#one tiny little glimpse here of the sorts of things that my computer is full of but that i never post lol

[icewindandboringhorror]

golf

[gendercraft]

Outlast: Revisited [Chapter One: Miles]

Synopsis: I’m rewriting Outlast where the first game and Whistleblower are combined, Miles and Waylon are more connected, and also they kiss

Mount Massive Asylum was a silhouette ahead of the setting sun. Against the red and orange and white in the sky, Mount Massive was all dark brick and covered windows. Half of the building had flickering light peeking out from slats and cracked curtains, and the rest was pitch black. 

    Miles opened the car door and planted one boot on the dirt, brows furrowed. He came with only his camcorder, a few spare batteries, a notebook, and the email he was sent: 

     You don’t know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring. 

     I did 2 weeks of software consult at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems’ facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA’s I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys. 

     Certainly enough to grab Miles’ attention. When most people heard he was an investigative reporter, they treated him with what they thought was respect. All talking in circles and stepping over eggshells. This person emailing him—they had something to say and they were going to make sure Miles was listening. 

     Terrible things happening there. Don’t understand it. Don’t believe half the things I saw. Doctors talking about dream therapy going too deep, finding something that had been waiting for them in the mountains. People are being hurt and Murkoff is making money. 

     It needs to be exposed. 

     A fall breeze brushed by, making Miles shiver under his brown jacket. He flipped the collar up. 

    He was prepared for a facility up and running, for patients and orderlies to interview. This place looked abandoned. 

    Miles poked around the empty building where someone should be there to open the gate from, but the computer was frozen and there was nothing. 

    The gate—for humans, not cars—creaked as it opened. Securing his notebook and the hard copy of his email in the inside pocket of his jacket, he raised his camera and headed inside. Mount Massive loomed over him as he stalked towards the front entrance. Military trucks lined the walkway. 

    What the fuck happened here? 

    He pulled out his notebook and scribbled a stream of consciousness: 

     I start feeling sick just looking at this place. Mount Massive Asylum, shut down amid scandal and government secrecy in 1971, reopened by Murkoff Psychiatric Systems in 2009 under the guise of a charitable organization. Cell phone reception cut off abruptly a mile out, more like a jammer than a lost signal. The Murkoff Corporation has a long track record of disguising profit as charity. But never on American soil. Whatever they thought they could get out of this place has to be big. Might finally be the story that breaks the bastards. 

     The front entrance was locked. He blew out a frustrated breath and looked around to find another spot in the fence, allowing him into a tiny courtyard with a fence and scaffolding up along the walls. He looked through his camera and zoomed in—there was an open window. He grimaced. 

    He didn’t want to go back to when he was a teenager, sneaking into empty buildings through crumbling walls and broken windows, but he didn’t see much of a choice. He had to get inside. 

    He got the same thrill he always had when he was younger to climb and leap over the scaffolding until he reached the window. The second his feet hit the ground, the light exploded. He gasped and covered his head as glass rained on the carpet. 

    Raising the camcorder, he flicked on the nightvision, then winced. 

    What the fuck happened here? 

    The room was empty, the furniture all turned over and piled up. Miles strained his ears, but the asylum was silent. He crept his way over to the door and peeked inside the hallway. Both sides were barricaded, giving way only to the room across the hall. This room was a bit more normal, lit up by the light streaming through the hall and the thin curtains. He looked around for any clue of what happened here, but nothing. There was a second door letting him into the hall past the barricade. 

    He was about to squeeze through a gap between the next barricade, when he faltered. 

    Is that fucking blood? 

    He pulled up his camcorder and zoomed in. Sure enough, blood splattered the wall and stained the carpet. There was no sign of a body. He swallowed and pushed forward. I have to find out what happened here. 

    In one of the rooms, he found a status report for a patient named Billy. Most of the words Miles didn’t understand most of the words, but he could connect it to the email; ‘lucid dream states,’ ‘the blood dreams of Doctor Trager,’ and something called a ‘MORPHOGENIC ENGINE.’ 

    Something Miles found interesting, part of an interview with the patient: 

        Billy asked about the status of his mother’s lawsuit against Murkoff and the asylum...catastrophic breach in security...all orderlies and security personnel must be questioned and video security improved…

        Signed ‘MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER

    MOUNT MASSIVE CO’ 

     The first sign of life Miles was given was a bathroom door shutting as he approached. He hesitated, then rapped on the wood. 

    “Hello? My name is Miles Upshur, I’m an investigative reporter. May I ask you some questions, please?” 

    No answer. He shifted uncomfortably. “Uh… okay then. I’ll be around if you change your mind.” 

    The next door was locked, but across the hall there was a small kitchen. He did a quick once-over, then stopped at the counter by the fridge—is that a fucking— is that an organ— is that a fucking organ on a tray? Right next to a fucking soda can. Miles’ stomach lurched. It was long and thin, flesh coloured, veins of blood smearing onto the silver tray. 

    I have to find out what’s going on here. I have to expose it. 

    The only way was up, into a ventilation shaft. As soon as he got inside, someone burst into the room, looked around frantically, and ran out. Miles barely caught them with his camera. His heart was ready to beat right out of his chest. 

    “Fuck,” he whispered, panting. “Fuck this.” 

    He got to the end of the shaft and paused. It dropped too far for him to get back up if he decided he had to leave. With the blood, the fucking soda organ, was it worth it? Was this worth risking his life? 

    What if he didn’t have enough evidence? What if he couldn’t convince the police to come? What if the public thought it was a joke? 

    Closing his eyes, he jumped down. 

    Creeping along to the first door, he threw it open and a body hung from the ceiling. He stumbled back with a gasp. It was bloodied and pale, and Miles watched, horrified, as it smacked to the floor. He covered his mouth and forced himself into the library, eyes burning. 

    Keep your camera raised. No matter what you do, keep your camera raised. 

    The library was a maze of pushed over bookcases, the righted ones holding decapitated heads. Their mouths were gaped open, eyes blank and bloodshot. He crept forward. In the light of a window, a body sat impaled on a pole, still slowing sliding down. Blood caked the metal. It smelled of rust and decaying meat, and Miles was quickly losing his resolve. He stepped forward and the body, the man, gasped and reached out, choking on his own blood. 

    “They killed us,” he gasped. “They got out. The… Variants.” 

    Miles watched with wide eyes. A few tears ran down his face, but he kept recording. 

    “You can’t… fight them. You have to hide… can unlock the main doors… from Security Control.” He desperately tried to crawl himself up the pipe. “You have to get the fuck out of this terrible place. Stay away from the north, it’s… it’s chaos.” 

    Miles dropped the camera and leapt forward to help pull him off, but the moment he pushed up, the man lurched, screamed, and fell dead. Miles stumbled back with shaking hands, his palms red and sticky. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. 

    He pulled out his notebook. 

     I’m inside. Bodies everywhere. Blood. Burn marks. Heads lined up like bottles behind a bar, Dead Murkoff scientists hung from the ceiling; their badges say “Murkoff Advanced Research Systems.” Murkoff’s longtime M.O. has been to profit off the exploitation of supposed charity. Fuck the third world and bankroll another billion. 

     How did Murkoff think they would make money off a building full of the mentally ill? 

     There’s some kind of tactical cop pinned like a pig on a spit. Tells me to get the fuck out then dies. Would have been a good thing to hear when I could still leave the way I came. 

     He lowered the notebook. His chest was tight, tight, too tight, he couldn’t breathe. He sucked in a deep breath. He hadn’t had panic attacks since he was a teenager, but he couldn’t blame himself, not this time. 

    He slid his notebook in his pocket and picked up his camera. 

    He left the library. The second floor of the Administration Block was an atrium, one floor wrapped around the carved out middle where reception was below. He got to the ground. He was not safe here. He couldn’t be seen. He switched out his battery and recorded himself moving forward. Another barricade blocked the hall, but there was a gap he could squeeze through if he could just… 

    “Little pig!” 

    A thick hand grabbed the back of his neck like someone picking up the scruff of a kitten. Burning pain ripped through his skin as a hulking figure yanked him out of the gap. Miles barely got a glimpse, but at first, he did not register it as human. His nose was smashed in, and there was a giant chunk ripped out of his forehead. He bared his teeth, a huge row of shark fangs, then threw Miles through the glass atrium. He smacked against the reception floor, and blacked out. 

    xxx 

    “And who are you, then?” 

    He blinked his eyes open, his head pounding, his entire body throbbing. A bald man in vestments stared at him, a flashlight blinding him. His face was full of wrinkles, with full cupid lips and wide set eyes. Miles groaned and dropped his head back to the ground. 

    “I… I see.” The man held Miles’ camera. “Merciful God, you have sent me an apostle. Guard your life, son, you have a calling.” 

    xxx 

    When he woke up again, the man was gone. 

    He tried hard to remember what happened between his blackout, but it was hard, like a dream he couldn’t quite get a hold of. He gripped his throbbing head. All he knew was he had to get to Security Control. 

    There was more carnage in the reception area. A handful of dead bodies absolutely eviscerated, their guts painting the ground. The smell was something worse than Miles had ever witnessed in his life. Some cops had told him you’d never smell anything worse than a dead body, or anything close to it. Miles knew now that was right. 

    It wasn’t until he had explored a little bit that he noticed the big letters written at the base of the atrium, over Miles’ head—Proclaim the Gospel. He hoped it was red chalk. At the receptionist’s desk, he found a document: 

     You are hereby required to grant M.H.S full access to all facilities and surrender complete authority to its agents. By acceptance of this document you (and any surviving relatives) surrender all claims of litigation against the Murkoff Corp. or its subsidiaries for the actions of M.H.S. or the circumstances which required their actions, regardless of responsibility. 

     A status report in one of the storage rooms, about a patient named Chris Walker, observed by Dr. Rudolph Wenicke. It mentioned more of the rumoured Morphogenic Engine. From the interview notes: 

     Walker was interviewed in restraints, following his self-inflicted mutilations. Restraint have had to be altered to accommodate his enourmous size...he claims the skin ripped from his forehead allows for a truer way of seeing...his predominant fixation, amplified by therapy, is a manic exaggeration of military security protocol. 

     It took Miles a minute to realize that was the big fucker who threw him through the window—Chris Walker, an abused patient. The rage in his stomach muted. Did he even know what he was doing? Miles shook his head. It didn’t matter. 

    Coming into the hallway, he stopped. A Variant sat in a wheelchair, staring at the floor. Miles cleared his throat and hesitated, before stepping forward. 

    “H-Hello? My name is Miles Upshur, I’m an investigative reporter. May I ask you some questions, please?” 

    The Variant’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he panted. Miles’ brows furrowed as he came closer. Like Chris Walker, this patient looked horribly unhealthy, and deformed. How many patients came into Mount Massive this way? Could this be a coincidence? 

    The man didn’t respond, so Miles moved forward. He came into a room with three Variants, all bald men, staring with dead eyes at a static television screen splattered with blood. Miles introduced himself again, and nobody answered. He pulled out his notebook. 

     A crowd of broken men watching a dead channel. They look like patients. They survived whatever happened here but nobody’s home. 

     He carried through the room and cautiously explored the Administration Block until he found the keycard for Security Control. He passed the Variant in the wheelchair, only to find his back smacking to the floor, reawakening the pain in his spine, the Variant screaming, “GET THEM OUT! PLEASE! THE DOCTOR IS DEAD! RIP THEM CLEAN! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” 

    Miles gasped and shoved at the fucker’s chest, until he finally flew off and hit the ground. The man curled into a fetal position and sobbed into his arms. Miles panted, the anger in his stomach slowly subsiding. 

    “It’ll be okay.” He swallowed. “I’m here to help. Which doctor are you talking about? Rip what clean? How can I help you?”

    Miles raised his camera. The man refused to respond. Miles stepped back, covered in sweat. He hesitantly left as the man crawled away. 

    He made it to the hallway with Security Control, and as he stood at the edge, a Variant at the end of the hall ran forward and pounded into a door until it opened, then slammed it behind him. Miles sucked in panicked breaths. He thought of approaching, of seeing if he could get some information, but shook his head. Maybe it was better to leave the Variants alone, when he could. 

    He couldn’t help himself—he explored what rooms he could. He found several dead bodies, blood splattered almost excessively, and managed to scrounge up some batteries. In the bathroom, a clothed man sat on the toilet, dead and hunched over, with the word ‘WITNESS’ written in blood above him. His abdomen burning with anger, Miles hands trembled over his notebook. 

     I’m already beat all to hell, picking broken glass out of my scalp, coupole cracked ribs. Nearly killed by a deformed giant, looks like somebody tried to fuck-start his head with a cheese grater. He throws me through a wall, knocks me unconscious. 

        I wake up and some doughy old man with a face like an alcoholic kiddy fiddler in a homemade priest outfit calls me his Apostle. Not a job I asked for. 

        There are words scrawled in blood everywhere. I’m getting an ugly feeling in my gut that the priest is writing them, and for my benefit. 

     He kept exploring, looking for anything that could bring this place down, and grinned as he read through a document. 

     The profit potential of PROJECT WALRIDER remains staggeringly high...four fatalities...PROJECT WALRIDER remains a dangerous initiative...certainly be further casualties...family and government interest in the patients is so low as to make any chance of legal actions vanishingly unlikely. Violence among patients is increasing as the Morphogenic Engine Therapy gets closer to producing working models…

     He pocketed the document and headed for Security Control. This is enough. I’m going to bring down Murkoff Corporation. 

