#oliver is so big sister coded to me. just constantly

[bruciemilf]

Bruce: I trust Oliver with my life.

Clark: You don't even trust me with a sandwich!

Bruce: Because Oliver didn't eat my sandwich.

Clark: Yes he did, and I'll prove it!

Oliver: I didn't eat his sandwich. I'll eat your mom tonight, thought

[raywritesthings]

Sheriff, Hood and Maid

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Quentin Lance, Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, John Diggle Relationships: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen (Hinted/Unresolved) Summary: Long before the Hood arrives in Starling City, Detective Lance relaxes his loyalty to the law. His daughter must take on a double life of her own to redeem her family legacy. / AU What-If of Season 1 *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

It had been a moment of weakness. After losing Sara, seeing the bodies of all those young girls pile up one after the other, with stiff limbs and sightless eyes, it was too much. He’d have done anything to make it stop, to catch Mathis.

Anything, as it turned out, had meant selling his soul.

He’d received a call tipping him off to a location Mathis was supposedly using to conduct his sick experiments. When he’d arrived, there was no Mathis and no equipment. Just a mid-ranking member of one of the local cartels.

Quentin had been angered and then infuriated when the thug had proposed his deal. Immunity for him and his side in exchange for information. He had stormed out of that warehouse and not looked back.

Then another girl had turned up dead. And another. Before he could think it through too many times, he was dialing the number that had called in the fake tip.

What else could he have done? It wasn’t like people weren’t going to buy the drugs anyway if he refused to play ball with the cartel. He’d gotten a location and led a raid to catch the Dollmaker in the act. A serial killer behind bars.

“Just remember the favor you owe us, Detective,” he’d been warned. “Or your pretty daughter with the fancy new law degree is gonna wish it was Mathis that got to her.”

Okay, so one cartel was going to walk the streets knowing he’d look the other way. So what? They didn’t have the manpower to bring them all in.

The funny thing was, once one deal was made, it didn’t seem so bad to make more. It was like they could sniff him out all of a sudden. Maybe there was talk. He didn’t know.

Quentin found himself with a lot more convictions under his belt and a lot more friends in low places. His tab was always paid at his favorite bar before he even made it there after a shift. It wasn’t like he was letting all the criminals walk. There were still bad people getting put away.

How was it any different than Nudocerdo hobnobbing with the big wigs in their ivory towers? How was it any different than Moira Queen or Malcolm Merlyn paying all the right people to get their kids off the hook for crimes they ought to be serving sentences for?

Whenever he happened to be in a charitable mood, which he rarely was, Quentin could admit it wasn’t very different to all the wheeling and dealing he’d done behind the scenes to keep Sara’s record clean.

If he had one saving grace, it was Laurel. She alone was untouched by all the dirt and corruption their city was swimming in. He was prouder than he could say, and it burned at him more than he could stand sometimes the way she would remind him of all the things he had once taught her about the law and doing what was right. He snapped at her more than was warranted for it, and he knew she just couldn’t understand.

He never wanted her to. If she ever knew…

But it was pointless to even worry about that. The associates he’d acquired over the last few years would ensure he was never ousted, so long as he kept up his end of the deals he’d made. And he would, for her sake. This city was rotten to the core, and if all he could do was save one person from it, it damned well wouldn’t be the rich elites who could bribe their way through anything or the teens with rap sheets already a mile long. It would be his own flesh and blood, all he had left of it in the world.

With enough drink in him, most nights he went to bed with a muddied conscience. But it was enough to let him sleep.

---

Laurel had had a bad feeling for a long time. Various bad feelings, she supposed, but it was hard not to when her sister and boyfriend died while screwing each other, her mother left and her father fell into drinking. There weren’t many good feelings left in the wake of all that.

But this specific one had more to do with her work. Ever since she had started at CNRI, things had felt a little… off.

At first she hadn’t noticed, too caught up in the high of winning her first official case, saving a man’s son from prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Other little victories here and there. 

But then, every time she tried going up against something big, the systemic forces truly plaguing their city, roadblocks constantly sprung up in her path. A judge threw the case out, witnesses disappeared, evidence went missing from the police lockers and, lately, her boss had been getting very particular about handing out or approving assignments.

If she’d talked to her father about it once, she must have talked to him about it a million times. He’d been a sympathetic ear at first, promising to keep an eye on things at the precinct, but as time wore on he did little more than sigh and tell her that she couldn’t expect to change the world overnight. Joanna did him one better and suggested Laurel do something with all that pent-up frustration, which had led Laurel to seeking out boxing lessons at a gym not too far from their office.

While letting her anger out through her fists did wonders for her emotional self-control, it did little to fix the rest of her problems. Laurel’s mind chased itself around in circles night after night, wondering just where the trouble was starting from. Was there some kind of leak between their office and the DA’s? Was it Kate Spencer herself? Or was she being spied on?

Laurel started meeting her clients outside of the office and off the books. For a while, it seemed to help as she was happy to note to her dad. But gradually, whatever force was conspiring against her seemed to catch up to her new methods. It didn’t matter if she worked with Joanna or alone, if she wrote her files in plain English or in the secret code she and Sara had developed during a particularly boring winter filled with school cancellations due to the wind chill, making playing outside impossible. She was reaching her wit’s end with this enemy who seemed to know her as well as she knew herself.

Just as she was starting to wonder if everything was hopeless, an unexpected ally of sorts emerged from seemingly nowhere: an archer dressed in green. He’d appeared on the scene as suddenly as Oliver had stepped back into her life after five years of him being presumed dead, taking in Adam Hunt and his security team before Laurel was slated to lose her case against him thanks to a bought Judge Grell. Then again, he took on Martin Sommers and the Triad after they attacked her home while Oliver was visiting.

It was exhilarating seeing someone finally stand up to the untouchable in this city. She couldn’t help to wonder why no one had thought to do it before, couldn’t help but feel inspired...

Laurel kept these thoughts to herself while staying at her father’s that night. The police were still processing the crime scene that her apartment had become the other night thanks to the home invasion that she suspected was meant to have been an assassination if she hadn’t been able to take down one of their attackers and Mr. Diggle hadn’t shown up to confront China White. The bodyguard himself might have been killed had Oliver not been extremely lucky with his knife throw. She supposed he must have gotten very good at that sort of thing while hunting for food on the island.

