, Michigan.}])

In any event Billy was feeling some type of way today. Stimulated, you could say. Re-sensitized. Colors appeared vivider. He even took a beat to appreciate the sunset, something he wasn’t usually want to do. Because, sunsets are gay, he’d once said. But tonight a blood-red dusk cascaded over the rolling desert plains, and although he wouldn’t have necessarily phrased it in just such a way, he could appreciate the natural beauty of the moment. His taste buds were likewise in bloom. All of a sudden, his immature palette could adequately discern the acidity of the wine as it contrasted with the sweetness of the soda, and also how the carbonation underscored that juxtaposition, quite playfully. Scent too. Whereas Stone Rock and the surrounding acreage generally wafted of hot dirt, a chilled, almost menthol aroma had rode in on the northerly wind — sure as good a sign as any of an impending winter storm. Also, Yayo-L had rolled a fat L with one of Uncle Ernie’s pre-Castro Cuban cigars. Although Billy didn’t partake for fear of inducing a debilitating panic attack, his number one hitter Yayo-L was for his part a prolific pothead. (This is a lifestyle choice not uncommon among information technology professionals, believe it or not. Keep in mind, even your run-of-the-mill IT guy or girl is still a huge fucking nerd, who will forget more about computers than you will ever know, or care to. Now square that with their job description, which entails troubleshooting bullshit support tickets — we’re talking, Talking Paperclip-level … Looks like you’re trying to write a suicide note — day-to-day, in and out, for absolute noobs making three times what they do, base salary. As such, it's a boon to one’s IT employee morale to be Off That Loud on company time, whenever possible.) Even if he didn’t blaze the weed, Billy enjoyed being around drugs, drug users and paraphernalia. It lent him a certain street credibility, or so he thought. And the earthy aroma was likewise pleasing to him. (And that I smell a dankness.) Did you know a lot of rappers have personal blunt-rollers on the payroll, he once asked his metals teacher, Mrs. Reece. That’s such a flex.

And whoa be to, The Sound. The triumphant roar of the synth brass infinet reverberated for miles down valley, like a regimental march come riding over the bluff to wage war on eternity.

I'm cooling wit' my youngins

And what we smoke one hunna

But, nigga, I'm three hunna

Click-clack, pow, now he runnin'

Billy felt three hundred years old, and at once born anew. (And you know we don’t give a fuck it’s not your birthday.) This in spite … nay, on account of there being so much drama in the club, proverbially, between him, Jaime, and his mother. With #x_brüing and Wolffenbeir and the New Frontier. His nemesis, the dastardly Dr. Lupus, and Billy’s beloved Howler, whose wayfarer sunglasses he still imagined in silhouette against waxing crescent moon, its sliver peeking out from around the encroaching stormcloud. Like the evening fog, today his burden would be lifted, as he was baptised in the currents of his own creation.

We are the boys that take delight

smashing the Limerick light when lighting

through all the streets like sporters fighting

and tearing all before us

All these sensations — his feeling like the luckiest man on the face of the Ea-Ea-Earth — emulsified in frequencies of equal amplitude between his legs. Not his loins, per say, although he had been unusually cognizant of his own libido of late. Whereas he usually regarded his appendage inanimately — as an on-demand application … a stress relief valve of sorts — today it had awoken with a mind of its own, in the form of morning wood. Albeit always welcome, his erection was irrelevant to the present moment. Because, like his heart pumping blood directly to the tip of his penis, now time itself was beating with tribal rhythm. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two. A highly unique, eleven-eight time signature, in the pocket with the vibrato of the Fifty CC engine on Billy’s mini-bike. He and Yayo-L were doubles barrel racing, riding mixed motocross. Tokyo drifting in perfect figure eights. Maxing out those little Japanese lawn mower engines to their absolute limits and beyond. Bursting through barriers of sound and color and common fucking decency.

There was an old saying that Billy had never heard. Hank had been known to use it from time to time. It went something to the effect, paraphrasing here: money is a sixth sense with which you may more fully enjoy the other five. Hank used it unattributed, naturally. Depending on your internet search algorithm, it was either the intellectual property of the early Twentieth Century English playwright, novelist and screenwriter, W. Somerset Maugham, whose masterwork Of Human Bondage tells the semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story of Philip Carey, a club-footed orphan who abandons his artistic aspirations to pursue his medical studies, only to be derailed entirely by a decidedly one-sided love affair with a manic depressive waitress. Among the authors who cited Maugham as a literary influence were Anthony Burgess, Ian Fleming, Stephen King and George Orwell, who said Maugham was the modern writer who inspired him the most.

Or, the quote might have belonged to Richard Ney, the American actor turned financial advisor to the stars. His big break arrived in the movie Mrs. Miniver, arguably the first of a great many Second World War films to earn sweeping critical and audience acclaim. One begrudging admirer was Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Minister of Propaganda, for its subtle and yet overwhelming accomplishment of an anti-German tendency, as he called it. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was likewise smitten; Mrs. Minniver won six Oscars, including Best Picture, Director and Actress. The latter gold statuette went to Old Hollywood starlet Greer Carson, her fifth-straight in the category, tying her for the record for most consecutive Actress in a Leading Role wins with Bette Davis, who herself starred as the aforementioned bipolar server in the film adaptation of OHB, although she was snubbed for that portrayal. In Mrs. Miniver, Ney played a supporting role as Greer Carson’s erstwhile son. Subsequently, undaunted by their considerable age difference, he would enter a somewhat fraught offscreen May-December marriage with his onscreen mother, which predictably fizzled. Thereafter, Ney puttered around to various bit parts. Notably, he had a one-episode arc on the Western network television series, The Tall Man, playing a wealthy dilettante who hires Billy the Kidd to guide him into the wilderness for to hunt a mountain lion, but only as a clever ruse for efforting to kill Billy himself.

But eventually the acting work dried up, and by the middle nineteen sixties, Ney had successfully transitioned to a career as a financial adviser and wealth manager. Beginning at a Beverly Hills brokerage firm, he went on to start a successful investment newsletter — The Ney Report — which counted petroleum industrialist J. Paul Getty among its subscribers. Although he was an avowed capitalist and enthusiastic materialist — Ney was chauffeured everywhere he went in an extravagant motor carriage not dissimilar to Hildy’s — he maintained no illusions about the structural unfairness of our financial system. He would go on to write three books, each highly critical of stock market manipulation and speculative trading, including the New York Times bestseller, The Wall Street Gang. No place on Planet Earth hosts more sheer larceny per square footage than the New York Stock Exchange, he was attributed as saying. Whether or not for expressed purposes of manufacturing consent (what was it Noam Chomsky said about eating pussy?), Ney was one of two former guests to be banned for life from reappearing on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. The other was Ralph Nader.

The boys carried on revving their engines in reverie. Having grown up with unfettered access to these and other motorized toys, Billy was a skilled extreme sports polyathlete. Showboating a bit, he popped a wheelie on the zeitgeist right in Yayo-L’s grill mix. Bucking there on his back tire, he looked and felt completely invincible. He was like a damn Comanche warrior on horseback. Billy had heard how they could unload a full quiver of arrows hanging Upside down from Underneath their horse, this while galloping at a full clip, mind you. Uncle Ernie missed out on Vietnam on account of a dubious diagnosis of late-onset clubfoot, so rather he would romanticize about the Indian wars from the century previous, with which he would regale his incredibly impressionable nephew.

Recall how Uncle Ernie idolised the great lawmen and military personnel of the Old West, for civilizing the frontier at its bloody bleeding edge until it could be duly commercialized. (Equally he admired present-day troops and first responders, as evidence of his annual Hokey Pokey for Heroes, a bolo tie-optional gala benefiting double amputees that lost their limbs — must be plural … triple amps were also eligible to apply for the program — in the line of duty. ) Wyatt Erp, Kit Carson, the Texas Rangers, General Custer, the latter after whom he called his own beloved canine companion, who had a luscious golden mane just like his namesake. Although the pooch’s curls didn’t shed. Uncle Ernie had bad sinuses and hay fever to beat the band, so Georgie was one of them designer dogs specifically crossbred to not furry up all the furniture. (Of course Custer was famous for his blonde locks, but by the time all that bad business went down at Little Bighorn, he was already on the retreat in another fashion — male pattern baldness. It’s true. And you can bet that pretty boy son of a bitch took it hard. For he was as vain as they come. There’s even a historiographical school of thought that losing his trademark hair had him so out of sorts that it clouded his tactical judgment, which was otherwise well-known to be highly astute. Hence causing him to haul off and do something reckless, like send his already dog-tired battalion on a kamikaze charge of a heavily outnumbering encampment of savage hostiles. After such a scrap that ensued, it was the squaws’ domain to sweep the battlefield, and tidy up after any of the missed opportunities for post or preferably premortem mutilation that their husbands, brothers and fathers had overlooked — male pattern blindness. Supposedly when it came to ‘ole Custer, there wasn’t hardly any there left to scalp. Kind of a letdown. Because wouldn’t that have been the ultimate trophy. Alas, they settled for shoving a poison arrow up his piss hole.

But those were Sioux and Cheyenne. Not to be trifled with, to be sure, but also nowheres near the warrior horsemen that the Comanche were. The Lords of the Plains, as they were known on and around the plains. Apart from music videos and shows about the making of music videos, Billy’s favorite thing to watch on television was a basic cable program called Deadliest Warrior, wherein the producers would pit two of the most deadliest warriors from different historical eras against one another — such as Samurais versus Ninjas (Japanese, not juggalos), for example — and simulate which would prevail in a fight to the death. (The Ninja beat the Samurai on account of being much sneakier, in case you were curious.) The Comanche got matched up against a Mongol. A who? … you may be asking. Those old Chinese food bitches? How about they fight somebody that’s actually bad ass, like MS Thirteen. Whoa. Hold your horses, kimosabe. Mongols are no joke. Underestimate these bad mama-jamas at your peril. As a collective army, the Mongols probably had more bodies than any fighting force in human history. Forty million, according to some estimates, which at that time would have divided out to eleven percent of the global population. As for how they would fare one-v-one with a Comanche brave, now we know because each episode had a melodramatized reenactment — like in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, or on Unsolved Mysteries — where the producers and their consultants in historical combat would handicap the fight and choreograph out the moves. This particular back-and-forth bought looks like it’s about to go the distance, before the Comanch emerges victorious by twelfth-round TKO, owing in large part to his superior horsemanship.

Back in Stone Rock, our anti-heroes joy rode on out of the arena and back onto the access road leading through town. There was just enough twilight reflecting into the red dirt to guide their way. Yayo-L had misplaced the earth-toned, short-sleeved, button-down shirt he wore some variation of every day to work, and changed into a chinchilla coat he found in the San Ernesto, from behind one of those dividers women would get undressed behind in the olden days. It was two sizes too small but it fit him just right. Billy was likewise nips out, in shirtless solidarity with his companero, although he wore a protective rodeo vest, designed to shield bull riders’ vital organs from being gored-and-or-trampled upon. He thought it resembled a teflon flak jacket, similar to the one Fifty wore to perform In Da Club at the Video Music Awards, where he took home Video of the Year. Like Yayo-L’s mini-ATV, Billy’s mini-bike was fully Wolffenbeir-branded, as if they were being sponsored to compete in the Special X-Games. The numbers on the nameplate were four-twenty and sixty-nine, respectively.

Racing out past the property line and the barbed wire fence which marked it, without any particular destination in mind, they hung the same fateful left turn Billy’s grandfather had made every morn’ on his commute to the brewery. Rounding the bend, they reached the covered bridge which dissected from overhead the crystal brook. A picturesque scene by any other context. Skidding to an abbreviated stop, they saw there standing on the bridge — backlit by the dissipating daylight and staring straight through them — was a four-legged mammal of an as yet unknown genus. It was smaller than a wolf or a mountain lion, but bigger than a designer doodle or a one-eyed dumpster cat.

What kind of animal are you? Billy asked, rhetorically.

I’m a coyote, he answered back. But you can call me Peter. Pleased to meet you.

###

For a while after Uncle Ernie lost his power struggle for the Wolffenbeir Company to Billy’s mom, he would tell anybody who would listen how he was plotting his comeback. In what was akin to a corporate crucifixion, he believed Hildy and the Board had colluded against him. In the intervening period of his unjust exile he’d drunk approximately eight hundred Wolffenbeir beers in the span of eighteen months, for no apparent other reason than to quantitatively prove that the quality of the product had deteriorated under his sister’s stewardship, precipitously. Stay tuned, he forbode. Their day of reckoning was upon us. Like the mighty dragon, I will arise from the ashes, as he would often mistake his mythical creatures. Tales of my death have been exaggerated, greatly, he was lastly fond of saying, this time misquoting a line that had itself been misattributed to Mark Twain.

(Of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous observation that there are no second acts in American lives, Uncle Ernie was blissfully unfamiliar.)

Perhaps precisely by nature of his being the most quoted American author, Mark Twain is also the most misquoted. A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its boots, was a maxim also oft-mistakenly credited to Mister Twain. (Honorable mis-mentions: [A] Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. [B] I would have written a shorter letter, but I didn’t have the time. [C] The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.) Unequivocally though, we can quote with the utmost accuracy what it was that Mark Twain said about coyotes. In his semi-autobiographical travelogue of the American West, Roughing It (originally titled, The Innocents at Home), he writes (emphasis added):

The coyote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking skeleton, with a gray wolfskin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a general slinking expression all over. The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck, and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it. And he is so homely! -so scrawny, and ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful.

THE COYOTE IS A LIVING, BREATHING ALLEGORY OF wANT.

Damn, T-Swizzle. What a coyote ever do to you? For real, bruh. A Tolerably Bushy tail, you say? Well excuuse me.

In Roughing It, whole sections of which were borrowed by the Western television series Bonanza, Twain also writes very critically about sagebrush, local journalism and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As for the Mormons, he himself admitted them to be a popular, humorous topic capable of yielding a great deal of low-grade ore, which he had the ability to mine effectively. If Hank was correct in his assumption that Mormonism as the most American of religions — not only by virtue of its provenance, because according to the prophet Joseph Smith, the Garden of Eden was located in Independence, Missouri, four hundred miles by car to the foot, across the length of the Show-Me State, from Cave-in-Rock, Illinois — by extension can we say that the coyote is the most American animal. A living, breathing allegory of want.

Billy and Yayo-L turned away from the coyote without remark or incident. With the last dregs of light, they rode back to Stone Rock and up to the top of old boot hill, which overlooked the thoroughfare. Here, beneath a sprawling live oak, laid the Wilhelms, I and II. Whereas Uncle Ernie’s chosen aesthetic of Wild West kitsch and kabuki was anything but subtle, the Wolff family burial plot was understated and classy. A white picket fence with a modest, lattice archway. No moseliums or headstones of hand-carved marble. No Pax Eterna or any other dead language epitaphs. (Sic Semper Tyrannis, uva uvam vivendo varia fit.) Just the two wooden crosses.

Billy bypassed his grandfather’s and his great grandfather’s graves for the barren dirt just beyond. In yet another rare moment of reflection, he wondered if this was the empty space reserved for his eternal resting. Then he threw up. But, like, only a little bit. It was more of a wet burp. A purple, sizzurpy film coated his chin. Yayo-L untied the handkerchief tied frontways around his forehead and offered it over with a kind word.

You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.

Thanks, man. You’re my best friend, Ramesh.

That’s tight.

Hey, Yay. You know how I been saying about my boat?

Of course he did. Billy’s albeit-hypothetical boat was among his favorite discussion topics, in addition to womens’ asses.

Yea, Billy.

I think I changed my mind.

You don’t want a boat anymore?

Phst. Stop playing. Just about the name. I think I’m gonna call it Finally Rich.

###

Grateful Dead. 13 February 1970, Fillmore East, New York City.

Bill Graham was a Holocaust survivor and concert promoter. He got his start in the sixties in San Francisco, thanks in large part to a black fellow by the name of Charles Sullivan. Sullivan was the negro business king of the Bay in those days. Among his many concerns and holdings were a citywide network of cigarette vending machines, a jukebox rental business, the Booker T. Washington Hotel and a liquor store, as well as a vast portfolio of recreational spaces spanning a hamburger stand, pool halls, roller rinks, nightclubs, lounges and others, including the Fillmore Auditorium in the Upper Fillmore neighborhood of the Western Addition district of San Francisco. Sullivan — the so-called Mayor of the Fillmore — helped turn the surrounding area into the Harlem of the West by booking a stable of black artists the likes of Duke Ellington, Ray Charles and Ike & Tina Turner, whose band at the time included the talented player by the redundant stage name of Jimmy James, better known by his forthcoming nom de guitar, Jimi Hendrix.

In spite or rather because of its status as an burgeoning epicenter for black culture, the neighborhood was targeted by City Planners for sweeping redevelopment projects. The bevy of beautifications had the bypass effect of artificially raising rents, subsequently causing many such Black music venues to close rather unceremoniously. In feeling the squeeze, Charles Sullivan was no exception. Therefore, in a last-ditch attempt to preserve his tenuous grasp on the Fillmore, he sought to sublease the room to an enterprising white promoter. Enter Bill Graham, a struggling actor turned up-and-coming tastemaker, whose debut promotion, a benefit performance for the San Francisco Mime Troupe, a radical theater company, was a smashing success. Sensing opportunity, Graham secured an exclusive contract with Sullivan for all subsequent open dates. Shortly thereafter, after returning home from putting on a James Brown concert in Los Angeles, Sullivan was found dead beside his rented Impala, sprawled out across the pavement at the corner of Fifth and Bluxome Streets. (Precisely four miles as the crow flies due East from one of the most famous intersections in the world, according to the magazine Boulevard Digest, along with Times Square, Place Charles de Gaulle, Shibuya Crossing, Piccadilly Circus and Dealey Plaza.) The scene of the crime was a once industrial district, which is presently home to the San Francisco Giants baseball team and Golden State Warriors Basketball team, who play at Oracle Park and the Chase Center, respectively. Sullivan was shot directly through the heart with a .38 Special. Responding SFPD officers ruled the death a suicide. The City Coroner, meanwhile, strenuously disagreed and classified it a homicide. The case remains unsolved. Immediately following his former partner’s untimely passing, Bill Graham assumed control of the master lease at the Fillmore, where many of the musical vanguards of the sixties counterculture would go on to get their starts, including the Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead. Some thirty years later Graham himself succumbed to the fiery crash of his personal helicopter, after it struck a high-voltage transmission tower on a return trip from a Huey Lewis and the News concert in Vallejo.

Forgoing to bunk down amid the bountiful splendor of Stone Rock’s completely vacant five-star accommodations, Billy and Yayo-L returned to the yurt for to turn in on the pair of bedrolls the seasonal employees had set aside for sleeping off hangovers. Head-to-foot, they arranged them beneath the circular skylight, through which their weary eyes could see the stars crossfade into the night sky as it gave way to a reluctant dawn. Beyond the canvas walls of the tent-like structure, they were lulled to sleep by the high-pitched Hey-There’s of their new canine acquaintance. Similar cries had once haunted little Ernie, before he became the ever-jovial Eternal Uncle, when he was only just a soon-to-be orphan. Those were coyotes’ calls of distresses. They sounded like a woman screaming. Cries that harmonized with those of his newly widowed mother, who wasn’t long for this world herself. What Billy heard was of another octave entire. It was howling in a major key. A foxhunt yip mashed up with a banshee squall. Like the Comanche Whoop which beget the Rebel Yell. A war cry singing out. The sound was almost Pavlovian, in the sense that it commanded a response. Like an answer in the form of a question.

Shall we go, you and I while we can?

#novls of tumblr #chief keef #paul simon

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cinnaster · 10 months ago

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RS RAMBLE HOUR

Lots and lots and LOTS of notes about Radiant Souls Chapters 1-3!