    The reader beeped as Miles scanned the keycard and headed for the control panel. A security guard laid crumpled, dead in the corner. He ignored it the best he could and got on the keyboard, only for the priest to appear on screen. Miles watched with wide eyes, his heart racing in his fingertips, as the father yanked down a lever and the lights went out. 

    Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

    The screens had said basement. If he could get down there and restart the generator, he could get out. 

    He stood and headed for the door. His hand on the handle, he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. 

    A familiar voice. “We have to contain it.” 

    Miles whipped around and looked in any place he could possibly hide in the tiny room. His heart raced, his breath short, his eyes landed on the locker. He sprinted over and crammed himself inside, slamming the door closed just in time for the room’s door to burst open. 

    Bringing his camcorder up, Miles pressed his free hand to his mouth to hide his breathing. Chris Walker’s own breathing filled the air, short and rabid, as he mumbled to himself. Walker looked around for around, checking the desk, circling the room, mumbling. “You were here, little pig, weren’t you…?” 

    The locker beside Miles creaked open. He bit back a whimper. 

    What do I do? What the fuck do I do? 

    Miles placed his hand on the cold metal, and prepared himself to run.

bls let me know what you think! and reblog <3 critiqued by @dib-leo-pard

[fancysimpinghere]

Euphories( Sykkuno x reader) pt.2

summary:  Maybe the cuteness in stranger’s smile let you stay alive, but what happen next, may give you a heart attack. Again, you don’t know if you want to keep your heart for yourself and forget about your little journey, or share it with newly befriended boy, who definitely will be the reason of your raising heart rate

You were falling down but once you blinked, your position was entirely changed. There was a lot of white smoke everywhere and when it fell down, you took surroundings and you were truly terrified, although you recognized this place - and maybe it was the main reason that you were scared for your life. Suddenly you remembered that you were supposed to be holding hands with someone and you wanted to turn around, but you couldn’t. You looked down and saw that your body was tied down to the pillar.

-Awesome. - you wanted to groan ironically, but only muffled sounds escaped your mouth. It was caused by a gag made from fabric and when you realized that, you started to panic even more. Tears slowly filled your eyes, when you were struggling with the rope which was holding down your body. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a boy from a game shop showed up in front of you and grabbed the cloth that was covering your mouth.

-Oh my god. - he choked out, looking with disbelief mixed with fear at your poor body.You saw pure shock on his face. - I didn’t know we would end up here  exactly in this dramatic moment!

- What do you mean?! - you almost yelled at him, searching his eyes for an answer. - And why are we in Princess Aria palace?

You didn’t believe your eyes at first, but you had to admit that you were in a place you knew well from the computer screen. As if it was not enough, you remembered this scene from a game too. The space villain just tied up Princess Aria and went to look for Guardian, her good friend and secret crush, to blackmail her. You replayed this scene many times in your head in the past, because it was one of the most difficult levels in that game. But after that quick reminder, you were even more confused. How is it possible that you two are in the game's world?!

-Shhh, we have to be quiet if we want to make it alive… - he silenced you, looking around and observing the huge hall where you’ve been. You wondered for a while what happened with the cute and shy boy you acknowledged like 15 minutes ago. Now he seemed determined and sharp, but there was a glimpse of fear on his face.

 - I promise I will tell you everything, but now we have to free you and run away as fast as possible, okay? - he whispered right into your ear and looked around, very aware.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife. Then he started cutting down the rope and soon your hands and body were released. You rubbed your wrists to regain feeling, but he grabbed you by one of them and pulled you behind the pillar you were tied to. He motioned you to stay quiet and you obeyed. Your mind was full of doubts and you didn’t really know what’s going on, but he seemed oriented with the situation. It’s like it is not his first time here, you thought. You heard voices from the other side of the hall and carefully leaned out from behind the pillar, but didn’t see anything, because your companion pulled you behind again. You looked at him and he shook his head as a wordless sign. He was still holding your hand and suddenly you blushed at the realization.

-Let’s go. - his soft voice distracted you from your thoughts and you followed him without a word. He led you outside and you shivered when cold air touched your exposed skin. Wait, exposed skin? You looked down at yourself and gasped in surprise. Your outfit now was way more brave and feminine than your usual - you wore burgundy, tight, shimmering dress with turtleneck and white knee boots, also tight and well fitted. Of course, it was the outfit of Princess Aria. -What the hell? - you murmured to yourself, checking out the outfit of your new friend. He was dressed in some sort of uniform, all black, but with silver buttons and ornaments. 

-This cassette is a portal to the world of the game. - he explained shortly with a lowered voice, not slowing down your pace.- You’ve taken the role of Aria and I’m the Guardian.

His explanation was making sense, but at the same time it was not something you wanted to hear.

- But how… - you started, but didn’t have a chance to finish, when you bumped into his back. He was standing firmly and you saw the pistol in his other hand.

- We have to run now. - he instructed you, carefully observing a few men that were guarding machinery that was looking like a small space ship.- Get behind me.

You feel butterflies in your stomach again, when he securely shielded you with his own body. Then he started running and you followed him. When the men saw you, they started to shoot, but your companion was faster and he has got a better aim than guards. He shot them with a laser pistol and pulled you in the ship. You both were a panting mess, but when you collapsed on the cold metal floor just seconds after the door closed behind you, he rushed to the cockpit and started the engines, not sparing you a single look or even word.

-Are they...dead? - you asked with a bit of hesitation in your voice, because you weren’t sure if you wanted to know the truth.

- Of course no, only paralized. - boy answered  and you felt  the spaceship took off. It made you a little bit dizzy, but this feeling soon changed into helplessness. - Don’t you remember? In a game Guardian couldn’t kill anyone for good, if he shot anyone, they stayed on the ground for a while and then started to attack again.

He was right, you started to remember things from gameplay.

- I don’t even know your name. - you said quietly, looking down for a moment.

- Thomas, but my friends more often call me Sykkuno. - you could hear tiny smile in his voice and your mood lifted up a little.- It’s my game nick. - He explained, still busy with buttons on the cockpit. - And yours?

You told him your name.

-Okay, we are safe now. - he said with a sigh of relief after a short silence. He turned around to face you and gave up his sharply determined pose. His stiff shoulders loosened a little. He looked over your appearance and suddenly looked away with an embarrassed face.You could see shy blush on his face again and realized that you were sitting and that caused your dress to wander somewhere upper. Too upper for your taste. You quickly fixed that and felt your face reddened too.. 

- I’m very sorry, it is really not the best way to treat your clients, I don’t know it would end like that…- you heard his soft voice with a bit of guilt.

- Where are we going now? - you asked, interrupting him. You felt pitiful, sitting helplessly on the floor of a spaceship, thousands of emotions and thoughts washing over your mind. You didn’t even know if you should trust him or not, but you’ve guessed it’s too late for dilemmas like this.

- We are coming back to our world, I entered the special code and this ship is able to take us back. - he told you and looked at your confused expression. - It’s something like a time machine - you click on the date and the ship is taking you there.

You nodded with hesitation, and looked him into eyes. He blinked rapidly at sudden eye contact.

- So, could you explain this situation to me? - you asked, watching him expectantly. You stood up carefully, shaking small dusts off your dress and straightening it.

Sykkuno looked at the small screen in the cockpit and cleared his throat nervously.

-Um, you know (y/n), it’s not really good time for conversation like this...- he stuttered, taking a step back and catching onto one of metal handle poking out from the wall of the spaceship. - You should better catch on to something...

- Oh, really. - You said, shortening the distance between you two. - And when it will be a good time for… - you didn’t finish the sentence again, because of the sharp turbulence which shook the ship and sent you right into Thomas arms. He caught you and stabilized you both with his iron grip on a metal handle. The next second you opened your eyes, you were standing in the shop again, with your arms around Thomas rib cage and his arm around your waist, the other holding for dear life to one of the showcases.

-Maybe now? - he answered doubtfully your unfinished question, breathing heavily and looking everywhere but not into your eyes. You slowly moved away from him, little by little stabilizing yourself and observing surroundings to make sure you returned where you were at first. Everything was looking normal, the showcases were untouched, the old man behind the counter was still snoring loudly. The cassette with the game was lying on the floor, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to touch it again. When your awareness came back to it’s place, you turned away on your heels with a plan to storm out of the shop and just think what happened, but Thomas caught your wrist delicately.

-Please. - his soft voice full of guilt almost made you wince.- Please, let me explain this before you leave.

part 3

[meggiejolly]

Title: Cabin Life 

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Pairing: Rebecca Crane & Shaun Hastings

Prompt: Cabin 

Rating: General Audiences 

Links: Fanfiction.net, AO3

Sumary: Shaun and Rebecca are stuck in a tiny cabin together, working on analyzing the latest Animus data. This is a little glimpse into their daily routine.

They had been sent to this tiny cabin in this forest in the middle of nowhere to analyse the data from a few crucial Animus sessions. The only problem was that there was literally nothing around, the power and satellite link that had been set up for them was more than basic and only worked with a lot of begging and possibly a few sacrifices, or at least that's what Shaun suspected. Rebecca, of course, told him it was just his bad aura around technology. It certainly only worked for one person at a time which was more than inconvenient.

Another part of the problem was that it was just the two of them, which spelled disaster. They didn't do well without some sort of buffer.

And Shaun couldn't even hide in his history books when he needed a break from Rebecca's constant nagging. (Mind you, she said if anyone was constantly nagging it was him, but what did she know?) Because he hadn't been able to bring a lot of material. He mostly had to rely on online archives which he could only access when Rebecca wasn't using the satellite link for her analysis. And of course, she was of the opinion that her work was a lot more vital.

"I'm looking for underlying programming, glitches, glyphs, strange code that could help us find more pieces of Eden. That's something we can only get through the animus. Your boring old history has been there for ages, so shut up and let me work."

"I will have you know that it has not been there for ages, new theories and discoveries are happening all the time. And with the Animus, we can prove what happened. It takes all the guesswork out. It is vital that I get our data bank as accurate as possible, so future animus users have the correct information at the correct time. A wrong date or name can spell disaster and cost us valuable time in the race against the templars."

"But that is both in the past and in the future. Finding more leads for pieces of Eden is right now and is much more important. So shut up and let me work."

"You already said that. And analysing what people say and do and how it differs from recorded history is just as likely to provide us with leads." He sighed and took his glasses off to clean them. "But fine, fine, I am the bigger man as usual, so I will let you work and cook some dinner. But you'll do the dishes after and I get to work then."

Rebecca just shrugged. "Fine, but you're not the bigger man and not the bigger person either."

“Yeah, yeah." He mumbled and went over to the tiny kitchen area of their one-room cabin to see what he could manage to make for dinner.

"We have a choice of baked beans on toast, canned pasta or an omelet with the last of our cheese. We need to make a supply run in the next two days."

Supply runs were always risky, they needed to stay hidden and as of the radar as possible. According to their contacts, Abstergo had been sighted to nose around this area.

Which meant he would probably have to wear that horrible fake beard again and Rebecca would be complaining about the too-tight wig she wore as a disguise. At least it was sunny so the base caps and sunglasses wouldn't be too strange.

"We had baked beans for breakfast. So make the pasta and we'll eat the omelet tomorrow morning. I'll check with the others if it's safe enough to go out tomorrow."

Shaun nodded and searched for the can opener, of course, it wasn't where it was supposed to be.

"Can you not just put the can opener back where it belongs, it's really not that hard, it's not like we have that much space."

"Sorry, look near the bread."

"Found it." He poured the contents into their pot and started heating it over the camping stove.

"At least it's not Ramen. If I never eat another packet of cheap Ramen it will be too soon."

"Don't be such a baby Shaun, Ramen is the stuff we survive on and you know it. College students, minimum wage workers and undercover people everywhere swear by it. Don't look down on them, you fancy-schmancy." She laughed and Shaun couldn't help but join.

"Fancy-schmancy am I? What an insult Rebecca, what an insult."

He gave the pasta a stir and grabbed the two bowls and spoons from beside the tiny sink, the only one in the entire cabin. Privacy was a foreign concept by now and so was showering.

"Food's almost done, so finish up what you're doing."

Rebecca nodded. "Alright. I'm just gonna let this handy little program search for abnormalities while we eat."

"As long as it's done so I can work after dinner."

As an answer, Rebecca just shrugged and Shaun sighed. He highly doubted he would get to work today. Well, maybe he could argue that it would be safer if only one of them went out tomorrow and use the time she was away to work.

Oh, who was he kidding, if he did that he would worry about her the whole time until she got back and barely get any work done. He would just have to get to the computer before her tomorrow. She wasn't a morning person anyway.

The sauce started to bubble and he gave it another stir before filing it into the bowls.

"Here you go Beccs, gourmet canned pasta with no cheese because we're saving that for the omelet. Enjoy."

Rebecca grinned and took the bowl. "Always impressive that they can make tomato sauce taste like nothing, but at least it’s somewhat filling."

Shaun just sighed full of resignation. "How much longer do we have to stay here?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Who knows. Two more weeks at least, but maybe longer. I guess it depends on Abstergo’s activity and what we find."

Shaun nodded. "I guess. Any new leads worth mentioning?"

"I don't know, there is something strange that I picked up on. But it's very different from all the first civilisation things we've found so far, so it might be unrelated. Maybe just a bug in the programming of the animus. Of course, fixing that would be a good thing, but that wouldn't be a lead. You?"