Laurel’s dreams of a figure moving through thick, green overgrowth stalking the Fortune 500 were interrupted by the low snarl of her dad’s voice. Laurel startled awake, looking around in confusion.

“...don’t care that he got away. Sommers overreached, and that’s his and your problem, not mine!”

Light shone through the cracks around the bedroom door. He was still awake? Laurel slid off the mattress as quietly as she could, sneaking in her socks to the door. She opened it a centimeter and peered down the hall.

Her father was pacing back and forth, crossing in and out of view as he spoke into a phone. “My daughter comes first. The minute you agreed to his contract, that’s the minute you turned your back on me. I wasn’t gonna do a damned thing to save that bottom-feeder from some vigilante.”

Laurel’s mind raced. If this was about Sommers, and her father was talking to a person who had accepted a contract that had to do with her…

“Yeah, I know. I know what you have on me. I’d rather we continue on business as usual, too, but we can’t do that unless I have your word that the next time Laurel is in your sights, you let me handle it. Alright? She’s my responsibility, not yours. And you can tell that to China White herself.”

China White. The Triad. Her father was on the phone with the Triad.

She watched him hang up and rub a hand across his forehead. “Should’ve just let her go to San Francisco…” he muttered under his breath.

She couldn’t keep watching. Laurel shook her head and backed up into a dresser with a muffled bang, too loud for him not to have heard. “Shit,” she whispered.

Sure enough, she heard his shoes coming down the hall. Rather than comforting, they sounded loud and heavy and like a threat. What did she do? What did she say?

The door opened before she could make up her mind to flee, and Laurel looked up at her father.

“Honey?” He asked, sounding just as concerned as always. His gun rested on his belt.

She had to play this off. She couldn’t risk him finding out she knew. She couldn’t trust he wouldn’t hurt her — she didn’t know who this man was anymore.

“Uh, sorry. I was getting up to use the bathroom, and I couldn’t see where I was going in the dark,” she explained, hoping the strain in her voice could be attributed to the pain from hitting the furniture.

He nodded. “Okay. Lamp’s on the table there for it you need it.”

“Uh-huh. Are you going out?”

He looked down at himself. “No. I just, uh, was finishing up some work at the table. I’ll get to sleep soon, promise.”

Laurel forced a smile that was more a nervous twitch of the lips as she slowly moved past him into the hall, shutting herself in the bathroom. She let out a breath then drew it back in, forcing herself to focus on that and prevent herself from hyperventilating.

Her father was a dirty cop. How long had he been? Since she got her degree? Since the Gambit sunk? Since always?

He was the source of the leak. For three years, she’d been watching herself and who she spoke to, dedicated herself to nothing but work — and the one person she had felt safe in confiding to, the one person she’d thought understood her relentless pursuit of justice, had betrayed her.

She sat on the lid of the toilet and willed the tears that wanted to spill from her eyes back. There wasn’t time to feel sorry for herself. She’d unknowingly been helping the other side by giving them ready access to information. What was she going to do now?

The first thing was stop talking to her dad about her cases and make sure to lock up her notes even in the safety of her home. And then… what? That didn’t feel like enough.

What could she do to help the people who had suffered for her ignorance? The people who would continue to suffer thanks to this corrupt bargain her father had made? Or even, maybe, possibly, her father himself?

Was he just doing this to protect her? Maybe someone had made threats. Maybe he thought it was the only way. They were both semi-public figures. It wouldn’t have been hard at all for organized crime to make the connection between them and decide to exploit it.

If she could figure out how deep this went, how far this web of alliances stretched, maybe she could free him from it.

But she couldn’t do it as herself. It was clear that either her father would be forced to stop her or the Triad and whoever else would take matters into their own hands, and she didn’t want to test her luck a second time. Prosecuting them publicly would mean damning her father, too, and despite everything she had just learned, she didn’t know if she was prepared to do that.

She had to work independently of the law. Any misgivings she might have felt about that a month ago melted away now that she knew her father had abandoned his own credo a long time ago. This wasn’t some idealized mock trial in school. This was reality. And there was someone out there already proving that the only way to get justice in this city was to get it yourself.

Laurel stood and flushed the toilet to sell her story, washing her hands in the sink as she stared herself down in the mirror. Her eyes were dry and determined.

She would do what needed to be done.

---

Oliver was at a crossroads in many ways. Diggle was on the fence about joining him. Lance was hot on the trail of evidence he’d planted to set himself up for exoneration. And he still didn’t know quite where he and Laurel stood since his return in both of his personas.

He knew as Oliver he was making things difficult, wanting to atone for his actions yet also wanting her safe. He couldn’t be the man she saw in him in his public life because he was needed as the Hood. And while she seemed far more receptive to the Hood, his first encounter with her had proven… odd.

“How do you decide?” She’d asked him unexpectedly in the dark of her apartment. The little light come through the windows made her eyes look overbright and earnest. “Who gets hospitalized and who lands in the morgue?”

“It’s not a decision,” he answered eventually. “Not a conscious one. This city is in a fight for its life. In those kinds of struggles…” He had found himself struggling then to articulate what it was to be driven by the need for survival in the heat of battle, how everything else faded away.

But Laurel had nodded as if she understood. “Then it’s not a question of targeting.”

“Is there someone you wanted targeted?”

To his surprise, she did not dismiss the question, but rather hesitated. “I don’t have everything I need yet. And you’re right that Declan’s case can’t wait if he really is as innocent as you think.”

He’d let the subject drop, and there had been no time to address it in any of their subsequent meetings. Certainly not at Iron Height, where she had pulled him out of the fog of battle through her touch and voice alone before he could make yet another kill. He didn’t know how to thank her for that. Especially when the next time he saw her, it was because she was representing him against her dad, and he couldn’t exactly thank her for something he wasn’t supposed to know about as Oliver Queen.

It helped that Laurel was convinced there was no way he was the Hood. At least, he thought she was convinced until the polygraph test. Until he revealed some of the truth about what had happened to him there. The look in her eyes… he had fled before she could ask him anything, back to the party he was having Tommy plan at the house.

Oliver walked around the main room, making sure he was very visible as Diggle prepared to head out in the Hood’s suit. While he didn’t exactly enjoy himself in this type of crowd anymore, he didn’t truly tense up until he noticed something.

Outside the glass doors to the patio, someone was watching.

The strobe lights from the party illuminated her for a moment — he thought it was a her, though he couldn’t make out her face beneath the dark shawl she wore over her head and wrapped around her shoulders. The patio went dark and then light again, and in that time she had turned her back as she dropped something in one of the potted plants.