THE CHAPTER TITLES

Apart from the prologue (Chapter 1), all chapter titles have unique names. Many of the titles have references, word play, and idioms all while trying to encompass the subject or feel of the chapter, so I really try to stretch my creativity.

Chapter 2, "It's Apocalypse O'Clock Somewhere", is a reference to the Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett song "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere". The song (which is very fun BTW and is seen on many vacation playlists) references the common saying as a way to justify day drinking after doing a lot of work. Isyris, similar to the song, justifies his day drinking (and vacation in general) as an "I did a lot of work so I deserve this" sort of thing.

However, the title references the apocalypse happening in place of the time. Interestingly, while the saying suggests that locations have a different times to justify day drinking, NYC and Aruba actually share the same timezone. This illustrates that Isyris is sitting on his ass drinking while in NYC his family is getting pummeled by alien invaders, and also illustrates the urgency. The apocalypse more or less comes to Isyris' attention whether he likes it or not, and it was only a matter of time.

Chapter 3, "So Long, Paradise", is a lot more simple. While there's no specific reference or pun I had in mind, paradise is often considered a place to be gained or lost, to find or to leave. In Isyris' case, it was cut off before he was ready. (Funny that even before he knew about the invasion, his paradise wasn't quite perfect. He knew something was missing and was trying to force his way through enjoyment.) He does not explicitly say goodbye to Aruba, but he takes one last look at the sunset. He's so dramatic lol. Meanwhile, the gargoyles get to spend all the time they want in paradise, chanting it as they run off with Isyris' card.

ISLAND LANGUAGE

Aruba is your typical case of European colonization. It is currently a state of The Netherlands, though historically Spain and England also had control over the island at some point. Isyris speaks neither Dutch nor Papiamento, which are the main languages of the Caribbean Dutch island states (Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao), but the English-speaking tourism there is well-established. Most people on the island (especially if they work in the tourism industry) speak multiple languages.

Isyris was in Orangestad, the capital city, and he was also more on the northwest coastline where the majority of ritzy hotels and resorts are. Most of his interaction with others had been with those in the tourism industry (tour and museum guides, workers at hotels, bars and restaurants, etc.) who spoke English, so he had no trouble with language.

He also went in early June, so it's right at the start of summer vacation for many American families (and himself). The location and timing meant he was around a bunch of other English-speaking tourists, which is why he was able to understand others around him and why the TV at the grill & bar was tuned in to an American news station.

YOU THINK I HAVE MONEY IN THIS ECONOMY?

Isyris does not really have much Aruba currency, the Aruba florin, because he's simply using his credit card for most things. He does know how credit cards work in general (he understands debt and interest), so he's not necessarily pulling money out of nowhere because he knows what he needs to pay back.

But yes, he is certainly living slightly past his means by going on this trip. Isyris is riding into dangerous territory (he has not worked long enough on the surface to gain significant savings, hence the credit card usage). He's knows he's at risk but figures that because he is a working man that after summer vacation he will be back to the cafeteria grind, so it isn't the end of the world and surely he can pay it off with time.

He's not being overly safe as it is, but this is because he has a background of wealth and is still getting used to, you know, not being rich. It takes time to kick habits and old ways of thinking, especially when you have then suddenly do not have. The idea of getting a summer vacation was sprung on him so suddenly that he was like "Yeah you know what I do deserve Me Time the moment I get a break from work" and did not think much about it beyond that. Just use the credit card and don't think too hard about it. Speaking of which...

CREDIT CARD WOES

The goyles, Merry and Pippin, don't really understand credit cards. Not because they can't understand it or that Yōkai don't have similar concepts in their society (canon Yōkai taxes and currency exist, after all), they're just idiots. They're confused because Isyris no longer lives a life of luxury yet can "pull money out [of the card] like magic", so they're under the impression that he chooses to live this way as part of his Soft Good Guy shtick. They (particularly Merry) are frustrated with this and think he needs some serious help. Pippin is a little more cautious, not wanting to suffer any more of Isyris' bouts of anger, but Merry will gladly criticize his boss for it, especially because his financial decisions affect them.

Merry also took Isyris leaving the note as a sign for them to do whatever they need to do on their own (instead of doing what Isyris meant, which was to come home immediately as soon as they could get a flight). Isyris had to rush home sooner and didn't care to take the time to drag them back, which he knew would have inevitably been a Whole Ordeal. It'd be like trying to get a cat or dog into its travel crate when it already knows it's going to the vet or some equally unpleasant place.

But this all feeds into the goyles not feeling remorseful (or fearful) for using Isyris' credit card the way they are. They're about to massively fuck this man over financially by being cute little idiots lol.

Oh well! It's as Honey said in Chapter 8, at least Isyris doesn't have rent to pay anymore. When Isyris lamented that he doesn't have anything besides the clothes on his back and in his suitcase, it's not really an exaggeration. He and Angel lost everything in the apartment fire. For Angel it was a far more serious and meaningful loss, as she had been living there for a majority of her life. For Isyris it hadn't been long, although he had managed to slowly turn the dingy apartment into something more presentable. But what little he has is gone, and now on top of it, his debt will be massive. Oops!

WASTIN' AWAY AGAIN IN MARGARITAVILLE

Out of all the details to get hung up on during writing the first chapters, what alcoholic drink Isyris had (and was originally just a long set-up for the spit take) was one of the hardest. In fact I left it as "[drink]" in my draft for the longest time lol. "A tropical drink that's not piña colada because that's too basic" was my goal. I went through a lot of cocktail sites to find some good options. A drink called Aruba Ariba was on the table because it's an emblematic drink of Aruba, only found there, but I felt that it was a little too on the nose.

After a lot of thought, I went with a Mai Tai. (I've never had one but it honestly sounds delicious.) It's not a Caribbean-specific drink, in fact historically more a US west coast thing, but it's associated with the sort of tropical commercialism that the area of where Isyris was staying advertises. It's touristy and amusingly inauthentic, just like his general vacation experience.

THE PORTAL SIGIL

I put a fair amount of research into the sigil Isyris makes to portal himself to NYC, and I made it accurate for what I planned. All of the symbols he made in the sigil are important. They're astronomical or alchemical symbols, representing different celestial bodies or elements.

The unit of measurement he uses, scrobi, is a made-up Yōkai one. But I based it on an ancient Egyptian/Greek/Roman unit of measurement called a schoenus, which was used for surveying. This was fairly convenient for the story because roughly the amount of miles he had to travel almost rounded out nicely to an even number, but not quite. (Isyris thinking it was exact, along with other tiny imprecise measurements or alignments, led to his little Upper Bay Adventure in the following chapter.)

When Isyris spun the compass-like sigil to align all the symbols with the celestial bodies, I had him actually align with what would have probably been in the sky. I used a fun website tool to figure out what stars would have been in the sky (even though they couldn't be seen, as it was still light out/evening), at the time and location he was, which was Oranjestad, Aruba, in early June. So the constellations that he listed as being at the zenith (right above his head) are actually accurate.

The idea is that for sigil portal magic to travel long distances, it needs reference points. Whatever symbol is put in the center becomes the main reference. In Isyris' case, he's on Earth, so he uses the Earth symbol in the center. All the other symbols around in the different tiers are how to align it. He aligns it with the Sun and with the more distant stars in the constellations, puts in the distance he wants to travel, and tells it that it's crossing land and sea.

There is one symbol in the sigil that isn't clearly defined on purpose. That one's special. You'll see.

OVERALL

Despite Isyris' dangerous money situation and his soon-to-be massive credit card debt, this big dumb sheep is still extremely catered to, just as any American tourist often is. While he didn't do nearly all the things he lied about much later in Chapter 8, nor did he have as much fun as he wished he had, he still got to experience a fairly nice vacation up until the point of hearing about the invasion.

He did in fact get to sit on the beach and see beautiful views, go to restaurants and bars, go on tours, etc., but he did so alone. He pretends like he was interacting with locals or something (or pretends that people think he, a painfully average American dad tourist in the eyes of others, is noteworthy and worth approaching) when that is very much not the case. While he was lying to make Masaru jealous, one has to wonder if a part of him did want a grander vacation experience that included other people in the picture. And not just the pretty women.

He didn't truly stay in Aruba that long, though; it had only been a few days. Had the goyles not taken and used his credit card, the trip would have been of little consequence to him, especially since he did not stay for the full duration that he planned.

Sadly, things do not always turn out the way you want them to when your name is Baron Isyris Draxum. Even if you do actually have your heart in the right place for once by returning home immediately to make sure your family is okay.

#this is only the notes i'm thinking of atm #radiant souls #rottmnt radiant souls #asterisms

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winryofresembool · 3 years ago

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Things We Lost in the Fire, ch 40

aka Caleo uni au

Fic summary: Calypso starts studying at a new university, but to her annoyance her new flatmate is a loud mouthed mechanic who also likes to sneak his dog in whenever. But as she learns to know him better, she realizes they might have more in common than what she first thought. Eventually, even the darkest secrets come out…

Chapter summary: A roadtrip to Chicago starts

A/N: Finally! I hope someone still remembers this fic exists. The good news is that due to writing a lot in November I have currently probably closer to 20k words' worth things to share with you guys so I think I can promise faster updates in the near future.

About this chapter though: it's a part of a bigger 'unity' (which is why this chapter may end a bit abruptly) but to save myself from the pressure of having to edit /all/ those 20k words at once, I decided to split it into several parts.

The usual: I hope you guys enjoy and please do let me know what you guys think because it's especially important now! I wanna know if there are still people here who want to see how this story ends!

Also a very important disclaimer that I obviously don't own these characters nor the Percy Jackson musical or any of the songs in it.

Words: 3700+

Genre: romance & hurt/comfort

Warnings: none

previous chapter / AO3

...

Oh, things couldn’t be worse when your parents run the universe.”

Leo couldn’t believe his friends. They were singing the Campfire Song from the Peter Johnson musical, and the worst part was that he was stuck in the same car with them so he was also expected to participate. He didn’t actually mind the song; if he had had a guitar and enough space in front of him, he would have gladly participated that way, being a decent enough player. But singing right next to Calypso, in such a small space? That just wouldn’t do, no matter what she had told him in Greek only about a week ago. His voice would drive even a stronger willed person away easily. On the plus side, though, he got to listen to Calypso’s beautiful voice.

Along with Leo and Calypso, Annabeth, Jason and Piper were on their way to Chicago to see Percy swim in the US national championships. If Leo was being honest to himself, he would have known better ways to spend his little spare time than someone else’s swimming competition in another state but when even Jason and Piper told him they would go, he couldn’t exactly say no. It had been a long time since the whole group had done anything together and Leo was also curious to see how the two last mentioned were getting along now.

The weird thing was, Jason and Piper were really acting like nothing had happened between them. Sure, Piper was sitting in the front with Annabeth while Jason was sitting on the other side of Leo. But even so, they were not ignoring each other, glaring at each other or showing other signs of bitterness. They were talking just like they used to before their ‘break’, and Leo had a suspicion that something he wasn’t aware of had happened recently, but he knew better than to ask in a car full of people. If they wanted to open up, they’d do it on their own terms.

“C’mon, Leo, it’s your turn now. You know the lyrics.”

Calypso nudged him in the arm and the others (minus Annabeth) also looked at him expectantly.

“You know I can’t sing to save my life!” he exclaimed. “I’d much rather listen to your voice.”

Leo didn’t miss the others’ looks when he said that, realizing that he might have been a bit too obvious with his compliment. Back at the flat he had gotten a lot more comfortable telling Calypso what he really thought so he hadn’t really considered how his line sounded to the rest of the group. Even Calypso had raised her eyebrow a bit, but she remained quiet.

“I just mean I’m that bad!” he tried to defend himself.

“But since when have you actually cared about that?” Piper intervened from the front seat.

“Since… I don’t know?” Leo crossed his arms. “I may make a clown out of myself every once in a while but that doesn’t mean that I actually enjoy it.”

The others shook their heads in disbelief, but they didn’t question his statement aloud. Piper offered to sing the next lines, and the conversation died down as the song continued.

…

“So, how is it going with you two? I haven’t seen either of you since the holidays,” Piper asked Leo and Calypso once the group – to Leo’s relief – finally got bored of singing. She turned to look at him from the front seat and Leo guessed she was expecting some relationship gossip but that she wouldn’t get.

“You know, the same ol’ boring stuff,” he rushed to reply. “Uni, work, you don’t wanna hear about that.”

“But I do!” Piper said defensively. “What have you been working on lately?”

Leo leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes for a moment as he was thinking his answer. “I’ve been trying to develop a new project for one of my classes – one of the biggest ones so far – but I’m not allowed to talk about it in more detail yet. I’ve also been trying to fix someone’s broken phone but honestly, they should probably just get a new one because the damage is too damn big. Never seen anything like that before, to be honest.”

“I suppose people can be really talented at finding new ways to break their devices. Have you even had time to do anything outside work and university?”

Leo had a strong feeling he knew where Piper wanted to go with that question – not even she was that great an actress - but he decided he wouldn’t give her anything to work with. “Well, you can ask Jason and Percy if I’ve attended our weekly sparring sessions lately.”

“Yeah, he’s been there,” Jason confirmed.

“And? That’s all?” Piper kept pushing.

Leo shot her an annoyed glare. “I spent a whole day last weekend at Waystation; Festus’ dog house needed some fixing and I helped Georgie with some math assignments.”

Piper spread her arms dramatically. “Are you guys hearing this? Our Leo has grown up; he only does normal things these days. I almost miss those times when he was causing chaos at our freshman party – where he wasn’t even invited.”

“Did he actually do that?” Calypso got interested in the topic and Leo wished he could have just magically vanished from the car.

“Nope, Piper is highly exaggerating it,” Leo claimed.

“Then what exactly happened?” Calypso asked.

Piper shot him her best ‘you’d better explain it’ expression, so he did. “So, when Piper was at her freshman party, she sent me a message saying she had left her wallet back at her place in the rush. And since I lived much closer to the party venue than she did, she asked if I could just quickly drop by and borrow her some money; she’d give it back to me the next day. I didn’t have anything else to do that evening so I was like, sure, I’ll be there in a few mins. Well, outside the venue there were a few guys smoking, clearly a few drinks in, and talking shit about the people they saw. They started yelling some stuff that I’m not gonna repeat to this random girl who happened to walk past them and anyone who isn’t a complete idiot would have stopped to defend her. I may have told them to fuck off, and surprise, they didn’t like that so they started a fight with me.”

“But didn’t you get hurt?!” Calypso’s eyes widened. “You were alone against those guys, right?”

“Yeah, I was alone, but eh, it was nothing. I’ve learned a few tricks while living on the streets so I just got a few bruises and a broken tooth,” Leo waved his hand nonchalantly. “Been there, seen worse. Lucky for me there were some security guys nearby who kicked those guys out of that venue. Afterwards they told me to visit an ER but I’m not exactly a fan of doctors so… I just marched to Piper’s party with a bleeding nose and may have gained some looks, but who cares? I didn’t know any of those people so I didn’t care what they thought of me.”

“You’re acting way too casually about that whole situation,” Calypso scolded him. “It could have ended worse than it did; you could have gotten really badly hurt. What did Jo and Emmie say when they saw you after that?”

“When I told them why I had done what I did, they were really understanding. Emmie treated my wounds and I felt a whole lot better after that. Besides, I don’t regret it; I hate assholes who treat girls that way.”

“Hold it,” Piper frowned at him. “Is this really the same guy speaking who used to crush on and want the attention of pretty much every girl who happened to glance at his direction? And who used to use some really, really bad pick up lines, some of them crossing the boundaries of good taste? I don’t know what happened to you.”

Leo had never told Piper that his tacky jokes had been simply his way to deal with his anxieties and insecurities but he wasn't gonna do that now. “I don’t know why you are so shocked, Pipes. You have heard this story before and I told you why I called out the guys, so, yeah. Why that face?”

“Actually, you never did tell me the full story,” Piper corrected him. “You just told me that the guys were assholes and that was the end of the story. I always assumed that they had insulted you, not someone else.”

“I didn’t mention that?” Leo scratched his head. “Well, to me that doesn’t make a huge difference. They still deserved it.”

“That was very nice what you did,” Calypso said quietly, so quietly that Leo wasn’t sure if the girls in the front seats could even hear her. “I’m glad you supported that girl.” Her tone changed slightly when she added: “But is it true what Piper said? That you used to get crushes easily?

“I… uh…” Leo’s face suddenly felt warmer as he tried to think of an answer. How to make it sound convincing enough that Calypso wouldn’t get a bad picture of him, yet at the same time not too sappy so Piper wouldn’t get too suspicious? “Nah, it isn’t true. Or… you know… I may have thought that I liked those chicas but… later I realized I didn’t? It was just a brief infatuation. I later learned that there was something better than that.”

Oops. He knew he had definitely failed at his job at staying neutral, but if this was the way Piper found out about him and Calypso, then so be it. The first mentioned and Jason exchanged quick looks.

“Alright, mister Romantic. What, or who, has taught you that? Something is different about you and I’m getting suspicious.”

Leo wanted to roll his eyes and just tell Piper to spit her suspicions out because he knew that she was very good at sensing other people’s feelings, but somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut.

“Huh? People can’t just grow? I’ll turn 20 next summer, it was about time my brain started producing something smart for once.”

“People can but I’m not sure about you. But alright, be mysterious,” Piper huffed and turned her gaze back to the road ahead of them.

“Hey, was that girl you defended the same one with whom you later started dating?” Jason asked, probably innocently, but Piper found her enthusiasm again.

“Wait, she wasn’t Khione, right? That girl wouldn’t need any defending; she was as cold as ice. No offense, Leo.”

Jason shook his head. “No, she wasn’t Khione. What was her name again? Something like Ella?”

Leo was starting to suspect one could cook an egg on his face soon; it felt that hot. Why did his friends keep bringing up some of his past experiences that he’d rather not have his current girlfriend hear about? “She was called Echo, and yes, we did date for like, what, maybe 3 weeks?”

“I am curious now, how did that happen anyway? I mean, how did she and you decide to date? And why did I never hear about her or get to meet her?” Piper asked, and Leo knew she just wanted to embarrass him even more.

“If you really must know, a few days after that party incident I accidentally ran into her at the uni cafeteria and she recognized me so we started talking. She didn’t seem to mind my bad jokes so I asked her if she wanted to see a movie or something some time and somehow she said yes. We did go out a few times but it was pretty clear from pretty early on that it wasn’t gonna go anywhere. She told me she preferred to be single so we broke it off. It was never a huge deal to us so I didn’t tell many people about it.”

From the corner of his eye Leo tried to see Calypso’s reaction, but to his relief she seemed pretty calm. Maybe it was because she had also told him about her past, although she hadn’t really gone into details about it, but Leo was fine with that.

Piper seemed to finally have decided to stop torturing him so she let the topic go. Annabeth broke the silence and said: “Alright, we have now heard all about Leo’s past adventures, but you still haven’t told what’s going on with you, Piper. So, go ahead. Tell us.”

Piper sighed, as if bracing herself. Leo didn’t have time to wonder what that was about before she started her story: “I… I guess I should tell you. Sometime in the past fall I started questioning some things about myself. I met a couple of girls at my theater club who are dating each other. They were so open about their experiences, for example how they realized that they liked girls, and suddenly, some things just started making sense to me. The way I had crushed on certain female singers or actors already as a kid. The way my heart skipped a beat when a pretty girl from my class smiled at me when I was 12. Yeah, I still remember that moment.”

“So, you mean that…” Annabeth started but Piper seemed to know what she was asking before she had finished her question.