"Oh you mean did I find any leads twiddling my thumbs and flipping through old notes and the few things I was able to bring? No, not really. But I did work on editing a few minor database entries. Nothing big though. I really need access to our archive."

"Yeah, yeah my program will be done in 15 to 20 minutes tops and then I can print the results and you can use the computer. Stop whining."

"Whining, Rebecca? I never whine."

As a response, she just shoved him and nearly made him spill his pasta.

"Careful, I want to savour every bite of this tasteless sludge with vaguely noodle-like bits in it."

After they finished eating, Shaun, of course, ended up doing the dishes so Rebecca could finish up her work. But after, she did let him use the computer and started pouring over her printouts with a pen and a notepad.

Shaun plugged in his headphones and went through some of the recordings they took during the Animus sessions.

"It is truly fascinating to witness history like this. I wish my ancestors had led more exciting lives. But at least I get to meet some amazing historical figures this way. Too bad I'm not allowed to publish any of this. It would change so much. But the only people benefitting from my work are the Assassins and Abstergo when they once again somehow manage to get our data."

"Yeah, but we get their data even more often than they get ours. So who cares. As for publishing your work, I have helped design and update a machine that lets you relive memories from people that lived hundreds or thousands of years ago and I'm not allowed to tell anyone. Do you know how much that sucks? How much I wanna rub some assholes from college faces in it sometimes? But no, instead I eat canned pasta and baked beans in a tiny freezing cabin when I should be winning a Nobel prize or any number of prizes and grants for my work."

Shaun looked up at her. "I'm sorry. You are right. We both deserve more recognition and money. But we're saving the world, right?"

Rebecca sighed. "Right. Let's not forget that. But a thank you would be nice from time to time wouldn't it?"

"100 percent it would. But hey at least our lives aren't boring."

"No, but this cabin is."

Shaun chuckled at that and Rebecca joined him. After that, they worked in silence until it got too dark for them to work with the little light they dared to use. Both for stealth and power saving reasons.

Rebecca yawned. "Time for bed. Mind if I use the bathroom first?"

Shaun shook his head. Bathroom was a very generous term anyway, it was just an outhouse with no running water and almost no light. But at least it was better than a bucket in the corner, it wasn’t as if they hadn’t had to make do with that on other missions as well.

He used the time Rebecca was outside to wash himself as well as he could in the tiny sink. No pyjamas, in case they had to flee in the middle of the night and he couldn’t exactly take his shoes off before he went outside.

Once Rebecca returned it was his turn in the ‘bathroom’ and her turn at the sink.

She was already in her sleeping bag when he came back inside and he climbed into his one next to her. They slept pretty close together because it could get pretty cold at night.

“Night, Beccs.“

“Night, Shaun.“

[snarky-badger]

Sequel to that Murphy's law reader? like She super paranoid going out and because of that the reader like really observant; the point where she can use her unluckiness to her advantage in a dangerous situation, like being chased by some thugs and they have a horrible time! an oil drum burst causing them to slip around, getting run over by a piano, and attacked by birds. before finally catching the reader in a dead end only for Venom jump in after enjoying "the show".

Prompt #2 - I feel like i’m not alone to fell in love with your “serie of unfortunate Events” did you follow the story with the reader meeting eddie or just keep writing it? Because i really love it i never see something that accurate with my life! It’s amazing!    

Part 3 of what people have dubbed 'Murphy's Law Reader'. Part 1, Part 2

.

It took weeks after Venom's 'visit' for the building across from yours to fix the damage from both his little rampage and his written message clawed into the brick. The gun runner that had been Venom's prey had been found headless, amidst a pile of guns, ammunition and drugs. Bullet holes had marred the apartment's walls, signs of a struggle that had been rather one-sided.

It really should have bothered you, you knew it should have bothered you - Venom calmly eating brownies in your apartment before going to decapitate a bad guy. But it didn't. Not really.

Which was why you didn't bat an eye at baking more triple chocolate brownies the next day. Once cooled, you'd put them into a large Tupperware, then duct taped the entire thing to the side of the building just outside your window.

You didn't see Venom again, though three times you checked and found the Tupperware empty, and three times you refilled it with more brownies.Things went back to as normal as they could with you. You went to work - where computers would randomly refuse to function around you, printers would start printing gibberish if you walked past, and the IT department low-key thought you were some sort of computer virus come to life.

Then came the week of hell.

Monday, after your computer monitor had mysteriously started to emit a foul-smelling smoke, you'd been forced to walk home after the bus had broken down a block before needing to pick you up, and almost twisted an ankle after a cat had just bolted out of an alley and dashed across your path.

Tuesday, you'd been demoted to the mail room since your computer was still on the fritz and had nearly sliced your palm open with a exacto knife while fighting to open a box of toner for the Xerox machine.

Wednesday, you'd arrived at work drenched because a truck had motored through a deep puddle next to the sidewalk. Then someone had decided to microwave some foul-smelling fish dish in the microwave, and the smell had infected the entire floor of the building.

Thursday, you'd been sent back to your desk and your new monitor, whereupon your ergonomic chair had mysteriously dumped you on your head when the back of it had given way. Your flailing arm had caught the cord of your mouse and ripped it out of the computer tower. IT had merely sighed and handed you a new one.

Friday, your MP3 player that kept you sane while working had died, and no amount of prayer or charging could revive it. You'd been forced to listen to your the cubical-over's horrible music on their radio. It hadn't even been in English. Or Spanish. It had been some weird, high pitched thing with screaming and bells. Weird. Migraine inducing too.

You'd been so desperate to escape the horrible music that you'd snuck out of work early.

It was a sunny day - which meant no puddles. No cats bolted out in front of you. You were hoping to get home without any insanity, because you were really, really, tired. All you wanted to do was get home and hibernate until Monday.

Naturally, fate decided to throw a monkey wrench into that plan too.

Fucking fate. That bitch.

You were halfway home, crossing the street, when a cat call caught your attention. You turned towards the source of the whistle, meeting the gaze of a man who gave you a visible look-over and a leer, before he started to walk towards you.

Fuck no. You stopped that shit by glaring at him and giving him the finger before hustling into a little coffee shop for safety. He didn't follow you in. Taking a break and getting yourself a hot chocolate and a donut wasn't what you had planned, but it was better than dealing with Mr. I-Have-No-Respect-For-Women.

Only when you'd finished your sweet treat and made certain that the asshole was gone did you leave the shop. It was late evening, and the sun was starting it's descent. You hurried, wanting to get home, wanting, more than anything, to get out of your bra and put on a tee and shorts and just relax.

You were five blocks away when you heard fast footsteps from behind. You were already starting to turn when a hand grasped your left arm and tugged you to a stop.

"You can't take a compliment?"

Fuck. Your. Life.

"Let me go." You pulled on your arm, trying to get free. The man who'd cat called you merely tightened his grip until you were certain that you were going to have bruises, his dark eyes narrowing.

"I gave you a compliment. Least you could do is not flip me off like some whore."

"You cat-called me, asshole! That's not a goddamn compliment!" Growling you kicked him in the knee, then stomped on his foot. His grip on you loosened enough that you were able to twist your arm free. You paused long enough to whack him in the face with your heavy purse before spinning and making a run for it.

No need to bother looking back either. Just fucking run. This wasn't the time to hope for the good in mankind, this asshole was off his rocker.

Not surprisingly, you heard him yell and heard the sounds of pursuit, heavy footfalls pounding the sidewalk. No one that you weaved around bothered to even look up from their phones or bother to realize that you were in trouble. You poured on the speed, dodging people, hoping that nothing stupid would get in your way and trip you up enough that idiot would catch up and get his hands on you.

Naturally, someone splashed water onto the sidewalk ahead of you, suds and cleaning fluid from a mop bucket flowing over the concrete. You were going too fast to slow down, so you braced yourself for the worst, barely managing to stay upright as you skidded through it. The idiot behind you cursed loudly as he slipped, falling to his hands and knees in the suds and screaming at the poor store owner.

Well. Murphy's Law did help now and again. Didn't think it was possible.

Still, you kept going.

Four blocks to go.

Block three, and the asshat had re-caught up to you. Goddamn dude was quick, you had to give him that. Didn't think he had it in him - he'd stunk of cheap cigarettes and cologne. Though you didn't admire his persistence. Wondered how many other women he'd manhandled into going out with him or whatever. The thought made your stomach turn a little. Gross little man.

Three blocks, and his grasping fingers touched your back. You ducked, throwing yourself under a large table that two movers were carrying into an apartment building. You scraped your knees, but idiot ploughed into the piece of furniture and went down hard. The movers weren't too happy with him either, yelling at him and showing not one ounce of mercy for the moron on the ground.

You risked a laugh as you scrambled up to your feet and forced yourself back into a sprint. Two blocks. You could make that. Hopefully the asshat would stay down - ploughing into a wood table at high speed couldn't have felt good.

"Goddamn bitch!"

Well. There was something to be said about his tenacity.

Groaning, you darted past a man on a ladder trying to change a light on a sign, rolling your eyes when he dropped the bulb just as you went by, the 'pop!' of the bulb shattering and the flying glass making Mr. Moron behind you stumble a little.

"Lookout!"

That didn't come from the idiot.

You jerked your gaze forward, then threw yourself to the side, plastering yourself against a building as a Baby Grand Piano rolled past, three men running after the escaped instrument. Caught a glimpse of your personal idiot's eye's widening before he did a Stupid Thing and tried to brace himself to 'catch' said piano.

It didn't end well.

You didn't have to worry about him anymore.

The last block home was journeyed at a calm walk, though you did quirk an eyebrow at the ambulance that roared past, heading towards the, ahem, 'incident'. You stepped into your apartment ten minutes later, sighing tiredly as you locked the door behind you. Dropped your purse onto the floor as you kicked off your shoes, then headed for the fridge and the vodka coolers you kept in stock.

Didn't bother to turn on the lights as you shuffled over to the couch and plopped down onto it, taking a long guzzle of your 'Mike's Hard Lemonade'.

Your life.

No receipt no exchange.

You hoped the piano was okay.

Sighing, you inspected your dress pants, plucking at the material at your knees that was frayed from the friction of the sidewalk. Nuts. You'd have to order a new pair, because your work didn't allow jeans.

You were trying to gather up the willpower to go get changed when you heard a tap at the window. Ignored it for a moment, thinking it was another demented city pigeon, before it happened again, louder than a bird could manage without breaking it's tiny little feathered head open.

Frowning, you got up to see what new hell was trying to break into your apartment, eyes widening when you spotted Venom peering into your apartment, his curiosity quickly replaced by amusement when he saw you.

Sighing again, you went over and lifted the window open. "Sorry, I ran out of flour for the brownies and I haven't gone to the store yet."

"OH, WE'RE NOT HERE FOR THAT, NIBBLE," he rumbled as he squeezed through the window. You backed up a bit as he entered your apartment and rose to his full height, stretching a little. "WE WERE JUST SEEING IF YOU WERE ALRIGHT."

"...alright?"

"FROM THE CHASE."

"The... You... You were there?!" Okay, you were yelling at Venom again. Not something you should make a habit out of. "Why the everlasting fuck didn't you do something?!"

Massive shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "TO BE HONEST, YOU SEEMED TO HAVE A HANDLE ON IT," he told you, before smirking. "AND WE WERE LAUGHING TOO HARD AFTER HE RAN INTO THE TABLE."

You facepalmed.

"THOUGH THE PIANO WAS ENTERTAINING TOO." A low chuckle left him. "YOU REALLY DO ATTRACT THE WORST LUCK."

"Is that why you keep showing up?" you snarked as you went to retrieve your drink, grumbling as you finished it off.

Venom huffed a little at your comment. "WE'LL LET THAT SLIDE."

Another, tired, sigh left you, and your shoulders slumped as you turned to look at him again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. In my defense, I've had a horrible week that just culminated with me getting chased by a pervert."

The exhausted, on edge, broken, tone to your voice pulled some odd thrumming noise from Venom, and you blinked as he took two large steps towards you before wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you into a massive bear hug.

You tensed for a moment, your brain trying to make sense of the fact that Venom, of all people, was offering you comfort. But considering all the fuckery as of late, you couldn't bring yourself to really care. It was a hug. You missed hugs.

Closing your eyes, you leaned into him, your own arms wrapping around his waist as you listened to that odd growling noise that was leaving him. One of his taloned hands rose to cup the back of your head, tucking you close, and you relaxed into him. Fuck Murphy's Law. Let it try to get at you now.

He bent down to exhale warm breath into your hair. "BETTER?"

"Yeah." You felt like you should pull away, but he wasn't letting go, and you felt pretty happy to stay where you were. "Thanks."

"WE WERE ORIGINALLY COMING TO THANK YOU FOR THE BROWNIES," Venom told you with another vibrating rumble that rattled your bones. "WANTED TO KNOW IF YOU WANTED TO COME OUT TO SEE THE TOWN WITH US."

"You want me, Disaster Incorporated, to let you swing me around the city on those little webs?" You rose your head from his chest to look up at him. "Seriously?"

He smirked. "WE'RE CERTAIN WE CAN HANDLE ANYTHING THAT HAPPENS."

"You realize that's just asking the Universe to do something, right?"

A laugh left him. "WE'RE STRONG ENOUGH NOT TO GET TAKEN OUT BY A PIANO."

Yeah. You were definitely off your rocker. "Let me get changed into normal clothes and we can go."