Oliver sucked around people as he made his way to the patio and the far edge, but he could make out no one in the darkness of the grounds. None of the attendees seemed to have noticed anything, either, thought that likely was due to their inebriated states.

He went back to the plant and pulled out what she had left behind.

It was a manila envelope with a note scrawled on one side in almost exaggeratedly bad handwriting.

For the Hood, if you know him.

Oliver’s heart thudded in his chest. This woman had clearly decided to believe Lance, or at least believed he had some role in the Hood’s appearance in Starling.

Did he open it? Ignore it to avoid proving this woman’s suspicions? But then, what did she want?

Oliver took the envelope back to his room and opened it, spilling the contents onto his desk. Pictures printed on computer paper. Typed notes. It was rudimentary and low-budget, but he was looking at a dossier. A dossier on Nudocerdo, the Starling City Police Commissioner. From the looks of it, he was in far too many pockets to be doing anything good for the public.

Take him down without death and I’ll tell you everything, was written at the bottom of the final page.

Now he was truly at a crossroads. If he acted, this woman would clearly know he at the very least had a connection to the Hood. But just what was “everything”?

Oliver found himself attacked by a hitman before he could ponder that much further, and only the intervention of Detective Lance saved his life and his identity from being exposed, as much as the detective looked like he might be happy to shoot Oliver as well. Long after the party had been cleared out and his family had gone to sleep secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t a vigilante was Oliver able to discuss with Diggle the woman who seemed to think he might still be the vigilante.

“I think you were visited by the Maid.”

Oliver’s face scrunched up. “The who?”

Digg shrugged. “She showed up a couple weeks back. Folks in the Glades say they’ve spotted her trailing gangbangers and cops alike. And the rumor is she’s had to fight her way out of a situation or two. That’s part of what made me realize I needed to join this fight,” Diggle told him. Folks are getting restless, desperate. You’ve shown them a new way, and they just might take it.”

Oliver frowned. He hadn’t been trying to show anyone a new way. This was just the most effective way for him to complete his father’s mission. “Why ‘the Maid’?”

“You said she was wearing that shawl over her head? Hoodette didn’t catch on, so people started looking to your namesake: Robin Hood.”

It hit him a moment later. “Maid Marian.” His uneasiness grew. Oliver knew, of course, that the whole point of what he’d just done was that the Hood and Oliver Queen were separate identities. But he didn’t like the idea of being associated, and romantically at that, with another woman. Not when he was meant to be proving himself to Laurel. If she could only know.

Unless she did? Why exactly had she wanted to know how the Hood chose his targets and what happened to them? What had she meant by not having everything she needed yet? Was she gathering information? And if she was…

It was a theory. The same kind of theory that this woman was working off of regarding his own identity, but if he was right it changed everything.

If he was right, he needed to know what Laurel knew. And he had a feeling he’d only find that out once Nudocerdo was out of the picture.

---

Once again, he found himself at the bar and, once again, he found his tab was already covered. He wasn’t drinking anything strong, though. Not tonight. Not when he’d screwed up bad enough.

He’d been so sure it was Queen. Locking up the Hood would’ve helped smooth over the ruffled feathers caused by the vigilante’s interference in Hunt and Sommer’s operations. Would’ve made his job a heck of a lot easier. And would’ve gotten the bastard far and away from his daughter.

When he’d been sure of the archer’s identity, it had all made sense. Queen returned from that island and thought he could slide back into Laurel’s good graces by putting his thumb on the scales of justice, so to speak. That was clearly why Hunt and Sommers had been attacked coincidentally as Laurel was mounting cases against them, and she had been picked out of all the lawyers in the city to help him clear Peter Declan’s name. Only now, it apparently was a coincidence, and he didn’t know anything anymore.

The Hood needed to be caught. No matter what good other people thought he was doing, he was a menace that needed to be off the streets the same as any thug. Just because he was stealing money and giving it away didn’t make him better than the likes of a kid jacking a car for a joyride. It made him worse, because he was causing unrest with the criminal elements who, like it or not, were woven into the very fabric of Starling. Had been for longer than Quentin had wanted to admit before he’d finally given in.

A man in a fine suit took the barstool next to him. “Evening, Detective.”

Quentin blew out a breath. He was not in the mood for another deal right now, not when he was still on shaky ground with the Triad. “So, which boss do you work for?”

The man pursed his lips. “Hardly. My name is Carl Ballard.”

Ballard? One of the big-wigs? Quentin sat up a little straighter.

“What’s a guy with all the money and success in the world doing in a hole-in-the-wall like this?”

“I’m here on business. I assume you haven’t heard since you’re clearly off duty at the moment, but reports have come in that Commissioner Nudocerdo has been attacked in his home by the Hood.”

“That son of a bitch,” Quentin swore. It wasn’t enough that the guy had to prove his Queen theory wrong tonight, but he had to go after the police department?

“I agree,” Ballard said lightly. “And so do some associates of mine who were fond of Nudocerdo. Given his imminent fall from grace, we want to see that things keep running smoothly. That’s why I’m letting you know you have the full backing of Tempest to fill the position of Commissioner.”

He reeled back a little in shock. “Commissioner? Me?” His eyes narrowed. “Just what is Tempest?”

“A group of like-minded individuals who want the best for our families and our city, like yourself,” Ballard told him. “We all feel you would be the best candidate in these uncertain times. Your commitment to catching the vigilante is unmatched, and you understand the way this city works.”

He knew what that last part meant underneath. Business as usual. It was hardly what he would have envisioned all those years ago as a beat cop with his head full of ideas about changing things for the better. He’d forgotten about that dream a long time ago.

“Say I accept. What’s in it for me?”

“A number of powerful allies. More if you prove effective.”

“Effective at what?”

“Tempest wants to find out the source of the Hood’s information. What he’s basing his crusade off of and how he obtained it. These are things you have to be wondering, too.”

He had, and he’d thought for a worrying moment that it might be Laurel. For the first time tonight, he was glad he’d been wrong about his assumptions on Queen.

“I’ve been in the Glades recently working on a gentrification project, and my security tells me they’ve heard rumors of a spy. A woman. They’re calling her his Maid Marian. We’d like you to start there, tracking down this young Maid.”

An informant for the Hood? That was something solid, something real at last. What did he have to lose?