“I still like guys too. If I had to put a label on myself, I’d go with bi or pansexual. So if you’re wondering if my feelings for Jason were real…” Piper glanced at the person in question, “… Yes, I think they were. Still are. But after this realization… I don’t know, I just didn’t feel like the same person anymore. I felt a whole new world had opened up to me and I wanted to explore more of it; I wanted to learn more about myself. So, that’s why I called me and Jason off. Not because my feelings towards him had changed; but because something about me had changed. I want to be sure about what I really want before I make any final decisions about when or who I should date. I will say, though, that Jason has been really great through all of this.” She smiled at him. “I know it’s not easy for him either, but he has been understanding and supportive and told me that I shouldn’t rush it. So thanks for that, Jason.”

“No problem, Pipes,” he said without the bitterness that Leo had still heard in his voice back in December. He was relieved that his friends were able to handle their situation without making it a huge drama.

“It’s good you’re able to be more honest to yourself now,” Annabeth replied. “Know that we’ll always be supporting you no matter what.”

“I’m with her,” Calypso joined the conversation. “And if you ever need to just talk or anything, we're here for you.”

“Yep, I agree,” Leo added too.

“Thanks, you guys. It means a lot to me,” Piper said, looking quite relieved that everyone had taken her news so well.

“So, are you guys still planning to continue living in your house together?” Leo asked.

Jason and Piper shared a glance before Jason answered: “We have been thinking about it and while the place does have its pros, if I’m honest I don’t think either of us has ever really considered it a home. It was bought with the money of Piper’s dad and it would take us years and years to pay it all back. I – and Piper agrees – would rather live somewhere that I have earned with my own work. In other words, we are going to try to sell it and give the money back to where it came from.”

“And where are you going to live then?” Calypso asked.

“You might think that we are completely opposed to flat living in a house, but I think it’s gonna be just fine. Two people don’t really need that much space, if you ask me. Besides, I lived with Leo for a year and survived that so I think that says a lot.” Jason smirked at him.

“Oh yeah, tell me about it,” Calypso joked, her eyes twinkling playfully. “It can be an experience.”

“What? These two are teaming up against me?” Leo exclaimed. “At this rate I’m unfriending all of you by the time we’re in Chicago.”

“Such a drama king you are,” Calypso complained, but when Jason turned to watch the landscapes they were driving past, she winked at Leo. He couldn’t stay annoyed at her for long when she kept looking at him innocently with those dark brown eyes.

“One more thing about Jason and I: we are still friends, if that wasn’t clear yet,” Piper broke the little bubble Leo had created around him and Calypso. “Although we are not hanging out together all the time; I need some space to be able to think clearly.”

“It’s wonderful that you guys are able to handle your situation so maturely…” Calypso noted. “I will admit that if I would have had to face my exes after they dumped me, I would definitely have sent some pretty powerful curse words to their way.”

Leo glanced at his girlfriend with amusement, having a hard time refraining himself from saying something like ‘I guess I need to make a mental note to never leave you then’. “You had to face Percy, though,” Annabeth reminded her.

“Oh, yeah. That’s kind of true,” Calypso admitted. “But I didn’t ever actually consider him my boyfriend; he was someone I liked talking with and may have had some sort of feelings for… Sorry.” She looked at Annabeth apologetically. “But it could have never gotten anywhere because obviously he cared about someone else more. And well, I couldn’t exactly date when I couldn’t even leave my home,” she finished with a sigh.

Leo wished he could have comforted her more openly in that situation but he ended up shifting on his seat a bit so his arm nudged hers purposefully. A moment later he felt a nudge back so he presumed that Calypso had felt it and understood.

“What about now, though?” Annabeth asked. “Are you more open for dating these days?”

Leo thought that they really should have come up with some kind of story for these kinds of situations so they’d sound as believable as possible. Sitting next to her, he could see Calypso’s cheeks got some extra color when she chuckled at Annabeth’s question.

“I don’t know? Maybe? I guess everything is possible but I really am very busy these days so there’s not a whole lot of time for dating or even seeing friends, sometimes. So I’m not really seeing it happening any time soon,” she tried to reply as casually as possible.

“Alright, don’t mind me,” Annabeth said. “I was simply curious because I thought something’s been different about you too since the holidays… Maybe that was just me, though.”

“What do you mean by that? I mean, about the differences?” Calypso tilted her head slightly.

“Just that… I don’t know, you have seemed happier? You joke and laugh more when we talk at the university and you seem more determined and confident. You know, it shows in small things, like you’re more active during our classes and are surer about your answers. Although, once we’re done, you seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere and you have never explained to me why.”

Leo guessed that since he saw Calypso every single day, it was harder to notice the subtle changes but for someone who only saw Calypso at the classes a couple of times a week, it might have been more obvious. But he realized that Annabeth was right; Calypso had also been smiling and laughing more and she was less withdrawn. Could he really have been a (partial) reason for her improved mood? He must have done something right, in that case. That thought made his mouth twitch upwards even though he tried to remain as neutral as possible, with so many of his friends in the same car.

Meanwhile, Calypso had come up with an excuse for her hurrying:

“Yeah, I’ve been working at least 4 hours per day lately so I need to rush if I want to get anything done at home before that. You know, basic stuff like cleaning, cooking or showering. Leo can probably confirm that he sees me at our flat pretty seldom.”

Leo wanted to say: ‘yep, I definitely wouldn’t mind if we two were able to have some actual quality time instead of you making me handle candles the few times we actually get to sit down and hang out together’ but he knew that wasn’t suitable on a lot of levels so instead he replied: “She’s not wrong, the most I see her is in the mornings when we both get ready for our classes. She always takes her time with the preparations because she needs to water her plants and iron her clothes, et cetera. I’m quite amazed that she ever makes it in time to the uni.”

“Hey, I’m not ironing my clothes every day! Only during my laundry days. If you want to go down that road, I do have a lot of stories about your morning rituals too.”

Leo was going to reply with something snarky (he knew that Calypso enjoyed the bickering) but didn’t have the time to do so before Piper mumbled to the others: “They really think they can fool us…” The others nodded agreeably while Leo rolled his eyes.

“What was that?” he demanded to know.

“Nothing,” Piper muttered, but luckily the group soon moved on to other things. Annabeth started explaining about Percy’s worst rival, Luke Castellan, and the teasing was forgotten after that. Apparently, Luke was still leading Percy in the wins in their personal contest but if Percy won that day, they would be tied again. From that Leo understood that it would be mentally a very important competition for him.

#caleo #leo valdez #calypso #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians #trials of apollo #my fics #caleo uni au

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d-targaryenshoe · 4 years ago

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By Chance • Part 2 • Jackson Avery

Notes: a part two was requested and i absolutely appreciate that 🥺❤️

warnings: none

Word count: 1031

Summary: Y/N and Jackson have a kid together but when heartache gets too hard, then worse things happen

Going out with your ex, no let's say the father of your son was something you never thought you'd do. No matter how big your feelings were.

You weren't going to come down the parade and ruin everything good he had with Vic. Although it wasn't what he thought when she did what she did.

But that didn't stop you from saying yes a few weeks ago when you were still laying in a hospital bed.

Standing in front of the mirror you closed your eyes, placing your hands on the sink, knowing you had to stop stressing over the smallest things. Things that wouldn't change you.

"Mom, are you leaving?" A small boyish voice spoke up from behind you. "Where are you going?"

Turning around you were met by your son who was fiddling with a toy car, staring at you.

"Grandma is coming to watch you when im gone." You replied, kneeling down in front of him as you ran a hand over his curls. "She’ll be here soon, okay?"

The boy threw his arms around your neck before releasing you and walking back to the living room.

Noticing your phone lighting up the screen showed Meredith's picture as you accepted the call.

"April? Is something wrong?" You questioned, pulling on your heels as you held your phone in one hand.

"No, i- i just wanted to say that you need yourself to be happy, like unbelievable happy. The kind of happy i am right now with Matthew. Please don't hide yourself behind your feelings. That's all." April rambled at the other side of the phone.

"Why are you rambling?" Taking a hold of Miles his dirty shirt on the bathroom floor, you heard April sigh.

"Because i know how you feel, how Miles feels. Just don't push yourself away." April answered with a tone of sincerity.

"I will, dont worry, good night?" You replied, placing your hand on your hip, waiting for her to answer you.

"Good night, and remember, have fun." April said before ending the call.

Leaving you standing there watching your son play with his cars before you heard a door bell.

Walking towards the door you saw a female form behind the glass as you opened the door, Catherine Avery was already smiling.

"Oh my dear god, i've been wanting to do this since forever." Catherine whispered when wrapping her arms around you.

"Grandma!" Hearing the voice, the both of you let out a laugh, watching the boy wrap his hand around Catherine's. "Are we gonna play together?"

"How about you take one of your nicest cars and after i said something your mom, we can play as long as you want to?" Catherine raised her eyebrow at the boy, placing her hand on his cheek.

"The grey one is so cool!" Miles piped up, running back to his toys who were laying all over the carpet. "Just like dad's."

"About that, can you two just try to give it one more chance?" Catherine sighed at you.

"Because?" You frowned, taking your jacket of the clothing hanger before shrugging it on.

"Because you love him, he loves you, you have a son together, that's why." Your ex mother in law stated, placing her jacket on the clothing hanger as well.

"Feelings aren't that easy, Catherine, i should go, take care, both of you." You said when kissing Miles head and Catherine's cheek, before walking out of your house.

You would be lying if you said that you weren't scared of opening up once again.

You knew that your son was also confused abour you and Jackson not living in the same house anymore.

It all made the boy confused and not aware of the real situation.

Noticing a blond head, a brown haired man and a dark skinned curly woman sitting at a table next to him as you walked to the four of them.

"Hey." You spoke up, noticing Meredith her eyes moving towards you.

"Oh you and Jacks- Alex we should go." Meredith grabbed her jacket when shoving Alex in the shoulder who spilled some of his beer.

"Why? My bottle is still full, and i want to finish it." Alex pouted when noticing Meredith's stern glare. "Oh."

"Maggie come on." The blonde general surgeon touched her sister's card house with a finger as it fell in.

"I was almost done with that!" Maggie snapped in frustration as she took a hold of her handbag, following Alex who was already heading for the door.

"Have fun you two." Meredith laughed before following her sister out of the door, with a Alex giving you two thumbs up from behind the window which made you laugh.

"So, please don't make this awkward, and talk to me?" You were fiddling with a card that was still laying on the bar, raising an eyebrow at your ex-boyfriend.

"I'm glad you’re here, like really glad, just ask me anything you want to know, i'll answer." Jackson replied, watching you place the card down and look at him.

"Why?" You asked, tilting your head at him.

"Why what?" He frowned, turning his frame all to your side.

"Why did you ask me out when you just broke up with Vic?" Accepting the glass of white wine Joe handed you, you placed your eyes back on his blue ones.

"Because she did whatever she wanted to. Never made time for me nor for Miles although he wasn't her son, she wasn't hardheaded like you and my mom could never stop comparing you to her plus we have a son together." He explained as he noticed your concentrated face.

"Makes sense, also makes sense why i never took this off." You replied, spinning the silver ring on your finger.

"You didn't? I expected you to actually." He replied with a chuckle, as he noticed your serious face he stopped chuckling.

"Things you care about, you don't erase them." You whisper them to yourself but when you noticed a tanned hand placed on yours.

"Who says you have to erase them?" He whispered back, finishing the last bit of his beer and grabbing your hand, walking out of Joe's.

#greys anatomy imagine #greys anatomy imagines #greys anatomy x reader #request open #greys #jackson avery imagine #jackson avery imagines #jackson avery x reader

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kookie-doughs · 4 years ago

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Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader -Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 1: THE BEGGINING OF IT ALL

It was quite dark in my room. Unclear of what's happening... Of what's going on... But one thing is clear to me... Someone is calling me from somewhere. Tossing and turning doesn't help the anxiety building up at the pit of my stomach. Come to me I'm scared... Dont be scared. I would never hurt you Who are you? Fall... With me... I don't want to hear you anymore... We'll rule as one.... This is just a dream... Denying won't keep me... This is not real... We are one... I'm hearing things...

Tears pricked my eyes and I shot up trembling. As I thought all of those were just a dream. With what little time have I caught my breath. My alarm stared ringing 6 minutes after I woke up. D/N, my dog, nudged my hand and looked at me with his worried eyes. "I'm good boy... I'll be good. Today's the class trip... I have to be good." I ran down stairs to see my mom cooking breakfast. "Hey there sweetie. You excited for the trip~?" She sang. I reluctantly nodded. "Yeah..." As mom set D/N's bowl she turned to me with a worried look. "You sure? Your enthusiasm sure tells me how excited you are." "Will D/N be coming with me?" On cue my dad already in his suit came down and gave my head a kiss. "Of course sweetie. He's a support animal, they have no choice." He smiled. Taking a pancake from the plate, he didn't bother adding butter nor syrup and bit it like bread. "Anyways, I gotta go. Have fun at your trip. And I'll see you after work." He gave me and my mom a kiss then left. "Start eating. We have to make sure you don't miss your bus." ~ The bus was noisy. Everyone is screaming and laughing loudly. I sat at the very front with Mrs. Rudolph. She's my history teacher and our class adviser. She looks like a grumpy old witch lady who eats children, but her personality is far from that. Which seems to be not enough for my classmates as they're very bratty in her class. D/N was currently laid on Mrs Rudolph's lap as she gently pet him. "Are we close yet Mrs Rudolph?" I asked. She gave me a smile, "yes quite close. In fact, it reminds me to remind you kids something." Picking up D/N from her lap she gently placed him on mine and stood up. "Attention!!" She yelled immediately changing from her soft demeanor. They kids instantly settled down and kept quiet. "Good, now... Is everyone aware of where we'll be going?" "Yes Mrs Rudolph..." We all reply. "And where are we going?" No one answered. I could sense she was about to get mad so I answered on my own. "Metropolitan museum of art..." "Good job Y/N!" She smiled at me and glared at the others. "We'll, I'd like to remind you lot that we won't be touring alone. Another school will be joining us, Yancy Academy! Now I wouldn't be the one supervising the tour, it'll be Yancy Academy's Latin teacher, so we need to show them we are capable and proper. I'm putting Y/N L/N in charge of the group. Listen to what she says and do participate when asked." Whispers started coming once again. I've always been Mrs Rudolph's favorite. It's not like she has a choice, I'm the only proper one among her students after all. "Keep quiet!" In an instant the whispering died. "I will not hear anything from your mouths about Y/N being in charge! She'll have the same power as I! If you have a problem speak louder and say it to me! Understand?!" "Y-Yes Mrs Rudolph..." The bus then stopped moving. "Y/N..." Mrs Rudolph rested an arm on my shoulder. "Lead them." She smiled and went out. I cleared my throat. "E-Everybody file ou-out properly an-and orderly... P-please." Grumbles and mumbles came from them as they did what I said. Once everyone was out I got out. I had D/N in my arms. The first thing I did as I got out was examine everything. From the distance, you could see the students who I assume are from Yancy Academy. A particular group had caught my eyes. A redheaded girl was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in a guy's curly brown hair, his friend was clearly agitated by what's happening and had balled his fist. "Y/N L/N." Mrs Rudolph called snapping me out from the trance. "H-Here!" "Okay so everyone is here. Remember, Y/N L/N is in charge. Now go mix with the Yancy kids." Mrs Rudolph clapped and almost immediately everyone ran towards the group. She walked up to me and pointed at D/N. "Dogs aren't allowed inside sweetie I'm sorry. We tried telling them." A whimper came from my boy as he scoot closer to my chest. "It'll be fine boy. W-would you... Mind?" "Not at all. I was going to offer after all." She smiled and took D/N from me. "Now run along and make friends. He'll be with you by lunch." I turned to see my classmates only to see them instantly making friends with the strangers. I could never do that. Getting closer I searched curly brown haired guy and his friends. A man had called our attention by clearing his throat, not giving me the chance to find curly guy. It was a middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket. "Everybody file." I said which thankfully they followed. "Hello to everyone." He gave us a comforting smile. "I'm Mr. Brunner, Yancy Academy's Latin teacher. I was told Y/N L/N will be in charge of your group?" I stepped up and greeted him. "All right. Well, feel free to mix in with the group. We'll be staying for a while." He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was listening to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, only one kid had been trying to keep them quiet and he keeps getting glares from someone who looks like Mrs Rudolph every time. Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funeral art. Finally, a snicker came from behind, and a kind of loud reply of, "Will you shut up?" Came. The whole group laughed. Mr. Brunner stopped his story. The guy who had said shut up was the friend of curly. "Mr. Jackson," Mr. Brunner said, "did you have a comment?" His face was totally red and he said, "No, sir." Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?" I looked at the carving, and back at the guy who looked relived. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?" "Yes," Mr. Brunner said, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because ..." "Well... Kronos was the king god, and—" "God?" Mr. Brunner asked. "Oh uh..." He stammered. Obviously his one mistake got rid of all the information he remembered of the image. "Titan," I reminded him a little too loudly. They all had turned on me. "Ms L/N, care to help Mr Jackson?" "I-I, he knows... I don't..." I turned to Mr Jackson who looked at me as if he needed help. When he mouthed please I gulped. "H-He didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them..." As if he had a moment of epiphany, Mr Jackson looked at me and Mr Brunner. "Can you continue on Mr Jackson?" "Okay, Kronos's wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—" "Zeus fed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him puke his other five children, who were immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach." I interrupted... Oh god was that rude? "Eeew!" said one of the girls behind us. "—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," he continued, "and the gods won." "The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld." I continued. Some snickers from the group. Behind us, the red haired girl mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'" "And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?" "Busted," curly guy muttered. "Shut up," Ms Bobofit hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair. I thought about his question, and shrugged. "I don't know, sir." "I see." Mr. Brunner looked disappointed. "How about you Ms L/N?" I shook my head frantically not sure of what to say. "Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson, Ms L/n, You both did well. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, Mrs Rudolph, would you lead us back outside?" The class drifted off, the class still mixed with the other. "Want to join us for lunch?" Mr Jackson offered scratching his head. "Uhm..." My face was heating up I never had friends before. I was about to reply when I heard a loud whimper from outside. It was D/N's cry. "I'm sorry." I said and ran towards the sound. They were about to follow when Mr. Brunner called, "Mr. Jackson." Running outside I searched for D/N. "Hey boy, where are you?!" I called. Not long after I found him by the fountain alone. "Oh god, what are you doing here alone? Why were you crying? Weren't you with Mrs Rudolph?" I cradled him in my arms and lied on the grass. Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Red hairedgirl was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Rudolph was with her look alike. "Hey," someone had looked down on me. "Sorry I ran. I heard D/N cry..." "Percy, Percy Jackson." He smiled. "Huh?" "I'm Grover Underwood." Curly beamed. "O-Oh... I'm Y/N L/N, this is D/N." He barked in response to the introduction. "Really?!" Grover looked at D/N in surprise. "Can I borrow him?! Please??" Me and Percy looked at him weirdly but I handed him D/N anyways. Grover sat on the edge of the fountain, and Percy and I close enough but not an earshot away. "Detention?" I asked. "Huh?" "Did you get left behind for detention?" I asked him. "Nah," he said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius. He thinks I know everything about Mythology and stuffs." "I think you are." I smiled at him. "You're pretty smart." "Yeah, well this genius is dyslexic." He smirked. "No way." "Way." "I am too!!" "What?" "Okay we're totally dyslexic twins now." I chuckled. "Totally." Being the awkward kid I am my stomach had to growl. "Want to have my apple?" I felt awkward and took his apple. "Thanks." We watched the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and had small talks about random stuffs, we ranged our topic from his past schools, to his mom, Nancy Bobofit the mean redhead, and Mrs Dodds his mathematics teacher. Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized cafe table. Percy was about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumped her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap where D/N sat. "Oops." She grinned at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles were orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos D/N tackled her down, not biting her but barking at her not letting her up. And Percy tried to held his laughter in. Nancy screamed at D/N and tried to hit him. When she had successfully hit him she glared at me then the dog. "This stupid dog!" She then kicked him. When his whimper came out. "Hey?! What do you think you're doing!?" I screamed. "You don't know how to control your stupid dog!" "You dumped your lunch on him he had every right to mount you!" Grover had D/N now cradled in his arms. My teeth were gritting at the sight of this redhead. I was about to lift my hand on her. I don't remember what happened clearly, but I was pretty sure the water grabbed her, Nancy was sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!" "No he didn't you liar!!" Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us. Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see—" "—the water—" "—like it grabbed her—" I didn't care about the whispers. All I knew was that Percy was in trouble again. As soon as Mrs. Dodds was sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turned on Percy. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes, as if he'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey—" "He didn't do anything! Why are you punishing him?! Weren't you watching what was happening?!" I glared at her. Staring straight in her eyes. I don't know where I got this confidence and everything but I am starting down the teacher Percy is most scared of and winning. "I'd like to apologize for the bad conduct my student had affected yo---" "Nancy Bobofit is in the wrong not Percy! She. Hurt. My. Dog." I could hear the poison laced in my words. Mrs Rudolph came to me, "sweetie, let's go back in the bus. We have to leave." She took D/N from Grover and dragged me away from the scene. "But----" "Ms. L/N, we'll miss the schedule. Let's go." As if D/N knew he jumped off from Mrs Rudolph's hold and ran. "D/N!!" I didn't bother saying anything to Mrs Rudolph and ran after him. "Y/N!!" She tried calling after. I had lost D/N a few times and I found him. He was barking and growling at something. I went to check and saw Percy swing a sword at a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs... She exploded into yellow powder, vaporized on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes were still watching me. "Percy?" I called. His sword was gone and there was a ballpoint pen in his hand. His hands were still trembling. "W-Was th-that... D-did..." "Percy," I slowly walked up to him and pulled him to a comforting hug. "Calm down. Breathe. I... Also saw that. You're not imagining things alone." We went back outside. D/N leading us. It had started to rain. Grover was sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit was still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she saw me, she said, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt." I said, "Who?" "Our teacher. Duh!" We blinked. "We had no teacher named Mrs. Kerr." Percy said. He asked Nancy what she was talking about. She just rolled her eyes and turned away. We went over to Grover to ask where Mrs. Dodds was. He said, "Who?" But he paused first, and he wouldn't look at Percy, so we thought he was messing with us. "Not funny, man," he told him. "This is serious." "I am concerned as well..." Grover looked at me in surprise. "A-about what?" "About... Mrs Dodds? Percy and I saw something really disturbing." Thunder boomed overhead. Percy then let go of me and went over to Mr. Brunner who hasn't moved from his spot. I immediately followed after. He looked up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson." Percy handed Mr. Brunner his pen. "Sir," he said, "where's Mrs. Dodds?" He stared at him blankly. "Who?" "The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher." I added. He frowned and sat forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, Y/N, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?" "W-What?" "And Y/N, Mrs Rudolph is very worried about you. You just ran away all of a sudden. Your bus is about to leave." I turned to Percy reluctantly. "I'll walk you..." "This... Can't be a real..." I gasp. "Okay if this is real, then we'll never meet again and we were really just imagining things and this is a coincidence." "Agreed..." "Percy, I know what I saw. I know what I remember. We'll meet again, and when we do... I have a feeling it'll be weirder." "I'll look forward to it."