The Saturday Edition of the Paper would later cover an odd explosion at a chocolate shop. Where upon a frazzled woman fitting your description was seen running from the store, carrying several boxes of high-quality chocolates, before the Demon of San Francisco swung down, missed picking you up, and pretty much just faceplanted himself into the side of a building.

No one knew where the piano came from, but it was found at the scene of the crime with a large bite taken out of it.

.

[slackingsatan]

Hi!! So I can see Nico spoiling the FUCK out of Levi. So an AU were Nico isn’t under Link, he’s a super super super successful&rich, and he just loves to spoil his little bean.

AAAAAAAAAAA AM SORRY I’VE BEEN GONE FOR A FEW DAYS. THERE’S BEEN LIKE TRAINING AND PRODUCTION STUFF WORK AND SHITS. FEELING SICK AS WELL… LOL ALRIGHT HERE WE GO..

———————————————-

So here some notes.

RichBoi!Nico AU

- In this timeline, Nico took another career path and became successor of some family business.

- His company is one of the benefactors of Grey-Sloan and other hospitals, especially hospitals that encourage medical advances and breakthroughs. Having a different career path doesn’t mean that his passion for medicine died.

- He visits Grey-Sloan and there he met Dr. Levi Schmitt, a surgical intern. Levi thought he was some patient’s relative and he escorted Nico to the waiting area.

- Levi is a clueless tiny bean about who he is. Taryn and Dahlia kinda recognized him. Casey knows about him because Nico’s company is a medical tech company. Casey would be the reason Levi would know about how big Nico’s empire and name is.

- Yeah teenie tiny Levi so clueless about the fact that every equipment of Grey-Sloan has Kim written all over it, and he doesn’t know AT ALL

———————————————-

How they first meet

“U-Uh sir there’s a waiting area for relatives and family members.” A young looking nerdy doctor said.

Wait, is he talking to me? Nico thought with confusion.

“I’m not really a-”

“I’ll escort you there.” The young looking doctor interrupted Nico’s explanation.

He doesn’t know me? It’s the first time that happened to Nico, that a doctor doesn’t know who he is. Every hospital he’s ever visited would recognize him. He’s like the Elon Musk of medical technology. He thought that no doctor in this world would not know of his name. He build an empire of medical tech and paved way to future medicine after all.

Nico followed the young clueless doctor, but with a bit of a distance between them in order to examine this rare specimen.

Light blue scrubs at Grey-Sloan? Must be an intern. He thought, still confused since even interns still know who Nico Kim is.

The young doctor opened a door towards the waiting area. He then gestured a ‘come-here’ hand gesture.

That’s cute. Nico thought and smirks while approaching the young looking doctor towards the waiting area. Come to think of it, he looks cute too.

“O-Okay. A doctor will come here and update you.” The young looking doctor broke the silence.

He still thinks I’m a patient relative. Nico giggled a little bit.

“I’ll be going now.”

The young doctor was about to go.

“What’s your name?” Nico asked, not going to miss a chance to know this cute little child doctor.

“Dr. Levi Schmitt.” Levi replied. “But everybody calls me glas- y’know what.. it’s just Dr. Schmitt.”

There’s a huge amount of trauma at the pit so Dr. Schmitt had to leave. If only there’s a bit of time to ask his number, Nico would have done that. He thought about it and Levi’s his type of guy he would date. Cute, nerdy, and sweet.

Next time I’ll ask him out.

“Thank god you’re here, Mr. Kim.” A doctor said and relieved that she found Nico at last. “My name Dr. Miranda Bailey, Chief of Surgery, and I’ll be touring you.” Dr. Bailey said enthusiastically.

“Hi, and please, lead the way.” Nico said politely.

—————————————

How they met, 2nd time

Levi drank with his friends at Joe’s after a long ortho session with Dr. Link.

“I’ve never done ortho before!” Levi exclaimed and sighed. He’s venting his stress out.

“Are we playing never have I ever?” Taryn said sarcastically. “Okay, never have I ever dropped my glasses at an open abdomen.”

Dahlia laughed so hard that she almost slipped her drink.

“ha Ha haarr.” Levi laughed sarcastically. Annoyed, he thought two can play that game. “Well how’s the secret crush at Dr. Grey.”

“Ooooh. Who wouldn’t though? But in a non-romantic way of course.” Dahlia said.

“Wow!” Taryn shocked at the foul move, and recovered quickly. “For the record, hear her talk about Christina Yang and tell me if you think she’s straight.”

They laughed and tell stories about how their day went. Casey was still on shift, so he’ll join next time.

Levi’s going to order another drink when a tall handsome man brushed a cold beer bottle towards his hands. It’s the patient relative that he escorted before.

“Rough day?” Tall handsome man said. “You need a drink.”

“T-thanks.” Levi replied and confused with the kind gesture. “B-but here I can pay-” He’s about to reach for his wallet when Mr. Handsome stopped him.

“No need. You owe me a drink next time.”

“Okay.” Levi replied and still confused. Wow he’s hunky, and ripped, and chiseled, like a model. Like a roman stature. Geez, what am I thinking?

Mesmerized, Levi asked for the tall handsome man patient relative’s name.

“It’s Nico.” Nico responded. “By the way, I’m not a relative of a patient.. just so we’re clear, I was checking medical equipment.”

“What? But you’re wearing a suit.. aand uh” Levi’s more confused and now embarrassed since he escorted him away and thought he was some patient’s relative. “I’m sorry.”

Nico was wearing a suit on that day. He doesn’t look like IT or tech support. Levi thought. Now, he’s wearing a smart casual outfit. Stylish techy tall handsome tall venti guy. Interesting.

Nico’s phone rang.

“It’s okay. Have to go. Remember you owe me a drink.”

“Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

Nico left to answer a call. Taryn and Dahlia went to Levi.

“So that’s a date?” Taryn smiled and giggled.

“N-no it-s nott a date” Levi got all flustered and in denial.

“Trust me it’s a date. He asked you out for drinks.”

“He looks familiar.” Dahlia added.

“He sure does, we only saw a glimpse of him so i dunno.” Taryn shrugged.

“He works as IT or something.” Levi explained. “He was checking medical equipments and I thought he was a patient’s relative so I escorted him towards the waiting room. And now I owe him a drink. Nothing more.”

Dahlia and Taryn laughed.

“How can you have mistaken him for a relative?” Taryn asked after laughing.

Dahlia laughed harder.

“Pheww haah wa-wait.” Dahlia took a breather. “Anyways, it looks like you’ve hit a jackpot!”

“I told you, it. Is. Not. A. Date.” Levi’s still not convinced, but deep inside he’s excited about it.

“Whatever floats your boat.” Taryn said.

“… Whatever makes you sleep at night.” Dahlia added.

And they drank again, because tomorrow it’s back to work.

———————————

Let’s skip to when they’re together and Nico spoils him hard on one of their dates

It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Levi was busy with fellowship and Nico’s managing his business. They treasure the times that they could meet, and then hope for those times to happen.

They have a day for themselves, at last. Nico planned an extravagant date. He doesn’t really mind to spend money for Levi.

The night before their date, Nico waited for Levi’s shift to end inside his sportscar. Levi’s shift ended. They talked about what happened to them over the past few days, even though they always talk through phone or chat.

“… and I was about to c-cut thee .. the..”

Tired, he slept midsentence when he was telling a story about his recent patient.

Cute. Nico thought and drove the sleeping bean to his house. He had planned the night as well. There was a scheduled full body massage and jacuzzi in case Levi wanted to splash the stress away as well.

Levi felt relaxed and happy because he’s spending time with Nico. Tonight is relaxation… and another kind of stress relief IYKWIM. Tomorrow is the real date.

Levi wanted to sneak and make breakfast for Nico, but Nico’s hired chef had already made breakfast. Breakfast is served on a long table full of Levi’s favorite foods. He was surprised with the enormous amount of food. But Levi wanted to cook for both of them, not that he was against letting other people cook their food. It was supposed to be their time. And he wanted to show Nico how much he loves him too.

“Ohh… Uh.. Hi.” Levi greeted the people inside the kitchen and the dining area.

“Good morning, sir!” The personal chef greeted the tiny bean and proceeds to introduce the dishes. Nico went down a minute later.

“Good morning, hun.” Nico said and kisses Levi. “Let’s eat.”

“Good morning.” Levi replied, smiled and then asked. “Isn’t this a bit too much?”

“Too much? Don’t you worry and just eat.”

I really wanted to cook breakfast. Levi thought, and then dismissed it since it’s their time and no negative thoughts.

Next, Nico and Levi went to shop clothes. Levi insisted not to since he has a lot of clothes already but Nico wants Levi to have new nice things.

“Try everything on him.” Nico said calmly, but like in an order.

“Yes, sir.” The staff replied. Levi looks amazing on everything, and he almost thought that Nico would buy the whole damn store (he bought half of the store.)

Next, for their lunch, there’s a reservation on one of those fancy restaurants that it cost a fortune for just a glass of water.

“Uhhh are you sure this is okay?” Levi said, because those prices can kill a middle class man.

Nico chuckled. He remembered this scenario when Levi hasn’t realized who he is.

— Flashback—

Nico invited Levi to dinner, and Levi is surprised that it’s in a fancy restaurant.

“Uhh Nico we can’t afford this.” Levi said while computing what he has to order.

“It’s my treat, anyways.” Nico said, and he touched Levi’s hand above the table for reassurance.

“Y’know that I’m just a surgical intern right? And idk you work like IT or Tech…. these prices are just… wow… we can just bail…” Levi whispered.

Actually, I’m the President of KMS Corporation (Kim Medical System Corp.)

“Trust me I got this.” Nico reassured.

–end of Flashback—

Levi seems a bit troubled, and Nico have noticed it. They stumbled across some sort of arcade shop. Levi wanted to try it and Nico was persuaded easily. Nico wanted to win him the big teddy bear on top of the shelf, it cost like 30000 tickets. One of the fastest way to gain tickets is a shooting game. Nico went and bought tons of tokens to try the shooting game with Levi. It turns out that Levi is good at these types of games. Levi won like 70% of their shared tickets. Nico saw Levi’s genuine smile and laugh for the first time today.

“You didn’t enjoy today didn’t you?” Nico said.

“W-What? Can’t you see I’m enjoying it? We can actually collect 30000 tickets! Or even more than that!” Levi replied, excited to get some prices.

“I mean like when we ate breakfast and when we shopped you clothes. Also, when we had lunch. If something’s bothering you, tell me.”

“It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it. It’s just that I’m not used to having fancy things, or like a fancy lifestyle… I actually wanted to make you breakfast this morning…. I want to show you how much I love you, too.” Levi explained, and then touched Nico’s fingertips with his own.

“You wanted to make me breakfast?”

“Y-Yeah.. I’m actually good at cooking, FYI!”

“How about dinner?”

“Oh absolutely! B-But maybe you have plans, I don’t want to interfere.”

Adorable! I want to squeeze him like a tiny teddy bear! Nico thought.

“No worries, let’s go with your plan. Let’s go grocery shopping.”

Nico cancelled like this ferris wheel dinner where for each loop at the ferris wheel, there will be new servings. He didn’t let Levi know, he wants him to not worry about such things. They went grocery shopping together, picking up ingredients. Levi’s going to cook German cuisines and then Nico will teach him about Korean cuisines as well. So the bought enough for both German and Korean food.

It might not be the most romantic and fancy dinner they’ve had, but it’s the moment that has value more than its financial worth.

[indomitablemegnolia]

It was edging onto the noon hour, eleven-thirty-six am to be exact, but you couldn’t tell by the light of the sun; Gods, it was as if Fenrir the wolf had jumped out of a Norse legend into the sky to swallow the sun; I had already been at the airport for five and a half hours; my red eye was cancelled, and I had been bounced from gate to gate to gate, to wait to wait to wait, only to be told nothing was happening; they always stressed the word yet, but what they really meant was, ever. It was really not a huge surprise, I had watched the weather report while listening to my neighbor get lucky; the animal noises and obvious gymnastics required to make such a ruckus would have left me exhausted for weeks, but here they go again, well, at least someone is getting some. I was surprised there wasn’t cracks and holes in which to watch in that shoddy, tiny, airport motel room, just barely a step above an S.R.O., but it was a bed and damn I was tired this was a trip doomed from the word go, giving me little glimpses of the movie ‘Fight Club’ after the first hour of meetings, suddenly I was Jack’s complete lack of surprise.  My agenda, my plan… my hope, now dead, dead as dreams, it began full of such potential; that was zapped away within seconds, so why should it end any easier, really? What did I expect traveling to a place called Port Chester, New York? God, it sounds like the setting for a soap opera, but truly, in retrospect more like an episode of supernatural, including a vengeful spirit.

Speaking of vengeful spirits, the dark icy clouds encased the airport in a swaddle of gloom, like the foreboding storm from poltergeist; anyone who can read the sky could see that the weather was only going to get worse. Those dark clouds only served as an ominous warning, a foreboding that should have come as a warning, or possibly in the form of a question. getting blacker, rain already turning to solid ice as it fell from the heavens; Shangri-La this was not, it had congealed into a complete and total ice storm.  Usually, storms brought a certain sort of odd comfort to me, though today, not so much; most likely due to the fact I was so far from my home; as if cued perfectly on time the song ‘Can’t find my way home’ played in my ears. I choked on my snarky laugh as I trudged to my next expected gate, lamenting the fact that I felt nine hundred and ninety years old today. No matter what direction I looked I saw that long dark sky had the look of hard wet sleeting ice in the nearness of the future. I wish I was home with a tall cuppa joe and a nice big book on my lap, with some good soft music cuddling me under a heavy blanket. Turning the corner that I wish could have been to my kitchen with its pretty little red potholders. I stop short, before me sat the largest conglomeration of unhappy people I ever remember encountering, all of them choosing seats at or near the ticket agents booth; the far wall and its bank of windows showing a clear view of a very Poe dark and dreary as well as the show inside, was beautifully vacant. I walk amongst the revelers, noticing the complete discontent on every face I passed.