“I’ll get on it — or, guess I’ll put my best men on it, since your people want me in the Commissioner’s chair so badly.” Quentin stuck out his hand for Carl Ballard to shake.

It wasn’t the worst deal he’d made.

[thoughtswithoutatheme]

The Butcher

First few pages of a story I’ve been working on

Jennifer Davies had never even see what the inside of a dead pig looked like, let alone how to carefully prepare it for sale. The closest she'd ever been to a pig of any kind was either ham sandwiches or the stuffed toy of a piglet she had as a child. Knowing a real, greasy, slimy, slippery, fleshy hog inside and out had been more enlightening than a whole term at university. You don't really question or even think about life and death, your place in the world, religion and how fleeting out lives are until you elbow deep into a large supply of vital organs, blood and pus. The smell will definitely make you question the existence of god.

She had worked at her Uncle Roger's mortuary during the previous summer and she had no real problems with it. She was responsible for make-up and tidying up corpses before the big day and found the work fine, though all the dirty work had been performed before she got a hold of the bodies. She sometimes worried about the family of the people she made up, thought about what the person had been like, and always felt some despair when working on someone close to her own age. It was a simple job and allowed her to work in peace.

She assumed working at a butchers shop would be similar, just a bit more messy and with less attachment. Unfortunately, there were much more guts, blood, entrails and goo that she couldn't even begin to describe. Messy had been an understatement. That didn't even cover how everything in the shop looked dangerous. Knives, cleavers, skewers, grinders, hooks, sharp pieces of bone, saws and a few other tools she couldn't even describe.

Working at a butchers shop wasn't something she had really wanted but it was time Christmas and she had to step up. The season always brings stress, debt and work but it's all (probably) worth it in the end. She had three younger brothers, a little sister, a mother and father, all four grandparents, many uncles and aunties who were very close, several cousins she saw regularly, and a great auntie in Australia. Not to mention a bevy of friends, from both childhood and current day, dorm mates, people she sat near in her lectures, her lecturers and maybe even the nice porter at her dorm. She liked all of them and wanted to get them all something nice for Christmas and a student loan isn't going to cover it.

She had limited work experience and being half way through a philosophy course wasn't going to put any money in the bank any time soon. Her Uncle suggested he could take her on again but she wanted to work somewhere close by, avoiding the train then bus journey to the mortuary. Luckily, she saw the advertisement for the butcher's assistant post in the local newspaper, showed up the next day and was covered in blood by noon.

Her family better be grateful after what she's going through. A part time job in the local butchers seemed simple but she was excepting to be working more on the front side of the shop. Jennifer foresaw taking orders, serving customers, putting carefully cut and sealed pieces of meat in carrier bags and then giving the customer a happy smile and wishing them a nice day. Much of her first day alone, however, consisted mostly of learning how much force was needed to smoothly remove the limbs off a cow.

This would be all worth it in the end, she supposed. She was actually earning the extra money needed to buy presents and cards for those she loved. Her parents had reminded her constantly that she was missed while at university, so she could cheer them up with some great presents. The job itself was also providing a skill and you can't put a price on that, but you can spend an evening getting blood out of your shoes. She was also developing an iron stomach and that would be useful for any future Saturday wine night binges.

Two weeks in and things were going well. The pus and viscera was starting to get stale (figuratively) and the nightmares of the ghosts of every farmyard inhabit haunting her (even in an odd instance, the farmer himself) were fading. Being surrounded by sharp objects never really lost its edge though. She was getting better at the job and soon found herself to be enjoying it, on a small level at least, thanks to her boss.

The butcher was Mr. Baker and he was a friendly chap. He'd been a butcher (and a Baker) his whole thirty-eight years and was the seventh generation of Bakers to be in the profession. He grew up around the carcasses of dead animals and consumed from them the necessary nutrients to grow strong enough to remove a calf's head with one heavy thwack of a knife. He was good at his art and was more than happy to do it his whole life. He had a lovely wife and his son would eventually become the eighth Baker to become a butcher. They all lived together above the shop. He regularly saw his father and they discussed their trade until the cows came home, which were then cut up and ready to be served. He was stout and strong, as per the job requirements, with a round, friendly face.

Mr. Baker understood the process to a great level, being able to identify any cut of meat, tell you which animal it came from, the best way to slice and prepare it, and he can weigh it in his mind that gave the best deal for both him and the consumer. He had worked with many people both his senior and junior in his time and loved imparting generations worth of knowledge on potential new butchers. He eagerly awaited for when his son was old enough to take up the trade and he first Baker to give tips of the trade to none Bakers. Mr. Baker felt that his family secrets were not to be kept amongst the family bloodline but to be shared. Their motto was “A Better World, Made by the Butcher” and it adorned their family crest, a red banner complete with a sheep, a cow and a winking pig on the top. Needless to say, the pig didn't have a body.

When he advertised for a part time worker to help him through the holiday season, he hadn't expected a skinny, pale woman who looked like she'd already seen the inside of a sheep's stomach, but he wasn't going to turn down the only applicant. Things had been slow but Jennifer took to the job faster than anyone he'd ever met. He had even bragged to his father about her. She truly was an honorary Baker.

The job was only for a six week period from early November to mid-December, but in that time both butcher and apprentice had got to know each other well. Jennifer had discovered that Mr. Baker was a fan of sixties/seventies rock music and was once in a band, that he collected vintage plates, that he met his wife at a butcher competition and she'd left the butcher from Allanson for him, that the Baker family remained fit and spritely well into their eighties, that he could recite Pi to 15 digits and he almost lost a finger the first time his father let him hold a butcher knife. Jennifer had opened up to his new boss, telling him about her dreams to travel, how she was allergic to cinnamon, that she once won a town wide children's singing contest when she was five, that she has a strong and unexplained dislike of rubber bands and that she collected ceramic horse figurines.

What they learned wasn't just things about each other. Obviously, Jennifer was acquiring the knowledge of the butcher trade from Mr. Baker but he was also imparting many more life skills. He told her the best place to get a car loan, thought her how to tie and untie multiple types of knots, the right way to clean a smartphone, where to find fresh nuts, how to stroke a dog just right and the easiest way of getting a seat on a crowded train. Jennifer told him how to colour code clothes, who are the best current rock bands, how to move through a crowd, how to make space on his phone, how to find a bargain in a market and why olives are superior to grapes.