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Taglist?

#Percy Jackson #Percy Jackson X Reader #Fanfiction #Y/N L/N and the halfbloods #Y/N L/N #Book 1 #Lightning thief #Chapter 1 #Percy Jackson X Y/N #X Reader

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kenobiguacamole · 4 years ago

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Shattered (Haldir X fem!Reader) Part 2

A/N: Part 2 is finally here! I never meant for this story to be anymore than a one-shot but then I felt bad for not giving Haldir a happy ending and lets all be honest with ourselves, he deserves to have a happy ending *ahem* Peter Jackson *ahem*. This story has really taken on a life of its own. Needless to say, there is definitely going to be a part 3, maybe a part 4 depending on where the plot takes me. Also, “Y/N” in this fic was written with a certain hair/eye color because that is what I imagined as I was writing it but feel free to imagine whatever hair/eye color you want!

Thank you for reading! I appreciate all of you, even the silent readers!

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, some kissing, female reader, questionable grammar, Haldir being Haldir.

ooOOoo

“Haldir!” Y/N shouted from the top of the mallorn their talan resided in. “Meleth nin! You are finally home!” It had been two long months since Haldir had departed for the borders of Lorien. Two long months you had been without him by your side. Two long months since you had felt the firm press of his slightly chapped lips against yours. Two months too long for many things but none of that mattered now. He was here and he was safe.

You sidled down the curving steps of the mallorn. Your slightly extended belly proved to be a hinderance but that did not stop you from racing down the steps and flinging yourself bodily into you husbands extended arms. You felt the woolen fibers of his grey tunic scratch the sensitive skin of your cheek as you pressed it against his broad shoulder. You noticed some rips and tears that would need mending but that could wait until later; none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that you were once again reunited with your love.

Haldir could finally breathe. He felt as if a weight had been placed upon his chest since his departure for the fences and was just now being lifted. He felt the tension and stress melt away as he breathed in your scent. The sweet jasmine infused oils that you liked to use in your daily baths mixed with what Haldir could only describe as you. Tendrils of rich copper tickled his nose as he nuzzled his cheek against the top of your hair. Home. That is the only word that could resonate with his current state. Love. It was the only emotion he could register. It invaded his very soul; it curled around his fingertips; it embraced every part of his body until he was woozy with it. Carefully, he set you down on your feet as one hand extended towards you swollen belly and the other wrapped possessively behind the back of your neck, fingers curling around the thick, red curls, and crashed his lips against yours. The world was quiet. He could not hear the songbirds whistling their early morning tune, nor could he hear the rustle of the golden leaves of the mellryn that surrounded them. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart; the erratic thump, thump, thump for the woman who stood in his embrace. His love. His soulmate. His Y/N.

“Y/N.” Her whispered name but a prayer upon his kiss-starved lips. “I have missed you dearly, meleth nin. Not one day has gone by where I have not longed to be with you. My heart sings to have you back in my arms.”

Y/N lent back on the balls of her feet, reaching up to tenderly cup the side of her husband’s jaw before reaching back up on tip toes to capture his lips with her own. Haldir was considerably taller than she was —at least a head taller. And where most elves were lithe and willowy, Haldir was broad and muscled. She could barely wrap both of her hands around one of his biceps and the sheer breadth of his shoulders was enough to intimidate even the burliest of beings. Except for her, of course. Where Haldir often felt awkward in his physical appearance, she reveled in it. She missed the feeling of his strong arms wrapping around her waist or how he would have to bend down to bestow a kiss upon her lips. He was beautiful, in a lethal sort of way and she never failed to remind him how attractive he was to her, to which such a statement would cause his cheeks to sport a bright red blush and would leave him sputtering. For being a Marchwarden of Lorien, he sure did fluster easily.

“How have you faired, melda?” Haldir whispered as he broke apart from your lips, eyes hooded with desire.

You snaked a hand into the back of his hair, fingers tugging at the warrior braid in the back as you pulled his head down for another languid kiss. “I am better now that you are here.” You murmured against his lips as you traced their outline with the tip of your tongue.

A purely masculine noise rose from the back of Haldir’s throat at your ministrations. The hand that gripped the back of your neck slowly began to make its way down, tracing the length of your spine.

“And how is our little one fairing?” He managed to choke out between his labored breaths.

“Our child fairs well.” You respond as you lace your fingers through his hand that is still resting on your swollen belly. “But they have missed you greatly, just as I have, and we are overjoyed to have you back at home.”

At hearing this, Haldir sported a small, shy smile and finally met your eyes. Amber eyes that shown as gold as the halls of Erebor shown back at his stormy blue ones. Eyes filled with such love and warmth that he could hardly believe you were looking at him. Him. Of all people, you chose to love him, and he would spend the rest of his days proving to you that he deserved your love. Haldir took your hand in his larger one, rubbing a calloused thumb over the smooth skin of your knuckles and gently coaxed you towards the steps leading to your shared talan.

“Come, my love. Let us continue this upstairs,” but before he could take another step, Y/N’s hand slid out of his. “Y/N, meleth nin, wh—” Haldir froze. The clearing you were just standing in, the clearing in front of your talan, the clearing where he had asked you to spend the rest of your immortal life with him, was empty. In fact—there was no clearing. There was no talan. No mellryn. No Y/N. Everything surrounding him was black. He could not make out the leaf strewn ground that was there mere moments ago, nor could he see the sun, the moon, the stars. Nothing.

“Y/N?” Haldir hesitantly called out to you. “Y/N!” he yelled in a more panicked tone, spinning in circles, eyes searching for any sign of you. Dread began to pool itself inside of his belly, heart beating erratically. What was happening? Where did you go? “Y/N!” he screamed as he began to frantically run towards the nothingness. He knew that he was moving and yet he felt like he was standing in the same blank void where he had held you. Haldir stopped, turning in circles, hoping to catch any glimpse of where you may have gone. His hands curled into the sides of his hair as he yanked on it in desperation. Breathing erratic, heart somersaulting inside of his chest, Haldir fell to his knees and in one final attempt, cried your name up to the heavens in hopes that Eru himself may hear and take pity on him….”

ooOOoo

Translations: Meleth nin- my love

Melda- dear, beloved one

#haldir x reader #haldir #haldir lotr #haldir of lorien #haldir x y/n #rumil #lotr imagine #lotr #rúmil of lothlorien

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goldznuts · 3 years ago

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(Wano AU) Tagged::Regrets

If there was one question that had began to annoy him it was any in reference to the one piece or laugh-tale island. Those were his secrets to keep and if any desired to know then they could go themselves in their own stride and pay their own prices but he would still always be the first. There was no easy path for the questions they asked and Roger could not help but play musical chairs in attempts to get away from the never-ending questions and conversations. A quick smile and wave was given until his presence brought more attention than he bargained for. Nope! The captain commented before rising from his seat slapping the payment on the counter. Under the influence, the Captain after two battles now staggered down the street in hopes to find a quiet bar to relax in. He wasn't tired or hurt just to the point that he was too drunk to speak properly. This was not how he often carried himself but he had gone too far in his search for booze. Little did he know with the fame, even while despised, he could manage to find regrets in making such a bold testament to the world. Peace was rare and priceless, this was his first lesson as King. His best bet was to buy his drinks and head back to the Oro Jackson to disappear into the grasp of the sea once more. There was one place he could go to and not have to worry but they would despise him too. It would be certain that his sails were the ones that kept Oden away for so long and Wano had began to fall into a grim era. As the thoughts crossed his mind he remembered his first statement not to rule a thing and tried to cast aside such concerns. But Oden?....he was there, or so he had presumed. Was it selfish for an entire country to have fallen for his cause? These type of thoughts came to mind to counter his protest of little cares. Pressing a hand to his forehead he lifted the gourd to read the label in question. Sure enough it was Rum. He didn't do too well under the influence of Rum and steered clear of the drink as a whole. No wonder his mind was processing too much in irritation. That still didn't change the fact that the thoughts were in fact truth as ugly as it appeared. For every action there was a reaction and many would pay the price even more than he could have ever imagined. It was heavy and one of the few regrets he carried with the new crown. When they had brought Oden back in celebration they could not help but acknowledge the price they had all paid when Wano came into view. Should he have stayed behind to assist in such matters? Should he have left Oden to his affairs the first time they returned for the Polygliff. Either way it was done and now he had but one choice at this point. He had gotten wind that Kaido had schemed something up for the entire land of gold. This was the cause of his stop for drinks in the first place. The news that Wano had closed off everything in attempts to conceal the secrets he had found out. Yep! This was definitely the work of Kaido and Roger could not help but feel a pull at his heart in thought of what that monster could do with his hands on an entire country of innocent people. Seems some of the Rocks had found a way to rule even while broken apart and disbanded. Such thoughts were beginning to bring a headache and he could not help but sigh slinking away into an dark alley to sober up a bit before heading back tot he Oro Jackson. Roger had left behind his crewmates for extra security to their vessel and even selfishly because he required the time to think. Once on board, he through a drunken sway gave the order dropping the canisters of alcohol on the deck before dropping to the wooden floor hopelessly trying to fend off a drunken slumber. ☠"Go!....We are going.......Wano, to Oden, head for Wano."☠ The drunk captain had finally spat out the order before the snores commenced. The king was content to face his consequences alongside Oden. He couldn't just leave him there to handle Kaido alone in good conscience. Newgate wouldn't let him live it down if something happened to the man or his family. Too add Kaido was NEVER

ALONE, but if he were then he was a force to be reckoned with all the same even for Oden. Rayleigh only paused studying the drunk captain with a raised brow shaking his head in disapproval. This was unlike Roger and surely his visit could not have been so bad. "Political affairs are not our forte, Roger!" The other screamed with a mind to knock him upside his head. Even as he protested the captain continued his snores the order standing without the dispute. If he were awake he would tell his number two that they could not rule the seas and not address and situation like this. They owed Oden for everything and could never turn away even if the man had told them to go. Oden had promised that he would be fine and would reach out when he was finished with setting order. The roger pirates were supposed to celebrate together with him, it was the promise given before they agreed to leave. That was how it was supposed to go and even then Roger had a bad feeling in his gut and still left as requested. When they arrived in Wano things were not as they had found it the first time around. The drastic changes already shifting the finical and economical stance of Wano. The caste systems had tilted for greed and plots. This was real bad and to make matters worse he had found out that ODEN WAS DEAD? This hurt his heart and Roger had no idea how he would even tell Whitebeard of such a thing. He had left the other there and now knew he should have stayed to address the situation directly with him. As Oro Jackson pulled into port he studied the smoke filled skies a grim chill pushing down his spine as he took in the view. None on board the ship could speak as they viewed what was left of the Kozuki family shrine, it was now nothing but ash. They knew it would be bad but never anticipated Wano would end up in such a state. To correct, he should have known but at the time he was not aware that Kaido was directly involved with Wano. Deciding against porting the Pirate king opted to hide the vessel and leave out on foot. Hours later he found himself in much need of a drink as he made his way through the lands under disguise. They had opted for masks since they were so common these days. The Red and blank kimono he wore was constraining and layered to blend him in with the noblemen. He could find out anything he needed to know with time in patience. The drinks they shared weren't festive in the least. The captain babysitting the bowl of sake that had been poured by request. He gazed into the liquid his reflection dancing back, or one of the mask rather as he sunk back into his thoughts. When he had found a voice to speak he finally swallowed the lump in his throat. Roger forced up a cracked voice before he took in a few labored breaths to hide the fact he was very upset. Rayleigh in whom set beside him had no sarcastic comments to add nor did he instigate the situation that was obvious. There was no humor to be found even as they tried but the silence had to be broken. He was certain Rayleigh didn't offer many words only because he too didn't know what to say or he was simply waiting for the captain to lead off in discussion. During times like these it made the captain very thankful for his friend. ☠"Rayle-O, I-I, don't think we did the right thing here. I-I feel like this is my fault and I am almost scared to inquire anything further. This is so wrong!"☠ The captain explained as he lifted the bowl to his lips the sake being a much calmer choice for the male. He couldn't help the sting of tears that forced forward. Roger was very thankful for the mask he wore at this moment and lowered the bowl not even in the mood to drink. This was so messed up, he had assumed that when Oden returned that he would be able to handle the situation at hand. THAT WAS WHAT HE HAD TOLD HIM! And here Roger was fool enough to believe him even despite his own two eyes and the odd gut wrenching feeling they all had when they sailed out. ☠"We are far too late and we have to fix this!"☠ He choked out as he struggled to catch his grip for the moment being. He

needed food and more drinks, something that could put him down until he could process all the grim news and address it. No wonder they were hated by the many, if they left messes like this for the world to clean up. Thoughts like this came forward and had the King already wanting to retire from the game before he even started. It was then Roger made up his mind that when they fixed Wano's grim tale he would retire and head home to start a family. ☠"I-I didn't want to rule the seas...I just wanted to find the answers. When this is over......."☠ He paused remembering that he was intoxicated and that this was not a conversation to be had in a place like this. Instead Roger paused patting the other on his shoulder before heading to put in a another request for food. Leaning over the counter with his mask in place he glanced back to the curtain that had concealed them from view by design. The place was known for privacy and small gatherings much like a lounge so it was a good option for peace. What peace was to be had in Wano when the entire land was suffering? Immediately, Roger lost his appetite and headed out for a fresh breath of air. Ensuring that the mask was pinned into place he slid the door open gently so not to draw attention as he snuck out for a moment to figure out his best course of action. Who needed a plan? At this point he'd love to get his hands on the supposed strongest beast and anyone else involved. His eyes burned with fury behind the mask as he leaned against the wall allowing a much needed breath to escape him.

#goldznuts #landofwano #au #King Roger #Regrets #@xtherfriends #brb crying #FIX IT ROGER #king of the pirates #onepiecerp

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collegeburnoutsuperstar · 5 years ago

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Social Distancing Book Recs

I’ve been getting tons of book recommendations from friends and family to help get through social distancing/self-quarantine, so I thought I should share some of my favorite books with everybody!

Horror/Apocalyptic: *all books are ADULT*

- The Stand by Stephen King “This is the way the world ends: with a nanosecond of computer error in a Defense Department laboratory and a million casual contacts that form the links in a chain letter of death. And here is the bleak new world of the day after: a world stripped of its institutions and emptied of 99 percent of its people. A world in which a handful of panicky survivors choose sides -- or are chosen” (Goodreads Summary).

- Inferno by Dan Brown “Harvard professor of symbology Robert Langdon awakens in an Italian hospital, disorientated and with no recollection of the past thirty-six hours, including the origin of the macabre object hidden in his belongings. With a relentless female assassin tailing them through Florence, he and his resourceful doctor, Sienna Brooks, are forced to flee. Embarking on a harrowing journey, they must unravel a series of codes, which are the work of a brilliant scientist whose obsession with the end of the world is matched only by his passion for one of the most influential masterpieces ever written, Dante Alighieri’s The Inferno” (Goodreads Summary).

- World War Z by Max Brooks “The Zombie War came unthinkably close to eradicating humanity. Max Brooks, driven by the urgency of preserving the acid-etched first-hand experiences of the survivors from those apocalyptic years, traveled across the United States of America and throughout the world, form decimated cities that once teemed with upwards of thirty million souls to the most remote and inhospitable areas of the planet. He recorded the testimony of men, women, and sometimes children who came face-to-face with the living, or at least the undead, hell of that dreadful time. World War Z is the result. Never before have we had access to a document that so powerfully conveys the depth of fear and horror, and also the ineradicable spirit of resistance, that gripped human society through the plague years” (Goodreads summary).

- It by Stephen King “It’s a small city, a place as hauntingly familiar as your own hometown. Only in Derry the haunting is real... They were seven teenagers when they first stumbled upon the horror. Now they are grown-up men and women who have gone out into the big world to gain success and happiness. But none of them can withstand the force that has drawn them back to Derry to face the nightmare without an end, and the evil without a name” (Goodreads summary).

- The Shining by Stephen King “Jack Torrance’s new job at the Overlook Hotel is the perfect chance for a fresh start. As the off-season caretaker at the atmospheric old hotel, he’ll have plenty of time to spend reconnecting with his family and working on his writing. But as the harsh winter weather sets in, the idyllic locations feels ever more remote... and more sinister. And the only one to notice the strange and terrible forces gathering around the Overlook is Danny Torrance, a uniquely gifted five-year-old” (Goodreads summary).