Oh, the universe had such a sense of humour, didn’t it? I shake my head, suddenly I felt I needed a drink; nah, maybe I just needed a lot of life insurance; god, I knew I needed a vacation; or maybe I needed a home in the country; or more than likely a full once over by a qualified psychiatrist; though mostly I needed to figure out where this Phillip Marlow-esque monologue was coming from, but on second thought that drink sounded lovely. I snickered to myself, the morning I was leaving Mom and I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying our morning coffee, or so I had thought; as with all morning rituals there was a vast amount of time allotted for silent contemplation staring into that vast unknown.

“What’s wrong?” Mom had asked, worry evident on her face.

Taken aback, I snickered, possibly the coldest most patronizing snicker I had ever snickered; as if the woes of the world and the things that weighed on my mind could be delineated down to utterable words, instead of answering I shrugged, “nothing really, why?” I tried to sound light and unbothered.

Mom huffed, “I don’t know, you look like something is bothering you,” she took a huffing breath, “actually you look like you are seriously contemplating smoking or becoming an alcoholic.”

Damn, she just dropped that in my lap, I laughed a real laugh, “It’s not that it hasn’t crossed my mind,” I took a drag, “To tell you, yes, of late I have partaken of much more libation than I ever have before, but you know exactly how limp my lungs are, too limp for smoking and I don’t quite have the intestinal fortitude to become a full-fledged alcoholic, I think you actually need a stomach to tie a good one on. So, no worries mom, it is just the world today and the way it’s working that just bugs the hell out of me.” Good god, am I that easy to read? Good times, right?  “I am just tired of the feeling of a nine thousand gorilla standing on my neck.”

She reached over patting my hand… Ah, mom she always had the ability to knock me sideways, but then make it all ok.  I pulled my fakieciggy out, (an e-cigarette that had long since been empty of all nicotine, but still had the light flavour of vanilla; hell, it lights up; the motion alone was as satisfying in form and function. Taking the time to sigh, reset my Qi, was enough, really, just an idiosyncratic mnemonic device.) put it to my lips and took a long drag; “Freaking bat country.” I mumbled under my breath, batting at the invisible bats, wishing to hell I had my flask, but there was no way I was going to try to take that through TSA, hell they were already way too frisky for my tastes. Really, I am a two-date minimum to get to second base kind of girl; who the hell was I kidding, my threshold was much wider for the whole idea of bases, I really was tempted to yell, RAPE! So, I had to make due with what I had. What I had was a coat, a hat, and a gun; oh, god I wish; what I really had was a headache, my huge black messenger bag, my oversized dark purple purse that served as a computer bag, my WWI aviator cap, a Pea coat and my knee-length waterproof leather boots. I saw a seat near the window, with a perfect reflection of the passersby, so, I pulled my sweater sleeves up over my elbow and went out to stake my claim, sadly sober as a judge.

Taking a people watching post, sitting in the fourth seat in, perching on the edge of the chair, I push my messenger bag and purse under my chair, lay my coat across my lap, leaning my shoulder into the back of the chair, I watch.  I watched the rapacious soul eating mob move and ebb and flow as they would. Rock Hudson and Doris Day style husbands and wives in deep serious whispered fights, staring daggers at each other; a Calvin and Hobbes, pair of college students mumbling amongst themselves whether or not they had asked anyone to feed their bong water fish, which I highly doubted that the fish was ever alive; Mothers with children looking like the perfect advertisement for birth control, faces bleak, eyes sallow, looking at the world with a ‘someone kill me now’ appeal, my heart ached for them. Then like a ray of light a tiny toddling head went past, not screaming, not crying, he toddled on, chasing a large red and white ball. His tresses shorn close on the sides, the middle left long, his tiny Native American feet trotting to a mix of a babies walk and a fancy dance in his borrowed handmade mucklucks, like a Sherman Alexie character brought to life; he chased that ball, hunkering in the fashion that only a beautiful child can, accidentally nudging the ball, chasing and hunkering again.  His simple, beautiful, innocence was unmistakable, I wish I could capture that image to hold on to forever, but like anything and everything miraculous, possibly once in a life time, it could only be seen, witnessed, never captured for reproduction, no picture can be taken, no beckoning for others to see.  I watched him play, until mom noticed how far he had traveled, she motioned for him to come back, with a shriek of a laugh he finally captured the ball, it balanced awkward in his tiny hands as he scampered back to mom, I reveled in his beauty for as long as I could.

A shadow passed, a series of people walked into my vision, I watched a very rich woman, head to toe designer gear; from diamonds to Manolo’s, the cheapest thing on her could have been the down payment on a home, basically Marie Antionette circa 2017. I don’t know why, but I liked her, she was blonde; in fact, she was a blonde, to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window, you know the type, beautiful, petite with a touch of sad, the kind you know any of fifty men would commit a felony for, start a war for, but she was not the kind that could eat people alive, her money was new and she wore it like a crown. Sadly, there she was trying almost desperately to gain the attention of her Louis XIV, his must be very new money, there is a comfort that comes from old money that he utterly lacks, with old money there is nothing really to prove; this man wore his wealth, including his wife, as if it were a status symbol requirement, his BMW keyring dangling from his Burberry coat pocket, his hands soft, totally without callouses, nails perfectly manicured, his hair coiffed with gallons of product; by all counts he was a useless man. Despite Marie’s attempts for his attention, it was focused like a laser on his newest game, he chased a bedazzlingly big busted, slim-fit skirt, again you know the type all tits and flash. I saw Drusilla, Louis’s game, meet his chase; she was also blonde, not nearly as pretty; she reeked of five thousand an ounce perfume, cheap sex in a motel room, and cigarettes, it all came along with a none too subtle ‘I would suck your dick just to kill time’ look about her, but her attitude left way too much to be desired. She must have felt my eyes watching them, she gave me a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of my back.  I watched the movements of these people, friends worse than enemies; lovers as adversaries; families at war and at peace; and lonesome strangers all lost in this Dante’s inferno morass, helpless, stuck, stranded.  In this place, full of people there was only about a handful of humans.  Poor Marie, she doesn’t know that down mean streets, on these streets a person must travel; a human who is not themselves mean, but can be; who must be neither tarnished nor afraid; they must be the hero in this story. She must have been looking for a man whose lips tasted of faerie tales, and mistook the frog for the prince.  Oh, but she is a peach, there may yet be hope for her, they walked on.  Then as ships pass in the distance my eyes moved from them to another.

This other; this long, tall, dark cloud drifted past stealing my vision; he was head and shoulders taller than Louis; he walked to the agent desk, handing the agent his ticket, there was something about him that usurped every atom of air around me. His dark licorice coloured, supple leather jacket hugged him tightly, dark wash jeans detailed the rest, tight enough to highlight the merchandise, but loose enough to leave bits and pieces for the imagination; Goddamn, taking in the entirety of his goliath frame was breathtaking, my god, he was lovely. The desk agent said something and motioned for him to find a seat; he spun deliciously on his heel, with ceremonious attitude reserved for royalty; he walked away, sliding his sunglasses down to rest on his nose.  He moved like water, luscious, cool, delicious water flowing over smooth stones; I literally leaned foreword and watched that walk, it was magnificent. God, he was about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food cake; no reverse that he was the angel wings on devil’s food; he was like a prowling lone wolf looking… for what? I am not sure, but the way he moved over the crowd, not through it, it was almost enrapturing. I mean, look at me, I was amongst these adders, trying to make my presence small, wanting literally to disappear, but I felt their lies and hate sticking to me like hot molasses, but him, he, seemed to be coated with a repellent, a Teflon, not a thing stuck to him.

He was as honest as you can expect a man to be in this world where it was going fast out of style. Not only did he move above them and through them without a spot of tarnish, he walked with that sultry panache. He was a complete man, very complete, my eyes slid to the lightly bagging rear pockets; they showed enough definition, but not the detail; good god I can’t believe my mind went there; he was a common man, although, there was not a thing common about him, he was as unusual a man as could ever be found. He, to use a rather weathered phrase, an unutterable phrase, was a man of honor. Possibly, by a natural instinct, look at those shoulders he could support the world; maybe by inevitability, by the sheer thought that someone had to be so he was more than happy to pick up the mantle, without thought of it, and certainly without ever saying it; or maybe he wasn’t, I was none too sure about my instincts these days. Oh, but the delicious stride of his foot sure and while in his gaze no man faltered, even Louis straightened his head when this wolf was on prowl. He seemed a man whose story was a manly adventure in search of a hidden truth, oh and goddam by the looks of him he was fit for adventure; oh, to be part of that adventure. Christ, my mind and oddly enough my body reacted to the idea of what kinds of adventure he would be up for.  It would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure, and I have had enough of those not fit for adventure. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in… he was the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world; he would be something of a marvel in every world. No, no, he probably wasn’t, look at me running wild with a though; he was probably just a man who dressed a part, stuck in an airport, with a walk… I let him slowly move from my sight, he was already driving me to distraction.

I look out on the desolate grey landscape, the ice creeping up the window panes; maybe it was Marie, maybe it was that godly walk, maybe I was in mourning for the loss of his visage or just the self-destructive nature of the human condition, but it was something that not even those chubby little hands clutching at that giant rubble ball could chase away; I don’t know what or why, and frankly I don’t really care, it just was; I suddenly feel ages, years heaping onto my shoulders. To lean heavily of Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, mostly it was just times; really it always does seem like we are on the edge of evolutions end; though always like on the TV shows the countdown stops at 1, although this time is feels to be on negative numbers. I remember not too long ago, it seemed we were in an age of wisdom of invention and growth; now it is an age of foolishness, it is the epoch of disbelief, it is the epoch of incredulity; I miss the season of Light, for this is a damn season of Darkness, from which it seems there will never again be a spring, no hope, it is a winter of discontent, of despair. I remember the last day when we still had everything before us, though now in retrospect we really had nothing before us, we thought we were all going directly to heaven or maybe we were already there, we are all actually in a freefall directly the other way. I look at my world and succumb to the dark, dreary letting the weary days soak my soul. The world floods my brain, once upon a time not actually all that long ago.  

Oh, it was the leanest of times, those times where those I love sat before my eyes and macabrely joke about which of us will be the first we all should eat; obviously my brother as his meat would be soft and sweet and succulent; you know, those jokes that bring a forced laugh, for fear that if we didn’t laugh we would have to run in terror from the reality of these thoughts; in those horror times we were packing, cleaning, locking away the remnants of a fantasy, a dream that we held in our hands while it died a cold and horrible death.  An ancient card from the times when we were convinced it couldn’t be worse than that but we knew that if we just hang on one more day… the card fell from our hands and fell open; springing from this card comes the vivacious voice of one Gloria Gaynor;  Our hips lost the battle of staying locked, tears began to fall as our lungs let free a laugh that was not at all forced; that was the moment that pedantic break up song from the bygone disco era became our salvation and a battle cry to send Schrodinger back into the shadows.  From there light began to shine and there was air to breathe, but again Fate slammed that door.  DAMN HER AND HOPE

There no such thing as beauty anymore, all colours fade from vivid to dead gray.  It really is an amazing thing when you think you have reached that horrible craggy earthen bottom, Hope, the vicious bitch that she is, shows you exactly how wrong you can be.  For a second I reach back in memory to long ago, remembering giggles and birthdays and handmade cakes with half the necessary fixings.  I let myself float, a few weeks ago, in that warm pool of possibility, red wines flavour haunting my taste buds. Gods, she showed me a brief glimpse of lovely, of that haven, I actually, almost felt that sun on my face. I still almost feel that smile on my face, doused in tears.  Ice cracked in my chest at the memory of that instant my heart had defrosted.  I knew better, I fought, I tried to resist, I didn’t believe, but then I wanted to, I needed to, then I did… We drove for hours, maybe it was days, time begins to lose its continuity when the radio is playing great music really loud, sunglasses fitting just perfectly and the speedometer reads 85 mph steady and true. There is something about it that made my heartbeat strong and true. We laughed and sang along, and it was the first time since I can’t really remember when that mom smiled, she laughed, without letting that haunted look come back to her eyes.

We would stop for burgers and laugh about something from eons ago. Then we’d hop right back into the car and drive; my foot getting heavier as we went. I don’t know what we were running from, or maybe running to, or maybe just it was the idea of the freedom that neither of us thought about a damn thing… yeah. All I really knew it was no stop until… it felt right. So, we drove and we drove, miles ticking off the rented odometer; states flying by, for once we weren’t simply standing in one place, trying to make traction on a treadmill, for years we were running at full bore and never getting anywhere, literally, figuratively, however the hell you want to say. Philosophers and scientists like speaking of continuity, but those who are stuck in the spin cycle, too close to the damn agitator, pieces of life, of spirit, of heart, of dreams, of happiness, being mangled, breaking off falling to the ground. Then one day I stopped, I just stopped running; my soul too tired to continue, I stopped.  I stopped trying to make everything fine, everyone happy I understood finally that I was on a fool’s errand. I took mom’s hand in mine and she stopped running too, we stooped to pick up the broken scattered pieces, but fate showed us that it was like trying to grab on to Jell-O with your hands and hold tight. So, we let them drop, leaving them to wait for the chalk outline of their tragic death.