Despite being supportive, many had worried Jennifer's decision to study philosophy. She had been questioned (repeatedly) by friends, immediate family and even distant family on why she chose to study it of all things. They said she should look into becoming a nurse or career, that business studies pays for itself, joinery is a skill set for life, why not just try an IT degree and just get an office job, you'll thank me later. Uncle Roger was ready to get her a name plaque to put on her desk at the mortuary. Her parents were always confident and trusted their daughter but they worried about her future employability.

It was only Mr. Baker that supported her Philosophy degree. During her time working with him they had discussed Descartes, pondered Plato and considered Kant, all while making sure the dead animals were ready for their audience. Jennifer spent too much of her time thinking. She would meditate her decisions and those of others, stress over what was the best solution or the worst outcome and so decided to do something with this. She would either get a better understanding or herself and the world around her, or at least maybe focus her errant thoughts. Mr. Baker was always happy to listen.

No no ever called her Jenny, except Mr. Baker. Normally she disliked the nickname, but felt affection when called it by her boss. She had built a vault of trust with him, so much so she even left her spare house keys at the shop. Maybe he'd show up and surprise her with some ham sandwiches one day. He'd say it's important to have an abundance of trust someone in a job with so many dangerous items around. He described how working together like this is exactly what he wanted with his son when he's old enough, if he wanted to become a butcher of course.

It was the 17th December and Christmas was all paid for. Everyone who shared even a similar drop of blood to her had a present literally with their name on it. All of her school and uni friends, and even her old penfriend in France, were all in store for a nice surprise. The last gift she bought was for Mr. Baker. He'd done so much for her and they had become close, so it seemed appropriate. She struggled at first but realised that a a vinyl copy of Black Sabbath's War Pigs would be perfect.

Wrapping all the presents had been easy, especially thanks to her new knot tying skills. Each one was adjourned with a bow. Wrapping up these gifts was infinitely easier than packaging cuts of meat and a lot less slimy, so she was able to enjoy the long hours it took to gradually complete the task. Jennifer had to be thankful for the bonus Mr. Baker had given her though, as the cost of all the paper, string and whatnot added up quickly. It may have worked out cheaper to rent a forest and make the packaging herself.

All of the gifts had been delivered and were under their recipients' trees and there were a fair number for her under the family tree. She, her siblings and her parents had decorated the house thoroughly and Christmas films were being watched. Christmas music was already getting to the point of being overplayed. Her family were happy to have her around for all of this, making it a true family Christmas. It wasn't snowing but it was dull and freezing. Scarves and woolly hats had become essential, and Mrs Davies was adamant everyone wrapped up.

Jennifer was done with university for the term and her time with Mr. Baker had finished, she had to ask herself what came next. Did she continue working at the butcher shop while balancing her time at university? It would be annoying to keep going back and forth, but she'd get to see her family more often and they always say they miss her when she's gone. She could simply say goodbye and focus on her studies (and heavy drinking, which almost goes without saying). It'd be less money, but simpler. While debating these ideas with herself as her own Symposium, a new problem was waiting on her doorstep.

She had just been into town to do some general shopping and buy some extra wine, as you can never have enough at Christmas time. The bottles didn't even make it into the house though, as the bag hit the floor and broke, wine spilling on the concrete. It flowed down the sloped paving stones to the plastic snowman holding a 'Santa Stop Here!' sign, which now stood next to a pig's head.

It wasn't carefully cut or prepared like the animal heads Jennifer grown used to seeing. The remains of its neck were not even or crisp, instead it was raw and jagged, with nicks found around the cranium and ears. Blood was leaking from underneath it and had slowly crept towards the gate before freezing solid, some had started to mix with the wine. One of its eyelids was open, resulting in a morbid wink. Jennifer's nose was too blocked up to smell anything, for which she was eternally thankful.

She took a moment to compose herself and tried tried to think of what to do. Her brothers and sister were at school and her parents were out for the day, so she had some time to figure this out before they returned home. She took a deep breath, carefully placed the bag of now empty wine bottles to the side and left the garden, making sure the gate was properly shut. As she ran down the street, the pig head continued to wink at nobody.

She arrived at Mr. Baker's butchers about fifteen minutes later. She had ran as fast as she could, but stopping at ice patches had slowed her down. Mr. Baker was in the process of cutting chunk of ham using the largest cleaver she'd ever seen.

'There's a pig's head.'

'Yes, in the window. I know.' replied Mr. Baker.

'No. At my house. On the step.'

'Taking your work home with you, are you?' Mr. Baker chuckled.

'No.'

Mr. Baker immediately stopped what he was doing and sat her down on a stool near the door. Jennifer explained the whole visitation, including details about the wine she'd bought. This was partly out of her total confusion and also because she'd got such a good deal on them she wanted to brag. Mr. Baker was silent throughout, simply nodding and making understanding noises until she finished.

'Deary me, that's strange.'

'Did anyone buy a pig's head from you at all in the last few days?'

'No.'

'Have any gone missing?'

'Now you need to relax, young Jenny. While this certainly is a stage situation, we don't want to start speculating.'

'Then where did it come from?'

'I think we can safely ascertain that somewhere a pig is messing it's head. Now come on. ' Mr. Baker helped her to her feet. 'Let's go and get rid of it.'

The whole mess was sorted within the hour. Mr. Baker, completely unfazed by the sight of the head, still winking, still in it's frozen pool of blood. He had it cleared it away in minutes. He bagged it up, then put that bag into a bag, and in another and so on. They both cleaned away any slime it left. Hot water and the drain took care of the icy blood and wine. They put down some disinfectant and hoped the lingering smell would leave of its own accord. Mr. Baker left with a faint smile, taking the evidence with him. Jennifer was finally able to sit down inside, heating turned way up, as she contemplated the day so far and what she would do next. She abstained from any wine and stuck with tea. Staying on at the butchers was now an even more confusing prospect, but she expected she was going to see more of Mr. Baker in the coming days.

Her parents were home later that afternoon. Marsha and Brian were in their fifties and still very much in love. They had been doing some last minute shopping and then taken lunch. They were laughing when they entered the door and surprised to see Jennifer sprawled out on the settee, her eyes deadly focused on nothing.

'Hard day?' asked her mother.

'Hnnn.'

'Oh, dear. I'll put some tea on.'