- House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski “[House of Leaves] focuses on a young family that moves into a small home on Ash Tree Lane where they discover something is terribly wrong: their house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Of course, neither Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Will Navidson nor his companion Karen Green was prepared to face the consequences of the impossibility, until the day their two little children wandered off and their voices eerily began to return another story -- of creature darkness, of an ever-growing abyss behind a closet door, and of the unholy growl which soon enough would tear through their walls and consume all their dreams” (Goodreads summary).

Comedy:

- Good Omens by Neil Gaimen and Terry Pratchett “People have been predicting the end of the world almost from its very beginning, so it’s only natural to be skeptical when a new date is set for Judgement Day. But what if, for once, the predictions are right, and the apocalypse really is due to arrive next Saturday, just after tea? You could spend the time left drowning your sorrows, giving away all your possessions in preparation for the rapture, or laughing it off as (hopefully) just another hoax. Or you could just try to do something about it. It’s a predicament that Aziraphale, a somewhat fussy angel, and Crowley, a fast-living demon now finds themselves in. They’ve been living amongst Earth’s mortals since The Beginning and, truth be told, have grown rather fond of the lifestyle and, in all honesty, are not actually looking forward to the coming Apocalypse. And then there’s the small matter that someone appears to have misplaced the Antichrist... “ (Goodreads summary).

- Dad Is Fat by Jim Gaffigan *PG-13* Dad is Fat is a comedic memoir that details Jim Gaffigan’s life growing up in a large Catholic family to his experiences as a husband and father (specifically parenting his five young children while living in a tiny walk-up apartment in New York). I highly recommend the audiobook (which is narrated by Jim Gaffigan), my family and I always listen to it during road trips. It never stops being funny.

- Bored of the Rings: A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings by The Harvard Lampoon *ADULT* “A quest, a war, a ring that would be grounds for calling any wedding off, a king without a kingdom, and a little, furry ‘hero’ named Frito, ready -- or maybe just forced by the wizard of Goodgulf-- to undertake the one mission which can save Lower Middle Earth from enslavement by the evil Sorhed… Luscious Elfmaidens, a roller-skating dragon, ugly plants that can soul-kiss the unwary to death-- these are just some of the ingredients in the wildest, wackiest, most irreverent excursion into fantasy realms that anyone has ever dared to undertake” (Goodreads summary).

Middle-Grade:

- Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan (book 1: The Lightning Thief) “Percy Jackson is a good kid, but he can’t seem to focus on his schoolwork or control his temper. And lately, being away at boarding school is only getting worse - Percy could have sworn his pre-algebra teacher turned into a monster and tried to kill him. When Percy’s mom finds out, she knows it’s time that he knew the truth about where he came from, and that he go to the one place he’ll be safe. She sends Percy to Camp Half Blood, a summer camp for demigods. Soon a mystery unfolds and together with his friends-- one a satyr and the other the demigod daughter of Athena-- Percy sets out on a quest across the United States to reach the gates of the Underworld and prevent a catastrophic war between the gods” (Goodreads summary).

- The Heroes of Olympus series by Rick Riordan (book 1: The Lost Hero) “Jason has a problem. He doesn’t remember anything before waking up in a bus full of kids on a field trip. Apparently he has a girlfriend named Piper, and a best friend named Leo. They’re all students at a boarding school for ‘bad kids.’ What id Jason do to end up here? And where is here, exactly? Piper has a secret. Her father has been missing for three days, ever since she had that terrifying nightmare about his being in trouble. Piper doesn’t understand her dream, or why her boyfriend suddenly doesn’t recognize her. When a freak storm hits during the school trip, unleashing strange creatures and whisking her, Jason, and Leo away to someplace called Camp Half-Blood, she has a feeling she’s going to find out. Leo has a way with tools. When he sees his cabin at Camp Half-Blood, filled with power tools and machine parts, he feels right at home. But there’s weird stuff, too-- like the curse everyone keeps talking about, and some camper who’s gone missing. Weirdest of all, his bunkmates insist that each of them--including Leo-- is related to a god. Does this have anything to do with Jason’s amnesia, or the fact that Leo keeps seeing ghosts?” (Goodreads summary)

- The Children of the Red King series by Jenny Nimmo (book 1: Midnight for Charlie Bone) “Charlie Bone has a special gift-- he can hear people in photographs talking! The fabulous powers of the Red King were passed down through his descendants, after turning up quite unexpectedly, in someone who had no idea where they came from. This is what happened to Charlie Bone, and to some of the children he met behind the grim, gray walls of Bloor’s Academy. His scheming aunts decide to send him to Bloor’s Academy, a school for geniuses where he uses his grifts to discover the truth despite all the dangers that lie ahead” (Goodreads summary).

- Things Not Seen by Andrew Clements “Bobby Phillips is an average fifteen-year-old boy. Until the morning he wakes up and can’t see himself in the mirror. Not blind, not dreaming. Bobby is just plain invisible... There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to Bobby’s new conditions; even his dad the physicist can’t figure it out. For Bobby that means no school, no friends, no life. He’s a missing person” (Goodreads summary).

Science Fiction:

- Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick *Adult* “It was January 2021, and Rick Deckard had a license to kill. Somewhere among the hordes of humans out there, lurked several rogue androids. Deckard’s assignment-- find them and then... ‘retire’ them. Trouble was, the androids all looked exactly like humans, and they didn’t want to be found!” (Goodreads summary).

- Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton * Suitable for Young Adults* “An astonishing technique for recovering and cloning dinosaur DNA has been discovered. Now humankind’s most thrilling fantasies have come true. Creatures extinct for eons roam Jurassic Park with their awesome presence and profound mystery, and all the world can visit them-- for a price. Until something goes wrong...” (Goodreads summary).

Fantasy:

- The Magicians trilogy by Lev Grossman *ADULT* (book 1: The Magicians) “Quentin Coldwater is brilliant but miserable. A senior in high school, he’s still secretly preoccupied with a series of fantasy novels he read as a child, set in a magical land called Fillory. Imagine his surprise when he finds himself unexpectedly admitted to a very secret, very exclusive college of magic in upstate New York, where he receives a thorough and rigorous education in the craft of modern sorcery. He also discovers all the other things people learn in college: friendship, love, sex, booze, and boredom. Something is missing, though. Magic doesn’t bring Quentin the happiness and adventure he dreamed it would. After graduation he and his friends make a stunning discovery: Fillory is real. But the land of Quentin’s fantasies turns out to be much darker and more dangerous than he could have imagined. His childhood dream becomes a nightmare with a shocking truth at its heart” (Goodreads summary).

- The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater *YA* (book 1: The Raven Boys) “What do you know about Welsh kings?” This incredibly atmospheric story centers on a seemingly random group of teens as they uncover the mysterious and magical secrets of their small Virginia town.

- A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab *Suitable for Young Adults* “Kell is one of the last Antari-- magicians with a rare, coveted ability to travel between parallel Londons; Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black. Kell was raised in Arnes-- Red London-- and officially serves the Maresh Empire as an ambassador, traveling between the frequent bloody regime changes in White London and the court of George III in the dullest of Londons, the one without any magic left to see. Unofficially, Kell is a smuggler, servicing people willing to pay for even the smallest glimpses of a world they’ll never see. After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. She first robs him, then saves him from a deadly enemy, and finally forces Kell to spirit her to another world for a proper adventure. Now perilous magic is afoot, and treacher lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they’ll first need to stay alive” (Goodreads summary).

- The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien *Suitable for middle-grade through adult* “In ancient times the Rings of Power were crafted by the Elven-smiths, and Sauron, the Dark Lord. forged the One Ring, filling it with his own power so that he could rule all others. But the One Ring was taken form him, and though he sought it throughout Middle-earth, it remained lost to him. After many ages it fell by chance into the hands of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. When Bilbo reached his eleventy-first birthday he disappeared, bequeathing to his young cousin Frodo the Ruling Ring and a perilous quest: to journey across Middle-earth, deep into the shadow of the Dark Lord, and destroy the Ring by casting it into the Cracks of Doom” (Goodreads summary).

- The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss *Adult* “Told in Kvothe’s own voice, this is the tale of the magically gifted young man who grows to be the most notorious wizard his world has ever seen. The intimate narrative of his childhood in a troupe of traveling players, his years spent as a near-feral orphan in a crime-ridden city, his daringly brazen yet successful bit to enter a legendary school of magic, and his life as a fugitive, and his life as a fugitive after the murder of a king form a gripping coming-of-age story” (Goodreads summary).

- The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch *Adult* “An orphan’s life is harsh-- and often short-- in the mysterious island city of Camorr. But youge Locke Lamora dodges death and slavery, becoming a thief under the tutelage of a gifted con artist. As leader of the band of light-fingered brothers known as the Gentleman Bastards, Loke is soon infamous, fooling even the underworld’s most feared ruler. But in the shadows lurks someone still more ambitious and deadly. Faced with a bloody coup that threatens to destroy everyone and everything that holds meaning in his mercenary life, Locke vows to beat the enemy at his own brutal game-- or die trying” (Goodreads summary).

Fiction:

- The Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich *ADULT mystery-thrillers/romance* (book 1: One for the Money) “You’ve lost your job as a department store lingerie buyer, your car’s been repossessed, and most of your furniture and small appliances have been sold off to pay last month’s rent. Now the rent is due again. And you live in New Jersey. What do you do? If you’re Stephanie Plum, you become a bounty hunter. But not just a nickel-and-dime bounty hunter; you go after the big money. That means a cop gone bad. And not just any cop. She goes after Joe Morelli, a disgraced former vice cop who is also the man who took Stephanie’s virginity at age 16 and the wrote details on a bathroom wall. With pride and rent money on the line, Plum plunges headlong into her first case, one that pits her against ruthless adversaries - people who’d rather kill than lose” (Goodreads summary).

- The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown *Adult* “While in Paris, Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon is awakened by a phone call in the dead of the night. The elderly curator of the Louvre has been murdered inside the museum, his body covered in baffling symbols. As Langdon and gifted French cryptologist Sophie Neveu sort through the bizarre riddles, they are stunned to discover a trail of clues hidden in the works of Leonardo da Vinci-- clues visible for all to see and yet ingeniously disguised by the painter. Even more startling, the late curator was involved in the Priory of Sion-- a secret society whose members included Sir Isaac Newton, Victory Hugo, and Da Vici-- and he guarded a breathtaking historical secret. Unless Landon and Neveu can decipher the labyrinthine puzzle-- while avoiding the faceless adversary who shadows their every move-- the explosive, ancient truth will be lost forever” (Goodreads summary).

- Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle *Adult* Sherlock Holmes stories are always fun when stuck at home.

- 11/22/63 by Stephen King *Adult* “Life can turn on a dime-- or stumble into the extraordinary, as it does for Jake Epping, a high school English teacher in Lisbon Falls, Maine. While grading essays by his GED students, Jake reads a gruesome, enthralling piece penned by janitor Harry Dunning: fifty years ago, Harry somehow survived his father’s sledgehammer slaughter of his entire family, Jake is blown away... but an even more bizarre secret comes to light when Jake’s friend Al, owner of the local diner, enlists Jake to take over the mission that has become his obsession-- to prevent the Kennedy assassination. How? By stepping through a portal in the diner’s storeroom, and into the ear of Ike and Elvis, or big American cars, sock hops, and cigarette smoke... Finding himself in warmhearted Jodie, Texas, Jake begins a new life. But all turns in the road lead to a troubled loner named Lee Harvey Oswald. The course of history is about to be rewritten... and become heart-stoppingly suspenseful” (Goodreads summary).

Non-Fiction:

- The Men Who Stare at Goats by Jon Ronson *Adult* “In 1979 a secret unit was established by the most gifted minds within the U.S. Army. Defying all known accepted military practice-- and indeed, the laws of physics-- they believed that a soldier could adopt a cloak of invisibility, pass cleanly through walls, and, perhaps most chillingly, kill goats just by staring at them. Entrusted with defending America from all known adversaries, they were the First Earth Battalion. And they really weren’t joking. What’s more, they’re back and fighting the War on Terror. With firsthand access to the leading players in the story, Ronson traces the evolution of these bizarre activities over the past three decades and shows how they are alive today within the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and in postwar Iraq. Why are they blasting Iraqi prisoners of war with the theme tune to Barney the Purple Dinosaur? Why have 100 debleated goats been secretly placed inside the Special Forces Command Center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina? How was the U.S. military associated with the mysterious mass suicide of a strange cult form San Diego? The Men Who Stare at Goats answers these and many more questions” (Goodreads summary).

- Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert *Adult* (I recommend listening to the audiobook, which is narrated by Elizabeth Gilbert) “To recover from [an early midlife crisis, divorce, and depression], Gilbert took a radical step. In order to give herself the time and space to find out who she really was and what she really wanted, she got rid of her belongings, quit her job, and undertook a yearlong journey around the world-- all alone. Eat, Pray, Love is the absorbing chronicle of that year. Her aim was to visit three places where she could examine one aspect of her own nature set against the backdrop of a culture that has traditionally done that one thing very well. In Rome, she studied the art of pleasure, learning to speak Italian and gaining the twenty-three happiest pounds of her life. India was for the art of devotion, and with the help of a native guru and a surprisingly wise cowboy from Texas, she embarked on four uninterrupted months of spiritual exploration. In Bali, she studied the art of balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence. She became the pupil of an elderly medicine man and also fell in love the best way-- unexpectedly” (Goodreads summary).

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vexedtonightmares · 4 years ago

Note

Hi. I hope you have an amazing day/night. I had an idea for a fic. That Elliott saves lucas from a monster. Elliott is a demigod and tells lucas he is too and has to go to camp halfblood (percy Jackson au)

ok i’m gonna start by saying that i’m literally so sorry for taking MONTHS to answer this, but i loved this prompt so much i wanted to give it the attention it deserved 🥺now, that attention went from a small 1k fic to a roughly 20k three part fic because i have No Chill and accidentally came up with an entire plot, but at least i’m sharing it now!! i hope you enjoy!!

you can read part 1 here on ao3 or down below the cut 💖

love and other divine interventions

part i. identity (8.4k)

Look, Lucas didn’t want to be a half-blood. What the hell was that even supposed to mean? It sounded like a disease, the more he thought about it. Not that he thought about it often, he really tried not to, because most of all he didn’t care what it meant. Hadn’t killed him yet, had it?

Lucas had first been told that he was a half-blood by his mother when he was twelve. She said she was worried for his safety, and that she might have to send him to summer camp in America. He didn’t know what any of that meant, but he also knew that his mother wasn’t well sometimes, so he never thought too much about what she’d said and whether or not it meant more than he took it as.

A few years later, his mother had been put into an institution to help with her mental health, and Lucas had been sent from Paris to the states to live with an aunt and uncle he hardly knew. That was the second time someone called him a half-blood. He’d been minding his own business, walking home from school, and some kid who looked both older and younger than he was at the time had gasped, saying that Lucas was a half-blood and had to come with him if he wanted to be safe.

Lucas had learned about stranger danger, though, so instead he ran away and told his aunt and uncle what happened. Without any room for argument, his aunt and uncle packed up and moved halfway across the country. It was a bit of an excessive response, but Lucas was fourteen, he didn’t really have any say in the matter.

Something similar had happened again when he was sixteen, then seventeen, and each time his aunt and uncle packed up and moved at even the slightest hint of trouble. He knew that they were just worried about him, they’d lost their daughter, his cousin, back when she was about twelve years old, and they never found out what happened to her. Or so they told Lucas, when he asked.

He asked them what a half-blood was once, and they’d both told him to never say that word again. So, he hadn’t. He did write a letter to his mother, though, asking if she could explain what she’d meant. Everyone just thought she was crazy, but Lucas had never thought so. If she’d thought it was important for Lucas to know, it must have been.

When Lucas was eighteen, he went to university in New York. His aunt and uncle hadn’t wanted him to, but they wouldn’t let him go back to Paris, so this was the option they’d reluctantly agreed to.

Strange things had always seemed to follow him wherever he went, but those occurrences happened far more often once he was in New York. He chalked it up to the weirdness of the city itself. Like this: the man on the street who’d told him he smelled like death— which was more rude than strange, actually— or the time that he could have sworn some sort of winged demon had been following him as he walked to class.

Generally, he chalked his experiences up to a lack of sleep, because the life of a college student was quite the busy one. Even if it hadn’t been, he probably wouldn’t have slept anyways. All his life he’d been plagued by dreams so haunting and wild that he’d felt that they were real, regardless of the fact that he knew that couldn’t have been the case.

It was after a night tossing and turning in bed, visions of a pale skinned man on a throne of bones trying desperately to tell him something, that Lucas decided he needed to get some fresh air.

Lucas loved the city, he really did. Of all the places he’d lived in his life, New York was a close second to Paris. He didn’t let himself think of Paris too often, though, lest he be swept up in thoughts of his mother and how much he missed her. It was hard to keep in contact with all the moving, but he called the home that she was in every now and again to make sure she was alright. She never responded to the questions he’d written to her, but he’d more or less put all of that out of his mind.

It became clear to Lucas while he was walking through the city that someone was following him. Every time he looked back, he could have sworn he saw someone dart out of sight. So, he picked up his pace. If it came down to it, he’d throw some punches, sure, but he wasn’t the best fighter there ever was.

He kept walking, no direction in mind, and started to think that maybe he’d been overreacting, or maybe the sleep deprivation had gotten him at last. He walked so long that he made it somewhere there weren’t many people around, and even though he turned over his shoulder once more, whoever was following him seemed to have gotten bored and left him be. Finally, he thought, and paused to check his phone, blinking in surprise when he realized he’d been walking for nearly two hours. He had a tendency to get lost in his own head like that.

Lucas took a deep breath, started to turn around to walk back where he’d come from, and saw a light flash at the corner of his eye, something a bright and beautiful shade of bronze. Before he had time to react, he was pinned up against the side of an alleyway with a knife to his throat and a hand over his mouth.

By the time Lucas was able to assess the situation and look at his assailant’s face, he groaned internally to himself. Oh, fuck, he’s hot.

The assailant in question didn’t look to be all that much older than Lucas himself, his skin was pale and golden, dotted with moles like constellations. He was wearing a bright orange shirt, which Lucas didn’t know how he hadn’t seen before, and had a leather necklace with a bunch of clay beads on it, each with a different design. Six if, Lucas was counting properly.

The last thing Lucas looked at were his attacker’s eyes. A clear, bluish grayish color so intense, it made Lucas a little weak in the knees. Get a hold of yourself Lallemant, this guy is literally trying to kill you.

Lucas opened his mouth under the guy’s hold and in return the guy pressed his hand in even tighter. His luminescent eyes raked Lucas’ face up and down a moment until his attention was caught by something else, off to Lucas’ left.

“Stay here,” the boy said, loosening his grip on Lucas’ mouth, “And stay quiet, if you want to survive.”

Now, Lucas may not have been trained in combat, but he did know a few moves, one of which he employed the second it looked like this guy’s guard was down.

“OW! What the fuck?” the guy said in a strained voice as he fell to his knees. “Did you just knee me in the balls?”

Lucas didn’t spare the breath on answering, he just ran to the opposite end of the alley as fast as he could. He was almost away when he heard another voice join the fray. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” said a girl’s voice, “I think you should go back to where Eliott told you to stay.”

Suddenly, Lucas felt his legs moving of their own accord. He agreed with this girl, he should listen to everything she said.

The boy— Eliott— lifted his head to glare at the girl. “Lola, stop that.”

In his haze, Lucas could barely hear her mumble something about never being allowed to have any fun before he suddenly felt like he’d been dunked in a bucket of ice cold water. He looked around, wondering how he’d gotten back to where he’d run from.

“What did you— wha—” he stammered, trying to regain sense of himself, when Eliott sighed and stood up, grimacing a bit.