The Pacific came into view over the rural cattle covered hills, the radio suddenly silenced. My eyes misted over and I turned on the wipers as the chill October rain drizzled from the heavens. I take that right and head north on HWY 1 knowing where we were going. Childhood memories haunted behind unshed tears, living has taken on a new definition in the dozen years since last, I smelled that organic salty home. I would stop and relive bowls of chowder and giggling splashing icy surf on naked tender feet, but now, it showed in stark relief to what living now meant, those laughing giggles echoing in our hearts. My hand dropped from the gear shift and mom laced her fingers through mine, we took a moment to mourn this breathing cadaver we had become. I pull over and park, it took a hot second before I grabbed my small bag from the back seat, I clamber out, walking around I helped mom from the car.  Walking as quickly as tear filled eyes and our beleaguered bodies would allow us, we made our way to the beach; and we sit listening to the surf, dropping my bag off my shoulder and we walk down to an old drift log. I made sure mom was comfortable, stepping out of my sneakers and socks using only my feet I walked to the rushing surf. I stooped pulling my pant legs up as the waves began licking at my toes. The oceans icy tongue sliding softly over my skin. I wanted to keep walking, walking till It was over my head, but I stood still when the waves kissed up my legs to behind my knees. I breathe letting my eyes roll closed, the wind ran its fingers through my hair as it kissed my face. Mom is suddenly there, holding my hand, both of us knee deep in the surf, we giggle and smile at each other as if we were children with a secret, oh and that secret…

I turn from the wind’s loving kisses, mom’s hand snaking into mine; we stood LIVING, for these seconds we lived; we walk hand in hand back to that driftwood stump, mom sits, I pull out the bottle of red wine from my bag, pulled the cork and took a long drink. Passing the bottle to mom; I noticed that those unshed tears were no longer abiding behind their dam. I don’t know when they had started sliding down my face, but I look a damn state now. Mom passes the bottle back and I take a long drink, looking up at that dark gray cloudy sky. I know it should have looked sad, foreboding even dower, but to me, it looked like a hug from an old friend. The crash roared so loud I couldn’t hear my own breath. It was perfect, the screaming person who has been occupying my mind suddenly shut up and I could breathe.

At its most benevolent this life has, one sweet single unattended moment, set aside for each of us. One single moment in and out of time. We took this moment, this little heaven inside this Dante’s nightmare we have called living, we take our little moment out of time and we take a shelter in it. Stealing away from all the shocks are horrors that this too long, far, far, too long life is heir to. This definition of living and its toll that it has taken on our souls. Our distraction fit, and I watch as we both take a deep breath and bury our toes in the cool sand like an oyster taking shelter. We close our eyes, breathe deep, we became high on this freedom, away we float. Beauty like lost dust moat in a shaft of sunlight, wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning in the snow, or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply so intense that it is not heard at all, that fabulous unsound, but while that glorious music lasts.

Oh, and while it lasts.

One by one I watched those sorrows, the angst and pain the uncertainty melt from our shoulders, the time to hesitate is through, and sometimes the best fight is not fighting at all. I look to mom and pass the bottle, and we speak in silent words, we always knew that the possibility of an impossible fight would come, though yet I would glove up and take my hits, but it would be a heartless battle; all of my hits soulless. There is a freedom in acceptance; as a song says, freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose; the knowledge that losing a bout isn’t everything, but we both knew we were going to lose this one would take everything from both of us. There was a release; we both felt it, we collapsed into it, death would come and we would fall into his arms. Her eyes lead me, in their depths in a moment of ecstatic joy, with no expectations, not from THIS ONE MOMENT. A beautiful, simple moment of being.

No wants, no needs no worries. God, mom had always made broken look beautiful, strong look invincible; She walked with the gorgeous universe on her shoulders. When she shrugged that heaped heaven gracefully, making that pain and strife look like wings. In this moment of communion between us. That toll was gone, peace found us as we held hands like always. mother and daughter and we wanted nothing more than this peace.  We took it, we loved it. Yes, we both knew this was just our moment and the treatments and pain would return and lost, lonely, broken, we would have to drive back home… eventually. Though, in that long stretched moment, we were infinite… Mom corked the bottle and we walked carefully back to the car, we got in again and I drove for more and more hours finally finding a beautiful hidden paradise amongst the redwood trees.

The bed, it was comfortable, lovely and clean, luxurious and the room had an eighth story window seat that still didn’t look down on those trees. We sat in the early morning feeling the air, smelling of earthy redwoods, kiss our skin and our lips with warm, delicious, coffee. The water from the tap tasted sweet and fresh, like a childhood memory poured from a second or even third-hand crystal pitcher. Late morning, the bathtub was large and deep. This was a paradise, this heaven was perfect, as if god understood that I had just acquiesced to his summons and decided to send me an extended heaven, or possibly on that curving mountain road I had missed a turn and we had both passed those pearly gates… In this paradise, there was a grand restaurant that required reservations. We ordered three rounds of drinks called the golden eagle, that tasted like buttered sunshine with a citrus hint and a float of Chambord. I ordered the lobster and she the steak, sharing the asparagus and potatoes…everything was perfect. We laughed and walked the long way around and danced and smiled at the smell of the beautiful trees. We walked among the ancients and there is something to be said for being less than drunk, more than lucid and still infinite among the kings of the Earth.

A tiny pearl of a treasure I tuck into that little box lined with black velvet that I keep all my most precious things of beautiful in.  Stupidly I believed, stupidly I let the want the will pull my hand out…  Ages told me that it was a mistake, that hope would be the thing that kills me, but I let my hand reach out, I almost touched it, but then there was nothing; now I lay bleeding out.  Nothing, but air that my fingers slid through and I fell, I fell a million miles.  One shining second in horror years, I trusted that idea of hope, the bitch, and now one eon wiser I woke this morning my eyes rioting at the idea of waking to this world, my brain screaming its recalcitrance at the idea of still dragging air into my lungs and begrudging the world for letting the sun to continue shining.  I will never again trust to hope, I can never lift my eyes from the motion of my feet in this broken trudge, all marching to that horrible monotone beat because the living will never come to any good.

A buzzing distracts my mind from this drudgery and I look at my stupid phone. A text from my momma: “Happy Birthday Angel, text me when you are on your way or if you will be on your way.  I hope you are wearing your smile and your lipstick, you never know who will fall in love with you today.”  An ironic chuckle escaped my throat and a wry smile pulled the corners of my lips.  In 37 years, no one had ever fallen in love with my damn lipstick or smile for that matter, I doubted today was any different today from any other day. Although, yes, I had put on my lipstick before departing for the airport today…  dumb ass.  Suddenly, the landscape was replaced by the rushing crowds passing behind me, superimposed, reflected on the glass in vivid colour.  Oh, and the din of the people began to enter and drive away my own private hell; I let the relief wash over me.  There was an odd surety to the idea that life goes on, it goes on whether or not one would wants it to; I started watching the people, along with the storm raging outside the windows, but the activity made my mind move from that cold place.  I felt like an idiot to let myself bask in that much self-pity.

A gust of air hit me as someone sits a few seats down, I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t take the time to look, I would be leaving this section soon anyways, as soon as they tell us all that there will be no motion. It is the real human smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, grows brave by reflection. My brain reeled, shook from my own morass by a simple stupid misquote. Jesus, apparently, this birthday is getting to me; I know so many try to convince that it is not the aging that bothers them, but for me it is truth; oh, the passing of time, when I start counting is like a pall on my soul, but to just despise it would be terribly ungrateful, to hate adding to the tally of years lived when one is already well and past expectations.  I don’t care what number of years I have lived, I really don’t mind the few hairs on my head that have transitioned from this dullard nondescript brown to a tinsel silver, the crinkles next to my eyes are every one of my laughs counted out for me. I do mind, however, is that so much time keeps passing, days mark themselves in memory and unwanted thoughts surface, I mind marking how much I haven’t done. I do mind is that not once has this journey been anything other than an upward climb, fingers gripping, bleeding, over the roughest terrain.  I decided, enough pain…  I was never one to just revel in misery, I am not the kind of woman who breaks into pieces under the blows of abandonment and absence, I am not the one who goes mad, who dies; though I know I will, possibly quite soon. Unlike Marie, I know I am the hero of this story, it is my responsibility to make it good. Surveying myself I saw that the few fragments that had splintered off were pieces that always are supposed to be sloughed due to living and learning. For the rest, I was… well, I was, just me. I was whole, whole I would remain. Thusly being stuck in an airport for a birthday is just one of those things that just happen, and yes, mostly to me.

Their reflections, with the gales of wind blowing ice and snow pelting the large bank of windows. Ah, its time to face the truth, nothing will be flying in this mess; hell, the smart people stayed home and didn’t even bother. I sigh, I never could have been accused of being one of the smart people, I watch the strangers pass behind me, all of them seemingly stressed and kinetic, like little white rats in a closed maze; frantic to get to where they were going, none willing to admit that no one was going anywhere anytime soon.  I scanned all he miserable faces, yes, we are all in a way trapped, foreword motion was impossible, but always there is someone who seems to take it so much worse than everyone else, making that small claustrophobic feeling a teensy bit worse.  Most just accept that, yes, in this world not much seems to go the way we all plan, there is always that one total jerk who thinks that god and all that’s holy and unholy alike should bow to his will.  With that thought my mind decided to switch to the politics network; I literally shuddered, became nauseous and pulled it back front and center.

This jerk yelled and bellowed as I watched apparently, the Scandinavian Bruce Willis had decided that handing a helpless gate agent her own head on a platter was the best use of his time.  He was demanding everything under the sun.  From the loud whining and bluster, I gathered that he was supposed to be traveling to Maui, but he wasn’t going to be there in time and would lose the large deposit he placed on his room, most likely a common hazard for travel like that.  As if that was anything the gate agent could do anything about, it was really his own stupid gullibility. Yes, I would much rather be in Maui too, in fact I think the ticket agent wishes she was in Maui with a Chi-Chi in hand, but its not where we are, nor where I was traveling to. Finally, the mans blustering hit a fevered pitch, his face turned purple, I thought he was about to stroke out, but his wife finally stepped in.  I had already lost interest in the whole show about half a tirade ago, he was an overgrown child with the stupid notion that the world owed him something.

I shake my head softly and roll my eyes, a soft, rolling, deep chuckle moves through my ears, and movement catches my eye.  I let my eyes be pulled expecting to see disapproval in the reflected face.  I all saw was a man; my breath shuddered, not just a man, but that man, the wolf with the godly walk, that gust of air was him sitting, that man. Well, honestly simply man is an insufficient term, but one I would use for the long-legged monolith a few chairs to my right.  He seemed to be elsewhere, with more than a single dose of “I don’t give a shit” attitude, all I could see was crossed arms and Ray Bans, so I let my eyes peruse. He was long, tall, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, those legs alone reached at least 5 foot from the edge of the chair. He was thick; legs like tree trunks, but his shoulders alone took the space of two seats. I pitied the person who was seated next to him, hopefully, he wasn’t the middle seat, talk about crowding.  He wore a thin, white tee shirt, dark washed jeans.  I let the smile pull the edge of my lips, apparently, he didn’t look at the weather before heading out today, poor fool.  He sat trying to tuck his thick licorice coloured leather around himself tighter.

His opaque dark Ray-bans hid most of his face, ear buds tucked into his ears. His thick brows curved gracefully over the rims, his lips beautifully arched with a light pout to his bottom lip, a set of the most beautifully kissable lips to possibly exist. A day’s growth of scruff along his gorgeously chiseled jaw, god he was a beautiful man.  He couldn’t have been reacting to my derision, maybe he was chuckling at something on his earbuds. So, I swallowed my ruffled feathers and I just enjoyed the view of the reflection. His dark brown hair, blonde and ginger highlights deliciously sparkled, in what was once a deliciously close cut style, now grown out two months too long; the length silky enough to run soft fingers through, letting the long ends curl around fingertips.

I settle back, catching little glimpses, filing his form away for something fun in one of my writing exercises, I watched the ice creep along the glass of the window and the passing of the people while listening to my own ear buds, hitting repeat on some riotous punk. Social Distortion peps me up, I feel the beautiful sweeping warmth of eyes on me, I look up all I can see is the dyspeptic travelers and the airline ticket agents looking as if people had taken bats to them, circulating handing out food and hotel vouchers to make up for the surprise ice storm.  Curiosity draws my eyes back to his mostly obscured face, I wonder what colour his eyes are; statistically, they were most likely brown, but something told me they were some beautiful exotic colour. Seriously, look at the man, he is something made of myth and mists, he could never actually be real, like a unicorn or the truth. As with everything, the gods compensate, a man that graceful, that beautiful, with that luscious of a walk, there really must be something maybe just some single thing wrong with him, somewhere. Maybe he has a temper or maybe he is just stupid. A loud cacophony of uproarious yelling, uh oh, the natives are getting restless.  