Jennifer barely moved for the rest of the night. Even as her brothers (Mark, Andrew, Liam) and her sister (Elizabeth) arrived home from school, bouncing off the walls at the excitement that they'd finished for Christmas. Their happiness wasn't as infectious as Jennifer had hoped though, as she never really snapped out of her mood. She ate, she watched the evening quiz shows and soaps, but she couldn't get the winking pig out of her head. Who could have put it there? Why would anyone put it there? Was it some sort of initiation rite by Mr. Baker? No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't do anything like that. He also seemed surprised and concerned by the whole thing. If it wasn't him though, then who?

Jennifer stopped going around in thought circles eventfully and went to bed. She was surprised she fell asleep so easily. Very little of her dreams involved pig heads, but the one time it did caused her to be wide awake at 4am. It took half an hour to get back to sleep and nightmares resumed.

When she got up in the morning, her mum had breakfast (cereal, toast, orange juice) in front of her within seconds. It was eaten just as quickly. Mrs. Davies was glad her daughter was home for Christmas and wished she hadn't moved to halls closer to university so she could keep an eye on her. She knew something was wrong with her daughter, but she also knew better than to pry. A similar thing had occurred when Jennifer was fifteen. Jennifer had gone into herself and Marsha Davies had bothered her daughter and constantly asked if she was okay, if she wanted to talk and so on. This led to Jennifer becoming more detached. Mrs. Davies would discover what had happened over social media, as it turned out Derrick, Jennifer's boyfriend, had cheated on her with Melissa. Melissa was supposed to be going out with Dave, but she'd been with Alan the week before, so she can't be trusted, yeah? But Derrick claims he was and so on. After a few days, her daughter opened up again and went back to normal.

When Jennifer failed her exam to get into university, she did the same thing. The Davies parents decided to wait and and trust their daughter. Within the week she'd explained everything to them and they were able help her get a retest. Marsha Davies knew her daughter and whatever was wrong, she'd come to her eventually. Either that or forget and instead focus on Christmas. Only six days to go! I best finish the wrapping, she thought.

The next few days grew easier for Jennifer. Nothing of note happened, other than her uncle Roger brining the family over for a few hours. He was eager to talk about recent mortuary goings on. Jennifer caught up, laughed and talked about TV with her siblings and nephews and even found herself video gaming with them. Chocolate, cake and biscuits were aplenty, so her mood began to lift. She had been thinking about the head less and less, instead she just felt a perpetual tinge of dread and unease. She even had a glass of wine.

She managed to visit Mr. Baker on Christmas Eve and give him his present. He was busy slicing us sirloin but appreciative of the gift. He indicated that there was something for her behind the till. She took the square box, about a foot long with her and put it under the tree, which at this point was lifted off the ground because of the swell of gifts. She was definitely curious as to what it was, but it wasn't head shaped, didn't smell of decay and no blood was dripping from it, so she felt it would be something good.

After a night of laughter and fun, she went to bed on Christmas Eve and slept peacefully. The event was starting to feel like something that happened to someone else. It was best to forget about it. It was probably someone crazy person doing something random. It's not her business. It's over.

[uselesslygay]

All of them :)

oh lord here we go it's gonna be long

1. Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?

I think so yes

2. You talked to an ex today, correct?

Technically, like someone I dated in middle school but I tend to not count it

3. Have you taken someones virginity?

Nope

4. Is trust a big issue for you?

It's an issue for me. Not a huge one

5. Did you hang out with the person you like recently?

No sadly

6. What are you excited for?

Sleep

7. What happened tonight?

I ate like twenty sour patch kids while laying in bed watching YouTube

8. Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted?

No they live their lives and I live mine

9. Is confidence cute?

I think it can be but too much is a turn off

10. What is the last beverage you had?

Powerade

11. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?

Like five?

12. Do you own a pair of skinny jeans?

Not sure anymore. I don't tend to wear jeans

13. What are you gonna do Saturday night?

Sleep like a little bitch

14. What are you going to spend money on next?

Probably food

15. Are you going out with the last person you kissed?

No

16. Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months?

I think I'll change tomorrow. Life is so unstable and it's constantly changing so to say that it wouldn't change at all in the next three months would be asinine

17. Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?

My sister

18. The last time you felt broken?

Physically, every day

19. Have you had sex today?

No

20. Are you starting to realize anything?

That I'm tired

21. Are you in a good mood?

Overall yes I am

22. Would you ever want to swim with sharks?

I think I would

23. Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s?

Nope. His are brown and mine are blue

24. What do you want right this second?

Sleep tbh

25. What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy?

Idk

26. Is your current hair color your natural hair color?

No it is not. It's a few shades darker right now than normal

27. Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh?

No I don't think so. Mostly because it's easy to make me laugh so it's not that hard to do

28. What was the last thing that made you laugh?

Probably a YouTube video

29. Do you really, truly miss someone right now?

Yes

30. Does everyone deserve a second chance?

I believe some people deserve a second chance but it's very rare and case sensitive

31. Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to?

No. I think it was either my best friend or my dad so definitely no

32. Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do?

I don't know. I have a lot of feelings everywhere so maybe

33. Are you one of those people who never drinks soda?

No. I drink soda quite a bit

34. Listening to?

Right now it's Gustav Holst's Planet Suite. Mars at the moment

35. Do you ever write in pencil anymore?

Yes but I prefer pens

36. Do you know where the last person you kissed is?

I think so, yes

37. Do you believe in love at first sight?

No. I believe in attraction at first sight or lust at first sight whatever you want to call it. Love is a deep complex emotion that takes longer than a glance to surface

38. Who did you last call?

My sister

39. Who was the last person you danced with?

I think some of my friends at band camp

40. Why did you kiss the last person you kissed?

I loved them

41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake?

A few weeks ago

42. Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today?

No I did not

43. Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush?

Probably definitely

44. Do you tan in the nude?

I don't tan.

45. If you could, would you take back your last kiss?

No I wouldn't.

46. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night?

Yes I did

47. Who was the last person to call you?

A scam caller

48. Do you sing in the shower?

I prefer to listen not sing in the shower but sometimes I do

49. Do you dance in the car?

Yes all the time. And sing

50. Ever used a bow and arrow?

I have. I was almost obsessed with them when I was like 10 for some reason

51. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer?

School photos?? I think

52. Do you think musicals are cheesy?

No. I prefer to perform in them than watch them tho

53. Is Christmas stressful?

No I love it.

54. Ever eat a pierogi?

No sadly. I want to tho

55. Favorite type of fruit pie?

Apple pie :)

56. Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid?