“I’ll explain everything,” Eliott promised, “We’re here to help you, not hurt you, you just have to please, for the love of the gods, stay where you are and shut up.”

For the love of the gods? Were these people in some sort of cult?

Lucas was nothing if not stubborn. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and frowned. “What makes you think I’ll do what you say?”

Eliott threw an exasperated glance at Lola, who simply raised her eyebrows back as if to say, should have listened to me. Eliott sighed and came back to stand in front of Lucas, holding the knife he’d very recently pressed against Lucas' neck out to Lucas to grab. “Does this make you feel better?”

“I could stab you,” Lucas said, taking it.

Eliott flashed a quick grin, holding out a hand as Lola tossed him a bow and arrows. “You won’t.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah? And what makes you say th— AHHH!”

Lucas liked horror movies, he prided himself on being hard to scare. He’d laughed nearly the entire time he’d seen the most recent It movie, and he’d chalked up all the strange things that had happened in his life to fever dreams at best, tragically large amounts of bad luck at worst. Maybe he hadn’t been scared because he either knew it wasn’t real, or refused to believe it was real. This, though, this massive beast looking moments away from eating him alive, this was real.

“Gods dammit,” Lola murmured under her breath, pulling a sword from nowhere. Lucas glanced down at the knife in his hands. Eliott and Lola weren’t paying any attention to him anymore, he could make a run for it, but his fear was that this thing in front of him would kill him if he did.

“Excuse me? What the hell is that thing?” Lucas shouted, drawing the beast’s head in his direction. Fuck. Maybe drawing attention to himself by shouting wasn’t the best move.

Neither Lola nor Eliott answered him, assuming fighting stances. Lucas tried to emulate what they were doing, but his knees felt too weak and his head felt too dizzy. He hoped to whoever might listen that this was all just a very convoluted nightmare. He pressed the blade into his hand, just to see if it hurt, wishing that it wouldn’t. It did.

There was a moment of silence where Lucas could have heard a pin drop, but then the thing made a horrifying, guttural sort of sound, and lunged. Lola charged forward, swinging her sword with the precision of a seasoned professional, but the thing was fast. It evaded her attacks, reaching out to slash her with its long claws. Lucas didn’t think, just knew that even if he didn’t trust these people, they didn’t deserve to die. He threw the knife Eliott had given him with all his might, and let out a startled breath as it embedded itself right between the thing’s eyes.

Eliott, who’d had an arrow ready to fly, lowered his weapon and stared at Lucas with a dumbfounded expression as the thing crumbled to dust, leaving only the bronze knife in its wake.

“How did you do that?” Eliott asked, searching Lucas’ face up and down. From his other side, Lola was looking at Lucas apprehensively. Lucas opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Eliott’s expression went from shocked to worried, and that was the last thing Lucas saw before he passed out cold.

***

Lucas shot up in bed in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. Of course it was all a dream; sure it had felt realistic, but why would he be in bed if everything that had just happened in his mind happened in real life? Then again…

Lucas surveyed his surroundings and groaned, before flopping back onto what he now realized was not his bed. Great, he’d been kidnapped. By a boy with eyes like the center of a storm and a girl younger than he was.

“Lucas?”

He turned his head to the voice in the doorway, not knowing what to expect. To his displeasure, it was the kidnapper himself. Eliott, was it? He didn’t look like a kidnapper, in that same offensively bright orange t-shirt and distressed jeans, light streaks in his wild hair from too much time out in the sun. Camp Half-Blood, read his t-shirt, and upon realizing this, Lucas felt like he was going to be sick.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Eliott said as he raced to Lucas’ bed, shoving a glass of an indeterminate liquid into his hands. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

Lucas was definitely not going to drink it, obviously. Eliott noticed this, rolled his eyes, and took a small sip from the side of the cup. “There, will you drink it now?”

“Where did you take me, and how do you know who I am?” Lucas asked instead. He could only hope that Eliott was kind of stupid, so he’d be able to outsmart him and escape.

“I’m not telling you anything until you drink that,” Eliott said stubbornly, sitting on the edge of Lucas’ bed. The more Lucas looked at the room, the more it looked like some sort of infirmary, which made even less sense. Maybe Eliott had some weird doctor-patient kink or something.

Lucas looked at the drink in his hands, then back up at Eliott, who was smiling bright as the sun. He rolled his eyes and took a sip, figuring that if the drink was safe, he’d do what Eliott said to get more information and get the hell out of there. The moment the liquid hit his tongue, he flinched back in surprise. It tasted just like his favorite meal that his mother made him when he was little. How was that even possible? Forgetting all about Eliott, he gulped down most of the rest of the drink until he started feeling a bit hot and Eliott grabbed the glass from his hands.

“Woah there, don’t want you burning up on us, not when it’s taken so much work for us to get you here at all,” Eliott said with a smile, which Lucas decided is something a psychopath would do.

He did feel better though, now that the heat had subsided. A lot better actually, better than he’d felt in a long time. He felt healthy and well rested, which was especially great if he needed to take Eliott out in order to escape. First, though, he needed answers.

“Where am I?”

“Long Island,” Eliott supplied.

Lucas glowered at him. “Where exactly am I? Why did you kidnap me?”

Eliott coughed in surprise, eyebrows shooting up and then furrowing deeply. “Kidnap? Lucas, I didn’t kidnap you!”

“Why were you following me, then? How do you know my name?”

Eliott sighed and gazed at Lucas for a second that stretched to a minute. “I know your name because I saw it on your student ID. Your wallet was in your pocket. Don’t give me that look, I didn’t steal anything, you can have your two dollars and campus card back when you’re ready to head out into camp, not that you’ll be needing either of those things anytime soon.”

Aha, Lucas had caught him. “Because you kidnapped me.”

“No I did not—” Eliott broke off, shaking his head exasperatedly. “You’re difficult, you know that?”

Lucas shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

“You won’t be here a long time because I’ve kidnapped you, you’ll be here a long time because it’s one of the only places in the world safe for people like you. Like us,” Eliott continued, looking like he was gauging each of Lucas’ reactions. “No offense, but I’m truly and honestly surprised that you’re not already dead. Unless you’re secretly ten years old or something.”

“And who, pray tell, are we?” Lucas asked sarcastically, ignoring the latter half of what Eliott had said. The look in Eliott’s eyes went deadly serious.

“Half-bloods.”

“I think that’s, like, a slur of some sort..”

The more jovial light came back into Eliott’s eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My aunt and uncle told me never to say that, because people used to call me that sometimes when I was younger. My mom did too, but when she said it, it didn’t sound like a bad thing…” Lucas trailed off, not even realizing it, consumed in thoughts of his mother, as well as his aunt and uncle, who would think him dead. Or lost, just like their daughter. He only came back to himself when he heard Eliott swear under his breath. “Excuse me?”

Eliott went red. “Sorry, it’s just… we had a bet going, about who your parent was. If your mom is mortal, that means I lose.”

“Are you going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about, or am I going to have to kick you in the balls and make a run for it again?” Lucas asked dejectedly. Eliott laughed like he was joking.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologized, “You mean… you truly don’t know, then? What you are? Who you are?”

Lucas stared at him blankly, shrugging.

Eliott continued, “You’re a half-blood— which isn’t a slur, by the way— which means you’re half human, half something else, something that might not make much sense to you right now, or you might not want to believe, but I promise you that it’s true.”

“Ok.” What else was Lucas going to say? He was back to wondering if Eliott was a part of some weird cult.

“You’re half human, half god. Your father, whoever he is, is one of the gods of Ancient Greece. Or Rome, I suppose, but I have a feeling if you ended up here, you’re more on the Greek side of things,” Eliott concluded hesitantly, like he was waiting for Lucas to laugh in his face. Lucas sort of wanted to, but then again, if this was some weird cult thing, maybe it would be best to play along until he went under the radar and could escape.

So, instead of laughing or asking a million more questions like he wanted to, Lucas said, “Oh, is that all?”

Eliott blinked at him. “Is that a— you mean you believe me?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?” Lucas asked. Yeah, this was definitely a cult thing. “Who’s my dad, then?”

“If you don’t know, we don’t know,” Eliott said apologetically. There was a look in his eyes that made Lucas doubt, for a moment, that this was all some big cosmic joke the universe was playing on him, that there might have been some truth to what Eliott was saying. But that was ridiculous, he couldn’t let them get to him.

Instead of dwelling on it, Lucas tried to divert the conversation, “Hence the bet.”

The corner of Eliott’s mouth quirked up and he averted his eyes, giving a shrug of acknowledgement. “Hence the bet,” he agreed.

The two of them stared at each other a beat longer, then Eliott hopped up and held out his hand. “Let’s give you a camp tour then, hm? Hopefully you’ll be claimed by tonight, but Cabin Eleven always welcomes unclaimed campers, even if we haven’t had one in a while.”

“Um, ok,” Lucas said, getting out of bed without taking Eliott’s hand. In all honesty, it was more for his own sake than anything. Cultist or not, Eliott was very, very attractive, and Lucas was very, very gay.

Eliott walked with a little bit of a bounce in his step, like he couldn’t help it, and even though it sort of made Lucas want to roll his eyes, another part of him was endeared. Eliott picked up a bow and quiver full of arrows by the door and strung them over his back. Lucas had no idea what use that would be, but he was wary to find out.

Outside of the infirmary was nothing like what Lucas expected. Eliott grinned at Lucas’ face over his shoulder and said, “Welcome to Camp Half-Blood.”

It was beautiful, that was the only word for it. There was a four story mansion in front of what looked to be some sort of dining pavilion, and on the opposite side there were massive strawberry fields, an archery range, and was that a rock climbing wall with lava pouring down it? It was hard to process everything he was seeing, and even harder when he looked a bit further and saw what Eliott must have meant by ‘cabins’. Cabin was an understatement, surely. There were many massive buildings, each decorated so wildly Lucas couldn’t even imagine the purpose of them. If this was a cult, at least the leaders seemed to treat the members well, everyone looked like they were having the time of their life, even the people sword fighting to the death.

Lucas looked back at the mansion on what seemed to be some sort of front lawn, and suddenly felt like he was about to faint again. “That man has a horse body.”

Eliott followed his gaze, laughed lightly. “Yeah, that’s Chiron, he’s a centaur.”

When Lucas didn’t respond, Eliott stopped him, imploring him with his intoxicating eyes. “Wait a second. You didn’t really believe me did you, you little shit?” he laughed, again, like it was funny. “Why would I lie about your father being a Greek god? Mine is too.”

“No,” Lucas said numbly. There had to be some other explanation, maybe he was on drugs. He started to feel a bit feverish and breathless as he took in his surroundings again. A man with the legs of a goat trotted past him and his vision dotted. Great, a panic attack was exactly what he needed right now. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen to his knees until Eliott knelt beside him, looking concerned.

“Hey, Lucas, breathe for me, can you do that?” Eliott asked. Lucas tried to answer, but he couldn’t, tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. Eliott’s face in front of him was a bit blurry now, and Lucas felt numb all over, like he was outside of his body. Then, suddenly, his vision cleared, his breathing regulated, and he felt like himself again.

“What—” he began, looking at Eliott, who looked guilty.

“I’m sorry,” Eliott said, helping Lucas to his feet. “My godly parent? Apollo, the god of music, prophecy, the sun,” he paused, biting his lip. “Medicine.”

“And you’re being one hundred percent serious?” Lucas asked. “You’re not part of a cult trying to brainwash me?”

Eliott nodded. “I swear it on the River Styx.”

Lucas didn’t know what that meant, but thunder boomed in the distance, so it sounded serious. His resolve crumbled, and he had no choice but to believe this crazy story he’d been told. In some ways, it made some of the weird things in his life seem not so weird after all.

“Ok,” he conceded, “I believe you. For real this time.”

Eliott smiled, but it was shallow, and Lucas thought about what he’d just said about his own father. “So you… you stopped my panic attack, then? With godly superpowers, or whatever?”

Eliott’s face went a bit dark, “I wouldn’t call it that, necessarily. I… I differ from most of my siblings in this way. Usually Apollo’s children are more inclined towards medicine, that much is true, but we don’t necessarily have healing powers of our own.”

“But you do,” Lucas inferred, and Eliott nodded grimly.

“It helps out a lot in battle, or with physical ailments, but I—” he faltered, and looked out at the water. “I hate using it this way, for mental ailments. Treating it like it's something that needs to be fixed— which I can’t do by the way. I can get rid of your panic attack, but not your anxiety, if that makes sense. The same way I could heal a broken leg, but not make sure that leg is never broken again. It seems like a cruel joke, sometimes, considering…” he trailed off, turning red, like he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

Lucas waited for him to continue, but when he did, he didn’t pick up his last train of thought. “Point is, we all have our things, from our parents, no matter how big or small they might be. Maybe finding out what yours is will lead us to find out who your dad is.”

“Maybe my dad’s also Apollo,” Lucas wondered aloud, and Eliott let out an oddly strangled noise.

“Let’s hope not,” he said, and before Lucas could ask why, he took off across the green towards the cabins. “Come on, let’s get you acquainted with some of the campers.”

And Lucas, well, he had no choice but to follow.

Every camper they passed seemed to be a little bit enamoured with Eliott, smiling, waving, and greeting him with blushes and laughter. Once Lucas caught up to Eliott, he asked, “Why are they doing that? Aren’t we all technically related, or whatever?”

Eliott furrowed his brows. “Doing what?” he asked, just as a camper on the volleyball court blew him a kiss. Lucas raised his eyebrows and watched as Eliott’s face turned bright red.

“Oh that’s not— we’re not— The godly side of the family doesn’t count,” he explained, “There’s no DNA there, so you’re not really related in any real way to anyone, aside from your siblings. Like, a child of Poseidon and a child of Athena could date with no problem, but two children of Athena? That’s weird.”

“Oh,” Lucas said, taking it all in. It seemed he had quite a bit to learn. “Who are you dating, then?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t the minute he said it.

To his surprise, Eliott just looked over at him with one eyebrow raised and a small smirk. “No one,” he said, coming to a stop in front of what looked like a Barbie house. “Yet.”

Lucas opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a girl with blonde hair and big green eyes bounding down the stairs in their direction. Instead of running to Eliott, like he expected, she ran right towards Lucas, smiling at him widely.

“You must be Lucas!” she said excitedly.

“Uh…” Lucas said intelligently.

“This is Daphné,” Eliott said, “Daughter of Aphrodite.”

Aphrodite. Right. Which one was she again? The one naked in a seashell? Thankfully, Daphné filled in the blanks. “Goddess of love, beauty, all that good stuff. Someone had a lot of money betting that you were one of us,” she confided in him.

Lucas tried to look at Eliott for help in this interaction, but he was looking away pointedly. “My mom is normal,” he said instead, “Mortal.”

Daphné bit her lip, like she was holding back a grin. “That’s what my sister Lola guessed, too.”

Why did that name sound familiar? “Lola…?”

“Me.” Another voice joined them. It was the girl he’d seen with Eliott, who he’d saved from being eaten by that monster. She looked at him with a bored expression.

“You’re welcome,” Lucas said, watching as her eyes narrowed, “You know, for saving your life.”

She grimaced at him, hand on the sword at her side. She started to say something, but Daphné glared at her, and she rolled her eyes, going back inside where she’d come from.

“Your sister seems nice,” Lucas observed.

Daphné waved a hand airily. “She’ll come around. You didn’t have to be a dick, either.”

“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t, and Daphné looked like she knew it.

Eliott jumped in, likely to diffuse some tension, “Daphné here is a master of disguise. Her skill with beauty work can really transform anyone into anything, though more in an illusion way, not a shapeshifting way. Also, her love advice rarely goes amiss.”

That all sounded fine, but not really as cool as having actual superpowers, like Eliott, Lucas thought. As if sensing what he was thinking, Eliott continued, “Some children of Aphrodite have the power of charmspeak, too. They can make anyone do anything, just by telling them to.”

Lucas thought of the weird disconnected feeling that had come over him when Lola had made him stop running away. “Lola can charmspeak?” he asked, already knowing the answer as Eliott and Daphné nodded. “Well that’s just great.”

“It is,” Daphné said defensively, “It’s saved a lot of lives.”

“Anyway,” Eliott cut in again, smiled a bit tense around the edges, “I brought you to Daph because she knows everything and everyone. She can give you the rundown on some campers and their godly parents, if you want.”

Lucas didn’t see a problem with that, especially because he was severely lacking in mythological knowledge. Before he could do so much as nod, Daphné launched into a wild spiel, pointing to people as she did.

“Well, let’s see… over there is Alexia, daughter of Iris, goddess of the rainbow, ugh she’s with Arthur again— son of Hermes, you’ll meet him soon enough if you remain unclaimed— I told her not to go down that road again, but she never learns that my love advice is to be listened to, not ignored. There’s Yann, son of Hephaestus, god of blacksmiths and fire, he’s chill, you’ll like him, and he’s with Basile, as per usual, son of Ares, god of war— which everyone is still confused by, Baz doesn’t have a warlike bone in his body— we used to date, actually, a while back, but I suppose you don’t care about that. Emma and Imane, daughters of Dionysus, god of wine, and Nike, goddess of victory, respectively. Hmm… who else… Sofiane, Imane’s boyfriend and Eliott’s brother, another son of Apollo, Idriss, another son of Nike— he and Imane actually have the same father as well, which is rare but not unheard of. Oh! There’s Maya, Lola’s girlfriend, daughter of Demeter, goddess of agriculture…”

“You seem very well informed of people’s love lives,” Lucas observed, though he supposed that made sense, with who her mom was.

Daphné glowed in response. “I mean, it’s my job as the head counselor for the Aphrodite cabin. I have a feeling love is closer than you think, by the way, for yourself.”

Lucas blinked. “Excuse me?”

Daphné shrugged, sparing a glance at Eliott, then back at Lucas. “Just a hunch. Speaking of love, I wonder where Manon is… I think she’d like you. She’s a daughter of Zeus. Maybe she’s in her cabin…”

Manon. A name Lucas hadn’t heard in years. It could be a coincidence, of course, but at the same time… “Manon Demissy?” he asked. Daphné frowned at him.

“How do you know that?”

Lucas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “She’s my cousin. She went missing when we were twelve…” he trailed off. Had she been here the whole time? Why didn’t his aunt and uncle know that? Did they have the same godly parent?

Daphné and Eliott exchanged a glance, before Daphné took a hold of his arm and dragged him after her, Eliott stumbling along behind them trying to keep up, towards the towering cabin at the end of the path, which looked more like a mausoleum than a cabin.

“Manon!” Daphné yelled once they were outside the door. “You’d better be in there, and you’d better open up, because your cousin—”

She was cut off by the door opening, and Lucas stared into a face he only had the barest memories of. She was a lot older now, sure, but still, Lucas knew exactly who she was. Her face blanched considerably when she saw Lucas.

“Lulu?” she asked, stepping all the way outside.

Lucas shifted uncomfortably at the nickname. “Uh, no one really calls me that anymo—”

Manon pulled him into a tight hug, and Lucas melted into it. His missing cousin, apparently, was just like him. When she pulled back she searched his face. “But how are you— Are you a half-blood?”

Lucas shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Who’s your father, then?” she asked, looking to Daphné and Eliott both.

“We don’t know,” Eliott said, “He’s unclaimed.”

“At eighteen?” Manon seemed confused by his age more than anything, even though they were only about a month apart in age.

Eliott and Daphné seemed to be thinking the same thing. “How did you survive this long? Most demigods don’t make it on their own past twelve out there, and the gods are supposed to claim us all by the time we’re thirteen,” Eliott said.

“He could be the son of a minor god,” Daphné offered, “Alexia was out there until she was fifteen.”