God, how the hell do they expect airlines to circumvent nature and still get them to their destination safely, you know they would be the first filing suit in the case of an accident, and seriously how the hell an ICE storm can be so surprising, but low and behold, here we all are stuck. I tuck my vouchers in my book and keep watching the people reflected in the window, like an interactive ultra-widescreen TV. A Latin woman reminding me heavily of Anne Bancroft goes huffing by consigning herself with a beautiful grace to the fate we all in the airport now share, a night at the on a crummy airport motel mattress and airport food.  Again, that warm pass of eyes, perusing the faces, I assume it’s just another people watcher or a passerby.  A move in my peripheral vision drew my eye back to him; dammit girl, the cardinal rule of people watching is NO STARING, I chided myself.

@pedeka @writernotwaiting @iamhisgloriouspurpose

@keeper0fthestars @sweetfairy1

@fromthedeskoftheraven @shikin83 @bilbo-baggins-middle-finger

[dandelionpath]

I’m not sure what to classify this as but like the closest I got to the astral travel I want to achieve was like 👌 (if you can’t see emojis it’s the pinch emoji) like I was meditating and I move starting with the tips of my fingers n toes while physically meditating, I Like was able to change my position astrally more drastically than usual and the voice in my head altered somewhat (like I mean one’s thinking voice lmao) to be more like what I presume the voice of my astral form would be? (1/?)

(2/?) it was pretty cool but like before I could do much else all my muscles like seized up or moved at the same time again and it like brought me back to step 0 >~(3/?) closer and closer and eventually be able to on my own that’d be pretty cool lmao. I’ve technically been able to astral travel before but not in the way I want to specifically, like I have a pocket universe thing where I keep my astral space and thoughtforms (I have one son thoughtform that I joke is basically Jesus cuz he’s like my manager for it and he’s great at his job lmao) and I go there to a beach near my original astral space sometimes to feel the sand and surroundings but it’s (4/?) kinda like I’m there but only remotely? Like it’s like a phantom presence of sorts I guess. I can only get little glimpses of surroundings when I do that rip :( sometimes I can sense and even visualize stuff better though and those times are great lmao but I haven’t yet been able to find what might determine any differences, it seems mostly random >~(5/5) if that would be okay. Thank you again for your help and stuff, and I like reading about your experiences in your posts! Thank you again for your help :D 

FIRST OF ALL, I'M SO SORRY FOR TAKING SUCH A RIDICULOUSLY LONG TIME TO ANSWER YOU OML?????? I had a whole humongous answer written up and then my computer just chucked it out the window so I procrastinated a lot in writing it all up again aaagh I'm so sorry, that was the worst of me to do to you! Also had mental health stuff going on, but I definitely could have and should have answered you earlier, I am so so so sorry!!!So!! Here I am and let me try to help you as much as I can without writing an entire novel of an answer for you to read OOPs LOLlemme get all the jokes and oohs and aahs out of the way first dsdgsdfjkl: that sounds so cool and exciting omg!! that's such an interesting experience!! i'm glad u had that!! the astral voice is so wildly cool omg??? that's such an incredible experience!!!! god that's the worst feeling where you're finally getting somewhere and then your body just NOPES right out of it aaagh! YOUR JESUS THOUGHTFORM SON SDGDSFJKL I LOVE THAT

okay so first off (UPG and SPG): the pocket dimension ur describing sounds like a realm that's in between ur imagination and the astral. it's a bit of both. it's probably a realm that you created that's part of the astral that you've created. the astral is endless, and you can create new parts of it that aren't attached to anything else. so you've most likely created a little realm of your own that you can change around as you please (most likely using a bit of energy, otherwise that'd be just your imagination if you could move and make things instantly and without expending any energy). in these realms you can invite any spirits you want, and can have thoughtforms and everything there! sometimes realms like yours will eventually grow on their own and attach themselves to other realms, and that's why you still want to ward your space because spirits would be able to get in fairly easily if the realm attaches itself to another realm.in this pocket realm, you can control stuff (and controlling things uses energy) and it follows mostly your own rules i would assume. you can also create things (i always imagine it like minecraft when i'm working on pocket realms lol) but this uses energy as well. does that sound right?so, assuming that's what this is, I think the reason why you're only catching things in glimpses is just because either a) you need more practice, or b) that's just how you experience the astral. it could also be a bit of both of those reasons! personally, when I'm astral traveling, I don't often get full clear HD continuous vision. when i do get that, it's a huge energy drain and it also requires me to be super relaxed and of the right vibration at that time. aka it rarely happens and i actually don't prefer it because it takes way too much energy. it's not worth the energy drain for me! OKAY ANYWAYS LMAO: when i astral travel, i see it in only quick glimpses every few seconds. most of it is actually just me sensing what's going on. it's difficult to explain, but let me attempt to dgsfjkl: imagine that you're in your room and it's pitch black. you have a pretty good idea of where the furniture is, and so you can make your way around without bumping into too much. you know what's around you even though you can't see it. it's kind of like that, except things are moving and speaking and i've often never been there before. i hope that makes sense lmao ^^; (i'm actually considering making an animatic of what my astral travels look like, bc it's difficult to explain,,,, but that's a ton of work lmao) i actually feel a little bit like i'm there remotely, but also not?? i'm often still very much aware of my physical body, but the longer and more focused i am on the astral, then the less aware i become and my physical body kind of fades into the background. 

one tip i have that's helped me is to feel your consciousness in your physical body, and then kind of shift that consciousness to your astral body. sometimes i just like... fling my consciousness/awareness over into the other body, and that works? idk, try it out!

so! for advice, i'd say: 1) keep practicing!   2) lower your expectations for yourself, you're not going to be able to see HD vision in the astral, that's just setting yourself up for failure and frustration!   3) work on talking to spirits some more in this plane! this will help with astral traveling because then you'll kind of know how your metaphysical senses feel when you're doing them right! you'll have a bit of a better idea of how it feels when what you're experiencing is "real" and therefore how it feels when it's fake/you're making stuff up.   4) if you want to, see if you can ask someone (spirit or human) to pull you into the astral! I've done this for a friend of mine, and it did help a bit!   5) and finally, and i think most importantly, remember that this takes practice and work and there won't usually be any immediate gratification. some people take weeks to learn to astral travel, others take months, and some can take years,,, if you practice and work at it regularly, though, i'm sure you'll get there! 

i hope this doesn't get to you after you've got this all figured out (or maybe hopefully it does bc then you'll have progressed a bunch and that's awesome!)! i just hope this helps you in some way, at least even a tiny bit!! let me know!! i'll answer ur q waaaay faster if u send any other ones in, i promise lmao!!!

[sweetmoxiety]

Behind This Desperate Heart is A Mask (Part Three)

Hospital AU

AU Summary: A fall. A single fall. It may seem like nothing until it’s all consuming. What happens when the doctors struggle to diagnosis the disease responsible for Virgil’s rapid deterioration?

Characters: Virgil, Patton, Roman, Logan, and Thomas.

Pairings: Moxiety and Logince.

Word Count: 2470

Warnings: Like one swear word. I can’t think of anything else, but let me know if you find something that should be put in the warnings.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 |

     “Today isn’t the day to be making jokes about the weather!” Patton chuckled, mouth twitching into a smile as he gazed at the other lounging on the hospital bed, “It’s snow joke.”

     Virgil shook his head, hiding a small grin behind his palm that the other couldn’t see. Patton had wandered into Virgil’s room once again to tote yet another new and awful pun with him, not that Virgil minded the attention or the distraction Patton had provided.

     “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, Patton, but don’t you have other patients to check up on or something?” Virgil sat up slowly, sighing as he crossed his legs under the thin sheets.

    “Nah, I’m on my break,” Patton’s eyes crinkled as he plopped down onto the chair beside Virgil’s bed, making it creak slightly as he shifted.

    “You go on break a lot.”

    “Do not,” Patton giggled, relaxing against the felted chair cover before peering over at Virgil again, “okay, maybe a little bit.”

----

    “Why is it called it ‘insomnia’, and not ‘resisting a rest’?” Patton leaned against the door frame, lifting an eyebrow as he peered at Virgil scrolling lazily through Tumblr on his phone.

     “It’s like three in the morning, shouldn’t you be at home sleeping or something?” Virgil glanced up from his phone to see Patton striding closer to his bed before stopping at the foot of the mattress.

     “Night shift,” Patton paused to lazily sip at his cold coffee, “What about you, shouldn’t you be asleep by now?”

    “Couldn’t sleep,” Virgil sighed, scrolling aimlessly.

    “Might be best to put your phone away. The light can make it hard to nap,” Patton frowned faintly with his eyes trained on the device in Virgil’s palm.

    “Yeah…, I guess,” Virgil clicked his phone off, the blue light illuminating his cheeks disappearing as he plunked the device down onto the bedside table with an audible thud.

    “Would you like to me to leave so you can get some rest?” Patton took yet another small sip from his cup as he eyed his patient through the dark.

    “Uh, I guess- I mean, you probably have to help someone or something,” Virgil shrugged, casting a glance off to the side.

     “Let me know if you need anything,” Patton smiled softly, slipping out of Virgil’s room into the bright hallway only after he’d seen the other man nod.

    Taking another swig of his bitter and cold coffee, Patton discarded the cup into the nearest trash can as he sluggishly ambled towards the nurse’s station. He didn’t even know why he bothered drinking coffee -- It never perked him up, and it didn’t even taste good cold and sugarless.

    “It would seem highly probable that we will be unable to go home after our shifts end.”

     Patton turned to see Logan swiftly scribbling something onto a chart atop the nurse’s counter in pen.

    “Hmm?” Patton plopped down into his swivel chair, combing a hand through his curly strands.

    “We’re expected to get several feet of snow,” Logan eyed the page, eyes darting over his writing to check for mistakes before gathering up his clipboard and holding it to his chest.

    “By morning?” Patton leaned against the back of his chair, covering a quiet yawn behind his palm.

    “It would appear that way,” Logan paused, looking over at him before he pivoted to leave, “You should drink some coffee. You look tired, Patton.”

     Gee… Thanks.

----

    “I’m surprised you’re still here,” Logan peered into the on-call room, spotting Roman splayed out carelessly on one of the bunks pressed against the wall. Flicking the light switch on unkindly, Logan strode towards the food counter to brew a fresh, steaming pot of coffee.

    “Huh?” Roman groaned, shifting under the indigo sheets to rest on his elbows, “I need my beauty rest before I’m due to be on call.”

    Shifting further, Roman tiredly swung his legs over the edge of the mattress to watch Logan as he added hot water to the coffee maker.

    “You could join me if you like,” Roman wiggled his brows, grinning slyly over at Logan.

    “I’ve got patients to tend to,” Logan huffed as he added coffee into the filter.

    Roman frowned, stretching his stiff arms as he peered at the clock glued to the wall above Logan’s head. ‘4:27’

    “At four in the morning?” Roman pouted slightly, not that Logan noticed as he pivoted to insert the basket into the machine.

    “We work in a hospital, Roman,” Logan turned, furrowing his brow and pinching at the bridge of his nose, “so, yes, I have things I need to get done.”

    “Fine. Could you toss me that granola bar?” Roman motioned towards the bar resting on the table between them.

    “Fruits better for you,” Logan plucked a fruit from the basket on the counter and tossed him an apple instead.

    “Granola is packed full of sugar. Fruit provides long-lasting energy and fiber to fill you up,” Logan clarified, swiveling as he heard the purr of the coffee machine beside him signaling for him to take the grinds out.

    “Aww, you do care about me, nerd,” Roman cooed, smiling as he turned the glossy apple over in his calloused hands.

    “I care about your health,” Logan corrected as he reached inside one of the cabinets to gather two mugs.

    “Mhm.”

     Logan rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he filled the two mugs up with the freshly brewed coffee. And with extra care, Logan poured a few packets of granulated sugar into one of steaming mugs.

    Now, carefully grasping the ivory cups of warm coffee, Logan sauntered towards the agape door, “Goodbye, Roman.”

    “What-,” Roman pouted, “no coffee for me?”

    “No,” Logan shut the door to the doctors’ mess room with his heel before shuffling in the direction of the nurse’s station, shoes squeaking thunderously along the way.

    Patton looked up at the sound of Logan’s shoes squeaking against the tile floors. Perhaps wearing his brand new shoes on his first day back was truly a mistake.

     “I brought you a coffee,” Logan cautiously set the warm mug on the counter in front of Patton.

    Leaning forward, Patton wrapped his hands around the mug, savoring the heat as he did so, “Thank you, Lo.”

    Taking a tentative sip from the cup, Patton grinned a dopey, lopsided smile, “you remembered!”

    Logan nodded wordlessly, smiling faintly as he carried his own mug with him to peer out the ice-laden windows a few feet away. Patton watched from his chair as Logan observed the crawling frost and the snow falling like white dove feathers.

    “It’s been getting worse,” Patton spoke up, swiveling away from his computer, “like you said it would.”

    Logan shifted to face Patton as he took another sip of his brew, “Unfortunately so.”

    Pausing for a second to nurse his coffee, Logan continued, “Were you aware that this will be the worst blizzard in New York by government records?”

    “That’s snow neat,” Patton chuckled from behind his coffee, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug as if Logan would snatch it away at any moment for making a joke.  

    Logan groaned out loud, shaking his head at the atrocity Patton called a ‘pun’.

    “What? You don’t like my puns? How cold,” Patton’s amusement split his face from ear to ear. It was just too much fun!

    Another huff, “As I was saying, Patton, this blizzard will be worse than the North American Blizzard of 2006 which dumped a full 26.9 inches of snow on New York City.”