When I was like 5-10 it was veterinarian

57. Do you believe in ghosts?

Not really but idk

58. Ever have a Deja-vu feeling?

All the time. I hate them, it gives me the creeps

59. Take a vitamin daily?

I should but no lol

60. Wear slippers?

Nope.

61. Wear a bath robe?

Nope.

62. What do you wear to bed?

Usually either just a sports bra and some shorts or a tee shirt and underwear

63. First concert?

BNL with my family in Chicago

64. Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart?

Wal-Mart? Just because it's the one I frequent more often. I think the Walton family is crooked and shady af and I hate them but that's a story for another day

65. Nike or Adidas?

Either I don't care

66. Cheetos Or Fritos?

Cheetos. But like puffs >crunchy>flaming hot

67. Peanuts or Sunflower seeds?

Peanuts

68. Favorite Taylor Swift song?

I like I'm Only Me When I'm With You

69. Ever take dance lessons?

Nope. That's why I suck at dancing

70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?

Whatever they want to do :)

71. Can you curl your tongue?

Yes but not like a crazy person can

72. Ever won a spelling bee?

No I can't spell for shit. If you could've seen me type this sentence I spelled every word in it wrong and my phone fixed it

73. Have you ever cried because you were so happy?

All the time. Ever see me around a dog?

74. What is your favorite book?

I love DaVinci Code by Brown but I also really liked Animal Farm by Orwell

75. Do you study better with or without music?

With. The music helps me focus

76. Regularly burn incense?

Nope.

77. Ever been in love?

I believe so but who am I to say what love is technically

78. Who would you like to see in concert?

I'd like to see Lumineers or Bastille in concert

79. What was the last concert you saw?

I've only been to one so BNL in Chicago

80. Hot tea or cold tea?

No tea. Tea sucks

81. Tea or coffee?

Neither. I hate both of them

82. Favorite type of cookie?

I'm a sucker for a good chocolate chip cookie

83. Can you swim well?

I was on swim team for a moment so I'd like to say so, yeah

84. Can you hold your breath without holding your nose?

Yes.

85. Are you patient?

Not at all

86. DJ or band, at a wedding?

DJ I think

87. Ever won a contest?

I don't think so.

88. Ever have plastic surgery?

No.

89. Which are better black or green olives?

Olives suck ass so

90. Opinions on sex before marriage?

Do whatever you want to do mate idc

91. Best room for a fireplace?

Library

92. Do you want to get married

Yes I do :)

[animalexpert]

Wlrs; VIII

Big oof, didn’t get a chance to finish up my thought train yesterday and part of it is gone, I’m gonna read back and see if I can maybe catch it. The scramble was tasty af though, I want to make more, yet I also want to keep the meal refreshing so I think I’ll chill a minute on it. I’m happy to have had a busy day yesterday, it was fun too. But today has been a little more difficult, tomorrow is the birthday of my passed nephew Lysander. And every year these few days hit me differently, on his 1st birthday I felt only remorse for my sister, I was so focused on being there for her I didn’t really think about it. His 2nd, after my most recent nephew Oliver was born, and I developed a relationship and love with him, it slammed into me. He never even got the chance to crawl, see anything beautiful nature has to offer, he didn’t really even go outside, of course he wouldn’t have been able to perceive them anyway, but it still just hit. And this year, he would be 3, it has been heart wrenching but in a different way, because of Oliver. Seeing Oliver grow into so much personality and character makes me think about Andy, and how close to him I’d be. Oliver squeals and runs over to me when he hears my voice coming down the basement stairs,  stretches his arms out to me nearly every time my sister walks past with him,  and is the cutest when he tugs on me and yells “ay, ay, AY” giving his best shot at my name while frantically trying to understand why I’m not picking him up letting him try and stick his hand in a ceiling fan. I don’t ever get to know how Andy would act around me. I hope he would think I was a cool uncle. I don’t get to know what he liked, or if he was a stubborn lil babster, I don’t have anything to remember him by, except his name. And that’s really depressing, what do I think about when I think about Andy? A dead baby, he wasn’t even old enough to like distinctly like anything. My nephews are aged 7, 5, and 1. There’s a number missing in that pattern, and it’s these things that help me understand how my sister just sometimes can’t avoid thinking about it. She has to look at her kid and her baby and try to not think about that gap in the middle and I can’t even imagine. I’m hoping that we have a good day tomorrow, we’re going to the zoo in his name. Every year we try to pick something that he would probably like based on his age at the time, I like remembering him this way. I think that’s healthy, but I don’t know if it is for my sister. It worries me how she can’t get away from this, throughout the whole year. She still makes an outfit for Andy whenever she makes matching clothes for the boys, she remembers him as often as she can. I hope that we can help lead her forward towards healing. Because nearly 360 days of the year my main focus regarding my nephew is making sure my other 3 nephews have fulfilling lives and fun memories and great park visits so that if anything happens to me or them, there are plenty of memories full of joy to bathe in when we think of each other. Because having to think of limp dead baby when I hear his name fucking sucks. Build a bears, zoo trips, and gardens made just in his name over these past three birthdays are really hard on us, but they help us give live to his name, and something uplifting to remember about him each year. 

     I think I’m done talking about that for now but I may revisit it tomorrow because I’m in an emotional SPAT right now and I really feel like writing and venting. As confused and lost as I may seem from this series of posts, I AM. But I’m really not doing bad or feeling too unhappy in the scheme, I’m confident my future holds peace, these posts are mainly about the strife I’m feeling and help me talk to the second me in my brain that is usually rather hard to reach rationally. Normally they’re very far from the joy and life I’m ordinarily filled with. There’s been some bad weeks but seeing my friends so often recently has been v healthy for me and assisted in avoiding depressive episodes. I think I did talk about an especially fun day I had a time or two, but apart from that it’s just my emotional stuff and insecurity in where I want to move forward with my life. Which I think is pretty normal for a 23 year old, at least looking at most of my friends, but I guess you surround yourself with people you fit in with so that’s not really a solid argument. But I’m PRETTY SURE that’s normal stuff to be feeling. If I don’t know what I want out of my end life how can I be any sure of what I’m doing right now? It seems helpful to constantly be questioning myself rather than precisely following a decision I made when I was likely a different person, considering how fast we grow mentality in my age gap. I’m happy I have these writings they help open my own brain up so much ugh. I wish they could help me stop thinking so much about the things I vent, but they really only aide in understanding them. I’m still riled up in emotion the same, understanding it may not even be a good thing in hindsight, I was doing better voluntarily hiding from it while knowing it was there. That’s like being haunted though. I’ve started having a recurring dream where I’m defending from zombies. And I haven’t been playing any zombie games or watching zombie movies. I used to have dreams like this a lot, but it’s been several years, I think it might’ve been since like high school and a little bit after times. But the speed of zombies and scenario is and has always been different. Although I’m never like in the open surrounded by zombies I’m always like defending some kind of structure. But almost everything else is variable. There should be a dream.md where you can enter key words/scenarios and it will diagnose you with some of the likely psychological reasoning's behind your dreams. That’s actually a cool idea although I’m sure it exists in a simpler manner because that would likely be HELLA difficult to code. I was without my car for a few days which was odd, I’m happy I have it back I wanna go get myself some Qdoba for dinner, oo but I want fried rice THOOOO. Nick had to drive me to bowling but bet I had his ass come pick me up because I ain’t missing one week of bowling. I’m getting so good, I rolled a 198 this week. And I walked in SET on getting my 200 that night, so although I was shaking my head at splitting my game with an open frame on 5, I was v pleased because my best games the previous weeks apart from a really solid 186 were around 165. I can tell I’m really closing in on the ideal line for my throw though, feels hype.