They were all looking at him expectantly, so Lucas launched into the story of his childhood, to when he’d been sent to live with Manon’s parents, how they’d moved around any time anything strange happened, and how everything had only been able to catch up with him now that he was on his own in New York.

Manon shook her head. “It still doesn’t make sense, though.”

“Your parents think you’re dead, by the way,” he said, wondering why that wasn’t bothering her.

She looked apprehensive for a moment, then said, “Lu, my mother and her husband died when I was twelve. That’s why I came to camp. I don’t have any family out there, other than you.”

“What are you talking about? Who the hell have I been living with for years, then?” Lucas demanded, but Manon looked confused as ever.

“We need to talk to Jo,” Eliott said, and Daphné nodded. “Her mother is Hecate, the goddess of magic, if anyone can peel back the Mist on this one, it’s her.”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re not talking about actual mist?” Lucas asked as he followed the three of them across the green once again. None of them answered him, which was answer enough.

“Jo!” Eliott yelled as they came across a purple cabin with a strange energy surrounding it. “We need your expertise!”

Hardly a moment later, a girl that seemed to be a bit younger than Lucas was at the door, breathless and smiling widely. She looked at Eliott with what was either severe infatuation or admiration. “Anything for my favorite camper,” she said, looking at all of them in turn, until her eyes rested on Lucas. “You must be the newbie! You’re a lot older than I thought you’d be, how the hell did you make it out there that long?”

“That’s what we need your help with,” Manon said, explaining the rest of the situation. Jo’s expression hardened as she did so, and she nodded seriously at the end.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Then, her expression was bright again. “Come inside Lucas! I don’t bite, I promise! Unless you want me to.”

“Jo,” Eliott said, exasperatedly, like he’d had to do this a lot.

She put her hands up. “Alright, alright. Come on, let’s see if we can figure out your story.”

Lucas tried to protest as she pulled him inside, door shutting behind her, leaving Eliott, Manon, and Daphné on the outside. She looked at him sympathetically. “I know it's overwhelming, but I promise you don’t have to be scared. Your job is easy, you just have to sit there while I work my magic. Literally.”

He was led to an entirely dark room and shoved unceremoniously into a chair. Jo waved her hand and a bunch of purple orbs filled the room, glowing with light. “Just close your eyes, and think about your family— your mortal family. I’ll do the rest.”

Lucas did as he was told, first thinking about his mother, and Manon, meeting his extended family when he was young. Only… that was odd, his aunt, Manon’s mother, looked quite a bit different than she did now, though maybe that was just because she was younger. There were weird, fuzzy gaps in his brain, from when he’d had to leave Paris and come to live with his aunt and uncle, which seemed strange. There were a lot of weird, fuzzy gaps, actually, the more he thought about it. Jo gasped, and Lucas opened his eyes.

Jo sighed, looking at Lucas like she’d seen something she wished she hadn’t. “It really is a curse, being able to do the things that I do,” she said simply, holding out a hand. “Come on, we have lots to share.”

Eliott, Daphné, and Manon were all bickering when Jo opened the door to let them both out of the cabin. They looked up at Jo expectantly. Well, actually, Manon and Daphné did, Eliott looked at Lucas, searching his face with his eyes, almost like he was asking if Lucas was ok. Lucas nodded, giving him a hint of a smile, which Eliott returned with one of his own.

“I’m not sure y’all will like what I have to say,” Jo warned them all, then turned to Manon. “Can we go to your cabin? I don’t want to talk about it with a bunch of people around.”

Manon frowned, but they all followed her back to the massive cabin at the end of the row once again. While they walked, Lucas couldn’t stop thinking of what all this secrecy and worry might lead to. Bad enough he’d just found out that the people he’d been living with weren’t actually related to him, did he really need to learn that he was the son of the god of, like, toilets, or something?

When they walked in Lucas noticed that the cabin was more or less set up like a museum, not a livable space. There was a massive statue of a god that Lucas assumed was Zeus, because he was carrying a lightning bolt (hey, he didn’t know much, but he knew that much), but it was a bit unnerving, because it felt like his eyes were following them as they walked across the room.

“Where are your siblings?” Lucas asked, looking around. All of the other cabins seemed to have a great number of campers living in them.

“I don’t have any,” Manon said, opening a compartment in the wall just outside statue Zeus’ eyeline. Daphné followed like she’d been there a million times, and Eliott and Jo didn’t seem to have any hesitation, so Lucas went after them, closing the compartment behind him.

“Zeus is one of the Big Three, which includes Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades,” Manon continued as they followed her, “And a long time ago, there was this big pact between the Big Three to never sire any more demigods, because of some prophecy nonsense, or something. I don’t know, it was before our time. There was this big war, and then they decided to do away with that rule, but the children of the Big Three are more powerful than most demigods. Which makes them more dangerous, more of a liability. There were a lot of us, for a time, but then the gods decided to get rid of us in case we’d cause too much trouble. As if it was our fault for existing. Each of the Big Three was supposed to choose one child to live, and I happened to be the luckiest of the bunch, because I was just a baby. I think I technically have a sister, but she’s a Hunter of Artemis, so she was exempt from this new rule. Poseidon chose this guy who’s an adult now, living in New Rome, because he pretty much saved them from destruction a number of times and he also hadn’t had anymore demigod children after him. Hades refused to choose, and the gods banished him to Tartarus. He only had two kids, both of whom pretty much saved the gods asses a million times over, and he didn’t think they deserved to be punished for existing, rightfully so.”

They were now in a chamber that Lucas definitely thought hadn’t existed previously. It was decorated in a way that seemed somewhat recent and it looked like more of a secret hideout than a bedroom. Everyone took a seat on various furniture, Daphné and Manon’s hands tangling together as they sat beside one another on the bed. Lucas was still trying his best to take in all the information, but he got lost at Tartarus. “So… Zeus killed a bunch of his kids, is the moral of the story?”

Daphné scoffed. “It was Hera who did it. She hates all children of Zeus, because she’s the goddess of marriage. Really, she just wanted to punish him, and all those innocent kids got caught in the crossfire. She only roped Poseidon and Hades into it so the other gods would agree. Everyone knew Poseidon only had one demigod child, and no one cared enough about Hades or his kids to intervene in that regard.”

“But if they all hate Hades, why is he one of the Big Three?” Lucas asked.

“I mean, the whole concept of the Big Three is inherently sexist to begin with, because it only recognizes the male children of Kronos,” Manon said. “But that’s basically why. He’s also much more powerful than anyone gives him credit for, he could wipe us all out if he wanted to. I think Zeus knows that, which is part of why he had him banished.”

“So what’s Tartarus, then?” Lucas asked, catching on, but still hopelessly lost.

It was Eliott who chimed in this time, voice cold and somewhat afraid. “There’s the Underworld, and then there’s Tartarus, which is like the hell of all hells. Worse than the Fields of Punishment tenfold. It’s the home of all the monsters, where they go to regenerate when we kill them, and is a prison or a home for the nastiest immortal beings in the universe. The only thing deeper than Tartarus is Chaos, from which everything was borne. The good, the bad, all of it. Only three demigods have ever been inside Tartarus, and they all barely survived it. Hades is being punished there, because he refused to kill one of his children.”

Lucas looked at each of them with wide eyes. “But that’s awful!”

Manon nodded grimly. “Hades isn’t the nicest of the gods, not by a longshot, but he’s a million times better than my own father, and he definitely doesn’t deserve what’s happening to him right now.”

“Zeus isn’t my dad, is he?” Lucas asked warily.

Manon smiled sadly. “You’d be dead if he was. Hera killed my mother and my stepfather, you know, as retribution for the fact that I’m alive, even though she agreed to letting one of his children live. Don’t worry about this all too much, though, you’re probably just a child of a minor god and you’ll get some sick powers out of the deal.”

Jo sat up in her beanbag chair. “Actually… that’s what we have to talk about.”

Oh, right. Lucas had almost forgotten about her magic, and what they were trying to find out about his past. Daphné encouraged her, “Well? Spill.”

Jo sighed. “So, I was able to see through the Mist on his memories, and I’m not sure you’ll like what I found. His aunt and uncle, the ones who’ve been hiding him all these years, they’re two of the Kindly Ones.”

“Kindly Ones?” Lucas asked, but he saw everyone else’s faces had paled.

“I’d wondered why they never came after us anymore… I thought it was because of Hades…” Manon mumbled to herself, but Lucas still didn’t follow.

“The Kindly Ones, better known as the Furies, are monsters that serve Hades. They come after us, sometimes, but they mostly stick by his side and do his bidding,” Eliott explained. “If they’ve been protecting you all these years…”

“You must be a child of Hades,” Manon said, finishing both Eliott’s thought and her own.

Lucas laughed loudly, sure they were just joking around with him. Hades? No way, he was just some minor demigod, not someone who should, for all intents and purposes, be dead. These people were all crazy after all, he’d been right all along. He forced another laugh and shook his head. “Come on, guys, you can’t be serious.”

But they weren’t looking at him, they were looking just above him.

“Unfortunately, it seems that we are,” Daphné said gravely, and Lucas looked above his head just in time to see a glowing symbol disappearing.

“What was that?” he asked.

“You’ve just been claimed,” Eliott said, “By the god of the dead. Lucas, you are a son of Hades.”

And wasn’t that just fan-fucking-tastic.

Not only was he half god, he was half of a god who should have had him killed when he was a baby. He supposed that was a point in his father’s favor that he wasn’t dead, but couldn’t he have done more to keep him hidden from this world? He was a god, that should have been in his power.

“The good news for you is that you have four eyewitnesses,” Manon said, and Lucas could nearly see the wheels spinning in her head. He didn’t know how that helped anything, now there were just four other people who knew a secret that could get him killed the moment he stepped back outside into camp.

Daphné, though, seemed to understand what Manon was saying. “Four eyewitnesses who saw you claimed by any god other than Hades,” she said, and Lucas understood.

“I can’t ask you guys to do that for me,” he argued, “What if something happens to you as a result?” He didn’t even know any of them, really, he couldn’t ask them to risk themselves like this.

“If it’s a choice between seeing you live or seeing you die, I’m going to go with the former, no matter who you are,” Jo said simply, and the other three nodded beside her. Lucas appreciated this level of blind faith in him, even if he didn’t know if he deserved it. Obviously, he didn’t want to die, and it meant a lot that these four people he barely knew cared enough to make sure he didn’t. They could very well do the same with every other demigod, but every other demigod wasn’t there right now, so Lucas let himself feel this unearned love, just a little bit.

A thought struck him, then, that may put a crimp in their plan. “But how will I pretend to be the child of another god?”

Jo winked at him. “Leave that to me. My siblings are great and all, but if you really want magic done right, you come to me. I can make it look like one of the other gods has claimed you.”

“But which one?” Manon inquired, tilting her head to one side like she was working through every god in her mind. “It has to be one of the male gods, because his mother is mortal and that’s easy to prove, but it can’t be one of the ones that has obvious, testable, powers.”

“He could be Apollo,” Daphné suggested, “Apollo has a lot of different skills, so Lucas must fit into one of them.”

“No,” Eliott interjected, voice sounding a bit hoarse, like he hadn’t meant to say anything. Everyone’s heads shot in his direction and he blushed, pretending that the floor was very interesting all of a sudden. He mumbled, “Children of Apollo have certain traits that are too easy to prove Lucas doesn’t have.”

Lucas didn’t know whether to take offense to that, and he was a little bit hurt that Eliott didn’t think him worthy enough to be a son of the sun god, but he supposed that’s what he got when he was a child of a death god.

Manon snapped, taking everyone’s attention off of Eliott, for which he seemed grateful. “What about Hypnos, god of sleep? I’m fairly good friends with Lisa, their head counselor, and the only real requirement for that one is the ability to sleep.”

“I, uh, have insomnia,” Lucas admitted. Of course, he couldn’t even fit in with the sleeping god. Eliott snorted into his hand, and tried to cover it up with a cough, which weirdly made Lucas feel better.

“Ares?” Manon offered.

Lucas squinted. “The war guy?”

“What about Dionysus?” Jo chimed in, only to be cut off by Daphné.

“Mr. D literally works at this camp, Jo, absent as he is at the moment. I think he’d know who his children are.”

“Right…”

“What about Hermes?” Eliott suggested. He looked a bit uncomfortable with everyone’s attention on him again, but he continued, “I mean, he’s sort of a jack of all trades, so his kids don’t usually have any particularly defining characteristics, aside from the occasional theft.”

“I’ve stolen things,” Lucas supplied, in a way that he hoped was helpful.

Eliott smiled widely, gesturing to him. “He’s stolen things!”

“That just might work,” Daphné said with a nod, starting to smile. “And Arthur would have our back on this, should the truth come out in any way. I mean, I think we should keep it between the five of us, but we know Arthur’s trustworthy, is all. Plus, no one would question it, Hermes has lots of kids.”

“It would also make sense as to why you’ve gone this long without coming to camp. Hermes is powerful enough that some of his kids have issues in the real world, but a lot of them can make it without any problems,” Manon added.

“Well?” Eliott asked him, smile still just as bright as a second ago. “What do you say, Lucas, son of Hermes?”

Lucas nodded slowly. “I think I could do that. And you guys are sure that— that you can help me with this?” He didn’t want to ask for too much, but if they were willing, it would be nice to not be alone.

Each of them nodded in turn. “We’re a team now,” Manon promised, daring the others to disagree. They didn’t, which was a relief.

When Lucas thought about all the ways he’d thought his life would have gone, and this was so far out of anything he’d ever considered that he was still having a hard time processing it all, but it really struck him, in that moment, that it was all real, that this was his life now.

He looked at Eliott, who looked back at him with curiosity in his eyes, and it felt like a wave of understanding passed between the two of them. Lucas didn’t entirely know what that understanding was, but it comforted him. Maybe, just maybe, this would turn out all right.

#skam france #elu #elu fic #pjo au

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jacques-review · 3 years ago

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“I Am Human”: The Spectacular Sha’Carri Richardson

Introducing the One and Only

Sha’Carri Richardson is the talk of the town, again. No, it’s not for her “10.72 seconds to win the 100 meters at the 2021 Miramar Invitational.” It’s not about missing the Olympics due to failing a drug test. Nor is it about the passing of her mother. No, this time it’s about her ninth-place finish at the 2021 Prefontaine Classic. This event was hyped up as being the ultimate showdown between Richardson and the Jamaican Olympic sprinting group led by Elaine Thompson-Herah.

In fact, I initially set out to write about Thompson-Herah. I wanted to say a few words about this amazing time in women’s sprinting history. Sure, there is Florence Delorez Griffith Joyner, also known as Flo-Jo, of 1980s fame. But she’s not someone that I can say I saw run although I was alive at the time. Besides Elaine, there is also the legendary Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce who is holding on to second place in the world at the age of 34. These two Jamaicans have made women sprinting enjoyable and fans out of us all (well, most of us)! I’m hoping to continue to see Elaine remain a dominant force in the sport for the next 3 - 4 years.

The more I observe the Prefontaine post women’s 100m reactions, the more I felt obligated to shift my writing focus from Elaine to Sha’Carri (Henceforth, Carri). My initial focus on Elaine was also due to the amount of attention Carri was getting despite the fact that she wasn’t the winner of the race. In a sense, I felt like Elaine’s moment was being dwarfed by Carri. The fastest woman in the world at 100m wasn’t being talked about as much as the last-place finisher.

I wanted to contribute to shifting the focus from Carri to Elaine. But the noise on the digital street was too loud and demonizing.

Birth of a Shooting Star

In the beginning (at the start of the year, of course), the attention being given to women’s track and field by the public wasn’t noticeable. In my usual circles and in the corners of cyberspace that I frequent, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” The world, it seems, woked from its slumber to the tune of Carri running a 10.72 in April. Carri did it in dazzling fashion with long eyelashes and fingernails, and what I’ve come to refer to as fiery orange hair. From that point on Carri, as a U.S. track and field athlete, became the dominant talk of the world’s largest and most influential blowhorn, the U.S. media.

If that’s not true, it’s all I heard. Sure, other athletes were sprinkled in and match-ups were expected for the coming Olympics. But the U.S. media championed the image of the One that stood a chance of bringing Olympic gold in the women’s 100m. Her appearance played well with the cameras. She looked like a star, something special. Indeed, the legend continued as she ran a 10.86 to qualify for the Olympics in June. Thus, the superstar, the speeding comet, was expected to show up at the Olympics with at least a reasonable chance at winning some type of metal if not gold.

"I am an Olympian. No matter what is said ... I am an Olympian. A dream since I've been young. I'm pretty sure everybody's dream as a track athlete. "Being happy is an understatement. Being excited, nervous, all of those feelings. I'm highly blessed and grateful." -- Sha'Carri Richardson

I Get High

Well, that didn’t happen. The U.S. watched its prophesied chance at gold (or any other metal) in the women’s 100m come crashing down in all her fiery Orange hair glory. But not due to a loss. Stopping Carri from running because of weed was absurd to the public. African Americans weren’t interested in hearing that an athlete was stopped in a competition as grand as the Olympics for use of a product that they believe would not have contributed to her speed at all.

See the following articles for reference on race and black athletes.

The Olympics has a race problem. Athletes everywhere are calling out the sporting body for a history of banning Black women. - Yelena Dzhanova

The Olympics Continues to Prevent Top Black Athletes From Competing - Molly Sprayregen

The Weight On Black Women In Sports; Plus, 'We Are Lady Parts' - NPR

At this point, let me say that I agreed with those that argued for review of laws in order to determine if time had made them inapplicable. This is especially true considering the rapid legalization of weed across the U.S. “Cannabis is legal in 18 states, and allowed medically in 37 states.” However, I have to highlight that when it comes to weed, it is “outdated to joke about it as a party drug, writing off users as slow, pizza-munching losers when many successful people consume cannabis. Cannabis is a complicated substance with a nuanced role in fitness, performance, and society.” Keep the nuanced aspect in mind.

I have no doubt that it would not have made Carri into a faster runner. But, I think it’s important to keep the dualism that allows us to look at both what we as non-experts know of the impact of weed and the possibility that science may make discoveries later that can shock us. It is also important to consider that the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) isn’t a sub-organization of the U.S. Therefore the demands being placed upon athletes must be seen as globally relevant (ideally speaking). This is true despite the fact that the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, in a letter to Jamie Raskin and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, stated that it “has consistently put forward recommendations that the rules addressing cannabis and cannabinoids should be more flexible and fair.”

Left (Far)Behind

Despite missing the Olympics a resurgence of interest was generated when it was announced that Carri would “face all three Tokyo Olympic medalists in the women’s 100m.” And all the world wondered after Carri. Well, at least in terms of what will be the result of the showdown in this supposed clash of the titans. I must confess that I don’t recall hearing or seeing that Carri was going to best all the members of the golden three-headed Jamaican *Leviathan. At the Olympics, Elaine Thompson-Herah ran a 10:61, Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce ran 10:74, and Shericka Jackson finishing at 10:76.

With Carri’s 10:72, she would have been competitive against Fraser-Pryce and Jackson if she was able to maintain that type of speed. This is theoretical, of course. What took place was a shock to the track and field world. It wasn’t that Carri was expected to win. She was expected to be better than ninth place. But that’s what happened. Carri finished at 11:14 while Elaine finished at 10:54. In other words, Elain ran faster than she did at the Olympics. This makes Elaine second only to Flo Jo’s 10:49 in 1988. Carri was a none factor. It appears that the star has fallen in dramatic of a fashion as she appeared.

Be Humble?

In response to the loss, Carri said to reporters:

"This is one race. I'm not done. You know what I'm capable of. Count me out if you want to. Talk all the s--t you want because I'm here to stay. I'm not done. I'm the sixth-fastest woman in this game, ever, and can't nobody ever take that away from me. Congratulations to the winners. Congratulations to the people that won, but they're not done seeing me yet -- period." -- Sha'Carri Richardson

A good deal of critique, anger, and disgust came in reaction to what Carri said. Some believed that she wasn’t humble after the loss. They were surprised at what she said. Others pointed out that her interview was the most played despite the fact that she wasn’t the winner. There were questions as to why was she being interviewed at all.