      Hopefully the rest of today is easy, I think I’m rather at peace with all the thinking about Andy I’ve done today, I’m having happy thoughts of him now, and I know my sister will need support tonight. It’s so weird talking to her about it though, because it’s just listening really, and showing love. She can talk to me about the things that I think about and feel about him, but no one here can really talk to her about what she’s feeling, I can just hear her out. She doesn’t even expect responses which is kinda odd when it happens, cause she just kinda talks, pauses for a moment, and either goes on or begins to talk about something else, like I don’t feel awkward much I’m fine in weird situations and weighted silence but phew this is somewhere I do. She needs to find her peace or the stress will kill her young, I hope I can help her. 

[tessatechaitea]

Michael Cray #1

This would be my reaction to seeing Green Arrow too.

That's not San Francisco! As if you could see that many stars from The City.

That's Oliver Queen waking up after having a nightmare about that time he crashed on a wacky island. Having been raised in the lap of luxury without ever having to fend for himself, he of course becomes an expert bowman and survivalist through sheer force of will. It's important to see that Oliver Queen may have been born rich but he was still the type of man who could make something of himself without his parents' wealth and privilege. Also he remembered how Bruce Wayne left behind everything to become the greatest detective the world has ever seen so Oliver was all, "I need that kind of secret origin too! But a little bit different so that people don't just think I'm Batman with a bow and old fashioned facial hair!" Michael Cray moves to Oakland where he meets the world's least skittish mouse. He touches it and it blows up. I guess that's Cray's superpower? I might have been mistaken as to why he was called Deathblow. Was that blow job joke subtle enough to pass for a G Rating? I wonder if the three people Michael Cray hires for his team will sometimes tell people, "Oh yeah, I'm out in Oakland working the Deathblow job." Then those people will never talk to them again.

Michael Cray's dad plagiarizes my Green Arrow origin story. Is that how plagiarism works? Probably!

Michael Cray's dad explains that Oliver Queen is a rich asshole. He apparently "helps funnel narcotics and guns into the 'wrong' neighborhoods. Crime goes up. Then he privately funds political efforts to hammer down on them with the police." That's almost exactly what Bruce Wayne does! He drives criminals into certain sections of Gotham. Real estate prices fall due to increased crime. Bruce Wayne buys up all the cheap properties and then Batman drives the crime out of the area. Later, Bruce Wayne jerks himself off on the way to the bank! In a scene setting up the reader to despise Oliver Queen so we don't feel icky backing a government assassination attempt, Queen treats a woman who seems to love him like she's a prostitute. Now we all hate his guts! Kill him, Michael Cray! Kill him! Oh wait a second. I already hated his guts! If that wasn't enough reason to hate him, he also makes his sister clean his sex sheets. And if that wasn't enough, he then quotes John Donne! But he doesn't just quote him! He quotes a section of Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions in an odd way. The quote's the bit about the bell tolling for everybody (but mostly for him!) and then ends with an ellipsis to simply finish the quote with "no man is an island." He basically yada yada yada'd a huge section of Donne's pain! Fucking monster! It's also possible Queen just went from a Donne quote to a Bon Jovi quote. "They say that no man is an island. But good things come to those who wait. But the things I hear are there just to remind me. Every dog will have his day! The spirits! They intoxicate me! I watch them infiltrate my soul! They try to say it's too late for me! Tell my guns I'm coming home! I swear! I'm gonna live forever!" Ha ha! You are not, Oliver Queen! That was a stupid thing to quote because you're going to die! Dammit. I just realized that Michael Cray might find out that Oliver Queen is actually Green Arrow and he's really helping people so he'll have to let him live. Although why show him to be such a disgusting piece of shit if that's how the story will work out? I imagine that's how the story would work in the actual DC Universe. But in the Wildstorm universe, we're allowed to think the worst of Oliver Queen and watch him die messily.

I hope she can change his mind with some sweet, sweet government lies!

Ms. Trelane tells Cray that Oliver Queen hunts people. Why not? They're the most dangerous game! But mostly he hunts veterans so that makes him super bad. If he only hunted, say, criminals and pedophiles, people might be able to get behind him. But he hunts the nation's heroes! What a sick bastard! Ms. Trelane doesn't really care that he kills homeless people. I mean veterans! She and Skywatch (or whatever company she works for. Remember how I don't remember?!) just want his technology and market share. But she's up front with Cray about how she's manipulating him to do Skywatch's dirty work. So at least she's honest? Oliver Queen quotes some more Donne while hunting veterans. It's a good metaphor that Queen chooses to use quotes from Devotions upon Emergent Occasions because the book is a meditation on pain and being sick. I think that means Oliver Queen knows he's a sick bastard causing people pain! Michael Cray #1 Rating: Three stars our of four! That might only be a C Average but it also sounds like I really liked it. That way I can defend the score no matter who attacks me on it. If someone is all, "You thought this was that good?!", I can be all, "3 out of 4 stars is 75%! That's average in the ratings system of United States schoolchildren!" But if people are all, "75%?! You hardly liked this at all?", I can say, "But three stars! Out of four! That's practically all the stars!" Nobody's going to challenge me on my comic book rating of this book!