What Now?

At this juncture, I will offer some considerations. Carri experienced a number of significant occurrences around the time of her ascent to fame. Again, her mother died. That’s a significant event. But then she was ban from the Olympics, the ultimate event for any professional sprinter, because of one of the methods she chose to use for grieving. Those are heavy blows. And throughout out it all, she was determined to maintain the same type of energy.

That Same Ol' G

"Even though I got my own CD maybe even on t.v. There ain't no changing me I can only be me me me Even though I might be on t.v. 'cause I got my own CD All you will ever see (that) same ol' G" -- Ginuwine, Same Ol' G (1998)

In Ginuwine’s classic single Same Ol’ G, released in 1998 off of the Dr. Dolittle album, the singer reflects on being his authentic self despite being celebrated in the public sphere through compact disc and t.v. Carri wasn’t faking the funk. She was being real. She was being herself, that same ol’ g. It wasn’t a new persona that was on display because she was in front of all of the lights. Carri has been speaking with the same type of energy before her Olympic trials.

What does it look like being real for somebody Carri’s age and from where she comes from? Does being real look the same way across the board? Should you start acting differently because you lost or something else happens in your life?

The following are a few clips from her Twitter as evidence for how she has been speaking even prior to her Olympic qualifications.

You Wake Up, Flawless

"We teach girls to shrink themselves, to make themselves smaller We say to girls "You can have ambition, but not too much You should aim to be successful, but not too successful" -- Beyoncé, Flawless (2014)

What if what looks like confidence for you is misinterpreted as arrogance by someone else? In other words, do our definitions always function accurately across the board and at all times? Sure, we can cite lexical meanings for humility and arrogance and attempt to apply them across the board. Can we make the case that it is time to start critiquing how do definitions play on the ground? I’m only simply pushing forward the argument that we have already been critiquing does definitions and they have shown up in our music, our clothing, and yes, the way we talk.

You wake up, flawless, Post up, flawless Ridin' round in it, flawless, Flossin on that, flawless This diamond, flawless, My diamond, flawless This rock, flawless, My rock, flawless I woke up like this, I woke up like this

— Beyoncé, Flawless

How does Beyonce’s flawless look like in the real world? What does #blackgirlmagic look like?

“Self-esteem means knowing you are the dream.” – Oprah Winfrey

"I was built this way for a reason, so I’m going to use it." - Simone Biles

"You are your best thing." - Toni Morrison

"One of the lessons that I grew up with was to always stay true to yourself and never let what somebody else says distract you from your goals." - Michelle Obama

These quotes of renowned black women sound great on their own, don’t they? What if what we are seeing from Carri is a version of what that looks like in real life? To what extent can we say definitively that we understand her enough to know that she is arrogant? What if Carri’s defense mechanism looms large at the forefront due to what she experienced in the distant and recent past?

It could very well be that Carri is indeed arrogant. The happenings in Carri’s life may very well be lessons needing to be learned for personal growth and development. The case being made here is that a more nuanced approach should be had. The same amount of consideration given to already established persons should be allocated towards those that we haven’t yet thought of as being on the same level. The same ones saying she is arrogant may themselves be exhibiting arrogance in speaking in absolutes concerning one that is unknown.

Dear Mama

"Lady, don't you know we love you? (Dear Mama) Sweet lady, place no one above you? (You are appreciated) Sweet lady, don't you know we love you? (Dear Mama)" -- 2 Pac, Dear Mama (1995)

How long does it take someone to recover from the passing of a parent? I can’t assume that we all have the same level of understanding concerning the complexity of loss. Carri lost a parent. How close was she to the mom? How close was she hoping to be to her mom one day? While the news was out that her mother died, it didn’t seem to play a factor in the assessments that were being made about her placing in the race. It should have been obvious right?

Here is a brief introduction to the complexities of grief.

Although grief is a universal experience that is shared by all human beings, the actual grief response in each individual is very unique, and the expression of grief can vary greatly from one person to another. Many factors, such as personality traits, the presence of concurrent stressors and previous losses, the nature of loss(es), and the social expectations that are present, have a great deal of influence in shaping the course of grief for an individual. (p. 26).

It is very important to remember that no individual’s grief experience will neatly fit into a single model, because there is much variation in how losses are perceived and also in how grief is expressed and worked through. (p. 34)

— Darcy L. Harris & Howard R. Winokuer, Principles and Practice of Grief Counseling (2015)

Epilogue

Carri has already said what she needed to say about herself. What we are witnessing now is simply a play out of a young women’s plight as she live out what it means to be who she is on a public stage.

*"Leviathan, Hebrew Livyatan, in Jewish mythology, a primordial sea serpent. Its source is in prebiblical Mesopotamian myth, especially that of the sea monster in the Ugaritic myth of Baal (see Yamm). In the Old Testament, Leviathan appears in Psalms 74:14 as a multiheaded sea serpent that is killed by God and given as food to the Hebrews in the wilderness. In Isaiah 27:1, Leviathan is a serpent and a symbol of Israel’s enemies, who will be slain by God. In Job 41, it is a sea monster and a symbol of God’s power of creation." -- Encyclopaedia Britannica

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#Sha'Carri Richardson #Women's 100 Meters #Women Sprinters #Track and Field

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minuteminx · 4 years ago

Text

Revolutionary

Pairing: Preston Garvey/ Female Sole Survivor

Summary: In the aftermath of personal tragedies, Preston and Charlie both seek to make a difference in the Commonwealth and those around them. They could never anticipate the impact that they will have on eachother in the process.

Chapter Two: Quincy

Chapter Summary: History is different when it plays out before one's eyes.

[First Chapter]

[AO3 Link]

“What is to give light must endure burning.” ― Victor Frankl

Quincy, September 2287

An early autumn sunset fell over the splintered buildings and raised walkways that surrounded the tattered homes and market stalls known as the Quincy Settlement. Preston wondered if the sky had always looked like that, or whether the hazy pinks and oranges were yet another lingering effect of the nuclear fallout that had destroyed the Commonwealth some two-hundred years earlier. Even if that was the case, it was comforting to think that the end of the world hadn’t been quite enough to darken the Sun.

To call Quincy “the most prosperous settlement in the southeast” was doing it a big favor. That its settlers had managed to survive in the harsh, swampy land rife with ‘lurks and ferals long enough to establish sound supply lines with Diamond City and Bunker hill was impressive, but Quincy itself was no thriving center of life. It was just the only place where humanity had managed to establish itself in the region, and as such, it was a big target for raiders and mercs of all sorts, who sought to claim it for themselves.

Preston traveled to the settlement with Colonel Hollis and a small contingent of Minutemen in response to a distress call from the mayor. Apparently a batty, old jet-head had some sort of vision that Gunners, a ruthless pack of cult-like murderers, were plotting to seize Quincy. It was a stretch, in his honest opinion. He’d never been the religious type, and he definitely didn’t believe in psychic visions. It was just a coincidence that the militia had to drive back a small band of the mercenaries less than a day after their arrival. Many of the attackers fled when they were met with resistance; however, a young boy had been shot in the leg. Last Preston heard, he still hadn’t recovered.

He finished driving a nail into the latest of many wooden boards he’d been using to fortify the settlement walls and stepped back to examine his work, dropping the hammer to the ground by his feet. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing at all. Besides, there wasn’t much else he was qualified to do. He’d never been any good with technology, so wasn’t any help to that mechanic, Sturges, nor was he important enough to sit and strategize with Colonel Hollis, Lieutenant Colonel Richards, and Mayor Jackson.

As far as Preston and anyone else was concerned, the only job he really had left was to walk around with a gun in his hand and wait for reinforcements. Not that he believed reinforcements would actually arrive. Ever since General Becker died, the Minutemen hadn’t been known for being reliable, timely, or helpful. It almost seemed hypocritical to use the name of an historical group named for being ready to help at a minute’s notice.

“Hey Preston,” chimed a familiar voice, snapping him out of the gloom and doom. He looked up in time to watch Millie jump down from the walkway just above his head. She frowned when she saw his face. “Oof.”

“You really need to be more careful,” he remarked as she put her hands on her hips.

“And you need to stop sulking,” she retorted, and handed him a container of purified water “You know, I had no idea when my dad recruited you all those years ago that you’d grow up to be my mother. ”

Preston offered her a shrug as he took a long swig of the water. Amelia Hollis was the daughter, and only child of Colonel Ezra Hollis. A handful of years older than Preston, Millie’d been his unofficial mentor since he’d joined up with the Minutemen at seventeen, lost, alone, and hoping to turn his tragedies into something meaningful. Over the years, she had become his closest friend and constant shoulder to lean on, even after she and Richards coupled up. Part of him had always wondered if his feelings for her were mutual. Turned out they were just friends after all.

“The walls are looking good,” said Millie, tilting her head and looking at his work.

“I did my best,” he replied, laughing and shaking his head, “Not sure what a bunch of old wood’ll do against laser rifles besides catch fire.”

“Better for it to catch fire than us.”

“That’s true.” Preston frowned and surveyed his surroundings as if reinforcements and an armory full of ammunition would miraculously pop up from the rubble. He flinched when Millie grabbed his shoulders and squared him up to face her, eyebrows stern.

“We have done everything we can, Preston,” she insisted, grip tightening, “You’ve done everything you can.”

“It’s not enough.” He shook his head and pulled away from her, attempting to walk past her. “These people are counting on us, and all we’ve managed to do so far is get a kid shot.”

Millie blocked his path and crossed her arms. “At least we showed up! Listen, I know you’ve got these big ideas about what the Minutemen are supposed to be about. You always have. But it’s not the reality. Sometimes all the good guys can do is show up.”

“And that’s just… okay with you? Just showing up?” His voice shook, but he refused to raise it.

“No. ‘Course not,” she huffed and shifted her weight from one leg to another, “Look, the old man said he got a radio message from some guy. Clint, he said. Apparently they ran together when Becker was still alive. Anyway, he’s coming with some of his people to help us out.”

“Didn’t Clint leave the Minutemen after Joe Becker died?” Preston narrowed his eyes. He’d heard rumors about Clint, none of them good.

“Dad thought so, too, but he’s offering help and we’re not exactly in a place to turn him down.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed, “Look, I’m sorry for being so pessimistic, it’s just…”

“I know you’re taking what happened to that Long boy personally,” Millie stated matter-of-factly, “But that ain’t your fault and you know it.”

Preston had a hard time convincing himself that he wasn’t responsible for Kyle Long’s injuries. He had been so caught up with fortifications, he hadn’t noticed the boy following him around toting an old broom handle like it was a laser musket. Gunners attacked before he could even tell him to run to safety. Damned snipers had gotten up onto the walkway. Several other members of the militia dealt with them while Preston Carried Kyle to safety, but the boy had already lost consciousness and a lot of blood. Marcy’s desperate screams and curses still rang in his ears. He deserved them all, no matter how many times Millie told him he didn’t.

“I failed to protect him,” he snapped, “And unlike you, I don’t think that showing up is good enough. So, yeah. It’s my fault.”

“Christ.” She threw her hands up in surrender. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” he said, and then paused, a brief, heavy silence hanging in the air between them before he pointed to the pharmacy with his thumb, “I’m going to go check on him.”

Millie nodded, and he turned to walk away, but she called after him. “Hey… Preston?”

“Hmm?” He looked back at her over his shoulder.

“Are we… good?”

He softened at the question and smiled. After all, it wasn’t her he was mad at. “Yeah. We’re good.”

The Longs’ home was situated just above the pharmacy, which they owned and operated. Preston could already hear shuffling footsteps and Marcy’s muffled, angry voice as he stepped inside, stomach twisted to hell at the thought of facing her again. He knew he needed to, that it was the right thing to do, but damn it if he didn’t want to avoid the painful conversation at all costs. Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the back of the store and up the rickety wooden stairs and knocked on the locked door to their room.

“Who is it,” snapped Marcy.

Preston flinched. He wasn’t used to people taking that kind of tone with him. People usually liked him, and he didn’t immediately know how to react. “It’s Preston, ma’am,” he said, sticking to his M.O.

“Great,” she replied emphatically, and with sarcasm that wasn’t lost on him, “Just who we wanted to see. What do you want?”

“I came to check on Kyle. I can come back later if—” He was interrupted by the door swinging open, nearly smacking him in the face.

Marcy stared him down, scowling from head to toe. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Well, come in.”

He nodded and walked inside, taking his hat off as he did so. When he was just a boy, his dad taught him that it was disrespectful to enter someone’s home with a hat on; however, the gesture was wasted on Mrs. Long, who had not even seemed to notice. She directed him around the corner of a divider that separated Kyle’s room from his parents’. The boy lay in bed, pale and breathing shallowly. Jun sat beside his son’s bed, elbows on his knees and face in his hands, hair dirty and disheveled. Preston cleared his throat, hoping to not startle the man.

Jun snapped his head up at the noise, a sad smile twitching on his lips. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Really?” The disbelief slipped out before he could stop it. “I just, well, I figured—”

“He’s been asking to see you,” Marcy explained, tone softening as she moved to sit on the edge of Kyle’s bed, nudging him gently. “Sweetheart, wake up. There’s someone here to see you.”

Kyle stirred, grunting as his eyes flickered open, first glancing between his parents then up at Preston. A wide grin stretched across his face and he rose up to his elbows as best he could. “Mr. Garvey!”

“Hey buddy,” Preston said, smiling back at him and kneeling beside the bed, “How are you feeling?”

The boy pointed to his injured leg and whimpered, “It hurts.”

Guilt and rage churned in Preston’s chest. From the stain of blood that seeped through Kyle’s sheets, and his lack of color, he was far from being out of the woods. It was not a good state to be in with an expected Gunner ambush. Even if he survived an evacuation from the settlement, it wasn’t clear he’d be able to keep his leg.

“I know,” Preston managed, “I’m sorry.”

“Daddy says you’re gonna keep us safe from the bad guys if they come back!”

“That’s what we’re here for,” he answered, ignoring Marcy’s unimpressed scoff in the background.

Before the conversation could continue, commotion had stirred outside, first the loud metallic creaking of a gate being opened, frantic shouting, then a gunshot. Marcy and Jun jumped at the noise, looked at each other, then to Kyle, then to Preston, eyes searching for directions.

“Stay here,” he directed them as calmly as he could, returning his hat to his head before rushing downstairs and out into the street.

At the gate, several Minutemen had gathered, weapons ready and aimed at a line of Gunners. In the center stood a tall, burly man with an ugly mustache and hyper-reflective sunglasses. A body lay on the ground at his feet—Mayor Jackson’s body, from the looks of it— and he held the colonel at gunpoint, laser pistol to the temple. Millie fought against Richards’ arms, screaming as he held her back and out of harm's way. Snipers once again lined the roofs and walkways as more Gunners poured in from all directions. How in the hell had the Gunners managed to catch everyone off guard with such a huge contingent?

“Clint,” Hollis shouted, “You dirty, backstabbing son-of-a-bitch. I should have known better than to think you’d actually help us.”

Clint, once an esteemed militia veteran, now a murderer. A traitor. Preston’s blood boiled, sweaty palms tightening around his musket. No one had seen him yet. He could shoot, he thought, just once before the mercs lining the walls would fire on the other Minutemen and innocent settlers alike. Even if Preston managed to kill Clint with that one shot, it would be a bloodbath.

“You never were too bright Ezra, always letting that bleeding heart of yours get in the way,” he said, finger moving up just slightly to hover over the trigger, “Should have put you out of your misery a long time ago”

“Dad,” Millie cried, breaking away from Richards, and rushing forward. “ Clint, you don’t have to do this.”

“No, sweetheart,” the man replied, despicable lilt in his voice, “I don’t, but where’s the fun in that?”

A gunshot rang out, a loud, searing blast of energy that caused Preston to flinch away, and he allowed himself to hope it had just been a warning. But Clint didn’t exactly seem like the generous, warning shot-offering type of guy. No, he and his whole crew were cruel and bloodthirsty, and Preston had just heard someone die. He hadn’t been prepared for it to be Millie, who he saw fall to the ground just as he forced his eyes open. The Lieutenant-Colonel cried out and attempted to rush to her, to catch her, but was met with a laser blast directly to the chest instead, collapsing in the dirt. Panic pounded in his ears so loudly he didn’t even hear the shot that killed Hollis, and time stood still. The settlement fell completely silent, no noise at all but the crunch of Clint’s boasting footsteps as he and his men advanced further into town.

“Any more of you pathetic maggots want to take your chances?” It was less of a question and more of false promise that anyone could survive. If the people stood their ground, they’d be shot in the chest. If they ran, they’d be shot in the back. Some kind of options those were.

Without anyone to give orders, without a prayer, the remainder of the militia and settlers scrambled, caged animals trying to escape the slaughter, Gunners stalking after them. Preston stood numbly, watching the chaos from the pharmacy doorway. He wanted to charge into the fray and take out every Gunner bastard he could before the snipers got him, go down with the sinking ship that was the Commonwealth Minutemen. As useless as he was to anyone alive, he figured he’d be even more useless if he died. After all, he’d given Kyle his word that he’d protect him and his family, and that’s what he intended to do.

As he turned to re-enter the pharmacy, he caught a glimpse of two crouching forms clinging to the shadows of the building next door. Sturges, rusty pipe pistol in hand, used his body to shield Mama Murphy from any potential gunfire aimed at them. Preston shouted at the mechanic, just loud enough to get his attention, and motioned for him and the old woman to get inside. Relief washed over Sturges’ face, and he nodded, looked around to make sure they could make a clean break, and rushed past Preston and through the door.

“Shit fire,” Sturges exclaimed, more to himself than anyone else..

“I told you he’d save us, Sturg,” Mama remarked wistfully, high as a goddamn kite, “I saw it.”

“I know. I heard you all twenty times you said it before, Mama,” he answered, words clipped but not unkind. He glanced up at Preston. “Doped up prophecy or not, I’m sure glad we ran into you, man. Got a plan?”

A plan. Were things not so dire, Preston might have laughed. He couldn’t even put together a single thought, let alone a plan that wasn’t “run” or “don’t die.” He shook his head. Stay here. I’m going to head upstairs, get the Longs, and then we’re all going to get the heck out of Dodge.”

“What about the others,” Sturges asked, “Everyone’s trying to hightail it.”

“We’ll grab whoever we find on the way,” he answered somberly, “That’s all we can do right now.”

“Sounds good, boss.”

Preston shook off Sturges’ suggestion that he had any sort of authority or leadership over anyone. He was trained and better equipped to fight than the others, sure, but he was no more in control of the situation than anyone else, no less scared. He rushed upstairs to where he’d left the Longs just minutes before. They’d left the door open, and Marcy and Jun jumped up from their seats at Kyle’s bedside as they heard him enter.

“What’s going on,” Marcy asked, desperation in her voice, “It sounds bad out there?”

“There’s no time to explain,” Preston insisted, keeping his voice as low and calm as possible, “I’m really sorry, but we have to go. Now.”

“But—” Jun said looking back at Kyle who’d lost consciousness again, “It won’t be safe to move him.”

“Safer than staying here and getting killed by those bastards outside,” Marcy argued, lifting her son up into her arms and then turning to face Preston. “Thank you for coming back to get us.”

Preston smiled, eyes lingering on Kyle’s face, peaceful despite all of the chaos around them. “It’s what I’m here for.”

#fallout 4 #preston garvey #preston garvey x sole survivor #preson garvey x f!sole survivor #fallout #my writing #YEP we're retelling the Quincy Massacre

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