    “That’s snow good.”

    “I shouldn’t have gotten you the coffee,” Logan gave a disapproving gesture, nearly flinging his own cup, “you’ve turned into an insatiable pun machine.”

    “Okay- Okay, I’ll stop with the puns… for now,” Patton attempted but failed to suppress his giggles.

    “Why do I put up with any of you?” Logan sighed, speaking mostly to himself.

    “‘Cause you wouldn’t know what to do without us, glasses,” Roman snuck up behind him, grinning widely with his own coffee in hand.

    Shifting to face Roman and opening his mouth to respond, Logan paused, shaking his head instead.

    “You know, you could have poured me a cup too, Logan,” Roman tsk’d when Logan eyed the cup loosely in his grasp.

    “I hope you didn’t dump creamer in that,” Logan rolled his eyes, knowing damn well that Roman had poured an ungodly amount of milk substitute into that tiny mug.

    “Self-care,” Roman spoke with flare, taking a generous swig of his coffee concoction without a care in the world.

    “I didn’t know self-care was increasing your risk of heart disease and stroke,” Logan shrugged, opting not to hide his smirk behind his own mug.

    “You only live once, pocket protector,” Roman wore a pie-eating grin as he waved his free hand dramatically, “live a little!”

    “I’m perfectly content, Roman.”

    “If you say so, resident nerd,” Roman grinned, savoring the huff that tumbled from Logan’s chapped lips.

    “Oh!” Patton interjected, nearly jumping out of his seat as he recalled Logan’s earlier request, “I’ve checked up on Virgil, like you asked, Lo.”

    “Oh?” Logan raised a brow, cocking his head.

    “I have his neurological check up right here - I was just typing it and a few other things into the electronic health record before doing rounds,” Patton explained, digging around for the clipboard with Virgil’s chart, “Ah! Here it is!”

    “Could I see it for a moment, Patton?” Logan inquired, taking a step towards the nurse’s counter.

    “Sure,” Patton beamed, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he passed Logan the charts, “Here ya go!”

    “Thank you,” Logan set his drink down before scanning Patton’s chicken scratch, hoping to find something out of the ordinary hiding in Virgil’s apacely scrawled charts, yet he found nothing of the sort.

    “I don’t see anything amiss,” Logan frowned as Roman peered uncomfortably over his shoulder to catch a glimpse.

    “Let me take a look,” Roman reached for the clipboard but Logan immediately extended his arm to keep Roman’s paws away from the papers.

    “Oh, come on, Lo. I’m just trying to help.”

    Pausing for a moment, Logan sighed before surrendering the clipboard to the attending. And it was quiet for a moment as Roman examined Patton’s notes.

    “No family history?” Roman furrowed his brow as he peered over at the nurse waiting expectantly.

    “Oh-- Ro, it’s so sad-” Patton started, lips curled into a frown, “he went into foster care after his mother left and his father died.”

    “No siblings? No aunts or uncles?” Roman questioned, uncertainty creeping into his voice. Who didn’t have a single relative?

    “Nothing. He’s all alone!” Patton’s down-turned mouth deepened as he continued.

    “That’s quite unfortunate,” Logan added, unsure of what else to say to ease Patton’s woes... Perhaps a change in topic was in order?

    “Yeah..,” Roman raked a hand through his hair as he handed the clipboard back to Logan, “It’s very sad, Pat.”

    “I expect the blood test should provide us insight into his condition,” Logan reckoned, hoping that it would put Patton at ease for the time being.

    “I hope so,” Patton shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

    “Oh- I’ve-” Roman paused, fishing his pager out of his pocket after an urgent buzz, gaze fixed on the words lighting up the screen, “I- I’ve got to go.”

    “Hmm?” Logan tilted his head, watching as Roman pocketed his pager.

    “Code pink,” Roman elucidated after noticing Patton and Logan’s confused gazes directed his way, “you can tag along if you like, Logan. It’d be a good experience.”

    “Sure,” Logan shrugged, not hesitating to give in to Roman’s offer. Experience was experience after all. “Where to?”

    “The ED,” Roman answered, throwing back an expectant glance at Logan as he neared the end of the hallway, “are you coming or not?”

    “Oh, uh, yes,” Logan scurried after Roman, tagging closely behind as Roman yanked open the doors to the Emergency Department to speed in the direction of one of the filled cots. Upon reaching the cot, Logan noticed a small child with lips colored sapphire and skin pale as snow.

    “Who applied direct heat?” Roman made a face, brow furrowing as he eyed the heating blanket, “Lo, can you go find something more appropriate?”

    Nodding his head, Logan quickly stepped away from Roman’s side to find a thermal blanket for the patient instead.

   “Hey, Sanders!” Roman called, eyes narrowing and head tilting slightly as he spotted Dr. Sanders advancing towards the nurse’s station, “You need to be watching your med students more closely.”

    “Huh?” Dr. Sanders turned, caught off guard at Roman’s vexed tone.

    “Your third-year used a heating pad on a patient with hypothermia,” Roman’s voice dripped with disapproval as his eyes darted between the kid and Dr. Sanders, which only served as a means to fan the flames of his irritation.

     “Oh, shit,” Thomas bit his lip as he started towards Roman, “I leave her alone for one minute and she nearly burns a child.”

     Running his fingers over his brows, Thomas sighed, “Thanks for the catch, Wilson.”

    “It’s a good thing you paged me,” Roman’s voice oozed obvious displeasure.

    Holding in an exasperated sigh, Roman eyed the hemodialysis machine - a machine typically used to filter blood in people with poor kidney function, “I see you started warming his blood with a hemodialysis machine. What’d you need to page me for?”

    “The blood wasn’t warming at first,” Thomas frowned, monitoring the display to avoid the scrutiny of Roman’s miffed gaze.

    “So, you’ve gotten the hypothermia under control?” Roman questioned, eyeing the unconscious patient with uncertainty.  

    “Got the blankets,” Logan returned, his voice slicing through the tension as his gaze darted between the two attendings with the blankets in his grasp.

    “Good, wrap the patient up, would you?” Roman shifted, gesturing towards the kid.

    “Sure, Roman,” Logan removed the heating blanket and began bundling the child up in tan blankets from head to toe. After all, direct heat can damage the skin or even cause irregular heartbeats so severe that they can cause the heart to stop completely.

    Ignoring the flamboyant bickering that started up between the two attendings, Logan paused his bundling, peering at the systolic and diastolic pressure on the child’s heart monitor. Looking between the child and the monitor, Logan hesitated - the pressure was nearing 130/90. Perhaps these blankets would help to lower the blood pressure? After all, the cold makes the heart work harder to keep the body warm, and thus has the potential to increase blood pressure. Logically, the blankets and the hemodialysis machine should raise the child’s temperature and reduce the strain on the kid’s heart. Hopefully.

    But it only took a mere second for the child’s heart rate to soar past a hundred, and it took only a fraction of the next second for the monitor to send out a scalding alert.

 Tag list (ask to be added) : @buckydeangirl91 @bunny222

[prettyfunkyunorganized]

Hanzo and the Booty Shorts

*snorts about her own shitty title* Forgive me.

So yeah. This turned out WAAAAY different than I planned. Super different. Went from a tough gal who would call Hanzo out, to a gal who’s feeling real awkward about the team seeing her practically undressed. Such is my brain. Anywho, still liked this and I hope you will too. 

Female reader insert, 2,800ish words (CAUSE OMFG I CAN’T KEEP ANYTHING SHORT), no warnings I can think of. 

The base at Gibraltar was technically up and running, but it wasn’t exactly running at full speed. An old friend and colleague of yours had asked you to join the recall in her place about two months ago – which you proudly did – but in that time the power had gone out three times, all of the refrigerators had given out, and the roof had sprouted umpteen leaks. Overwatch was great, it really was, but holy shit did this place need some updating.

When you woke up only a few hours after heading to bed, the first thing you noticed was how tired you still were. Then you realized the heat, the oppressive, overwhelming heat. Usually, your room was on the cold side no matter how often you fiddled with the thermostat, so your bed was a mess of blankets and quilts, all of which were now kicked aside. The top sheet was the only covering you had left, and it was drenched in sweat. You groaned and rolled over miserably.

An alarm started blaring just as you were contemplating stripping down to your underwear. You jolted up and tried to blink the sleep from your eyes.

“There has been a security breach in the laboratory, all agents to respond,” Athena called over the intercom. Protocol training kicked in, and you grabbed your weapon before sprinting into the hallway. Winston, Lena, Genji, Angela, and Zenyatta were already there when you ran in.

“Don’t panic,” Winston said as you approached, “it’s just a technical glitch. The heater is all sorts of messed up, and now some of the other systems are overheating. I don’t know which yet, but as soon as I do I’ll get the alarm to turn off and – ”

“What the hell is it now,” Torbjorn snarled as he huffed his way into the room behind Reinhardt who was stretching, looking thoroughly bored. McCree came in with a with his gun in one hand and hat in the other.

“Heater’s broken,” Lena explained, “shit’s all hot and breaking.” You’d never seen her so grumpy – guess she didn’t like being woken up either.

Hanzo was surprisingly the last to arrive. He was always so fast and attentive you couldn’t help but wonder what caused the delay. He had a deep frown furrowing his brow and looked almost overly ready to fight.

The whole mess of Overwatch members were all huddled around Winston’s computer before long, going over diagnostics and throwing out guesses as to what the problem might be. A clear division was being carved out between you all – those who had to be nose deep in the issue, and those who were content to watch from the sidelines. You were tired, hot, and knew nothing about HVAC systems, so you found yourself settled toward the rear of the group, all but silent. Torb, being as short as he was, was soon pushed to the back as well, but he was much more upset about it than you were.

“Let me through you bastards,” he barked, getting up on his toes in an effort to see. “I’m the engineer here! It’s not like Angela here has any idea what’s going on.”

“Excuse me,” the blonde doctor seethed, shooting him an icy glare.

“Oh whatever,” Torbjorn grumped, crossing his arm and giving the world a side eye. He suddenly seemed to notice that he was standing right next to your bare legs. He snorted and looked up at you with a mischievous look.

You squirmed, wishing you were wearing something other than short shorts, a bralette, and a tee shirt. “What,” you asked awkwardly.

“There’s this new thing called ‘shaving,’ kid, maybe you should give it a try,” he laughed.

In a split second your cheeks were bright red, and you were mortified. Everyone turned to look at your prickly legs, and you just wanted to curl up and disappear. Your wits came back to you after a moment and you glowered down at Torbjorn. “There’s this new thing called ‘being a mammal,’ old man. Humans have hair. It’s a thing. Maybe don’t try to shame people for something that’s totally natural.” As tough and strong as you sounded, on the inside, you were still embarrassed as fuck and had frustrated tears stinging your eyes.

Torbjorn, however, got the message nonetheless and looked at you with wide eyes. “Sorry, missy, my bad,” he stammered putting his hands up. Reinhardt burst out laughing and McCree snickered. You turned away from everyone’s stares and plopped down on a nearby workbench, cursing the sound your mostly bare thighs made as they hit the firm metal surface. There was a collective clearing of awkward throats as the others went back to work.

After another minute or two, the alarm stopped blaring, but the root of the problem hadn’t been fixed. The vents were still pumping out a terribly hot breeze. You were all camped out in the lab, waiting, half an hour later. Angela insisted everyone stay just in case an actual emergency ensued. Although, most the team would probably be useless by now. McCree was passed out on the floor with his hat over his face and half a boner sticking up from his loose pj pants. Rein was snoring impossibly loudly, leaning against the wall. Lena, Angela, Torbjorn, and Winston were all still huddled around the computer screens, more bickering than working together at this point. Zen was floating about peacefully, as usual, but no longer trying to calm the tension in the room. Genji and Hanzo were standing side by side whispering about something that had Hanzo’s head in his hand. “What a night,” you mumbled groggily.

At least you got to see Hanzo with a completely bare chest, you thought. Then instantly scolded yourself. It was proving almost impossible not to gawk his shapely torso. But, maybe just one more little peek. A tiny one. Just to see if he still had that delightful annoyed look on his face.

Without meaning to, your eyes met Hanzo’s the moment your head turned. Either this was one hell of a coincidence, or he was already watching you. Your face went red all over again and you instantly went back to staring forward, but not before you saw Hanzo’s shoulder’s twitch as you made eye contact.

Fan-fucking-tastic, now he was judging your slinky, messy pajamas, bed head, and unmanicured legs, too. The one man you really didn’t want seeing you like this. You crossed your arms under your heavy chest and slumped. Of course the underboob sweat was strong. Of course! Your face couldn’t get more flushed.

Much to your dismay, footsteps were coming your way, and you let out a small sigh.

“May I join you,” Genji asked brightly. He seemed awfully chipper, considering the circumstances.

“Sure,” you said hesitantly. He took a seat next to you, sitting closer than you were expecting. A small frown crossed your face.

“I have a favor to ask,” the younger Shimada said quietly, leaning toward your ear. There was still a respectful distance between you, but only barely.

You looked around the room in confusion. The two of you weren’t in danger of eavesdropping, but you followed Genji’s lead. “What’s up,” you whispered back.

He snickered and you couldn’t help but smile at the devious sound. You had never seen him like this – not all poised and controlled. It was equal parts amusing and worrying. “Would you, by any chance, pretend that I am telling you an impossibly embarrassing story about my brother?”

“Um,” you said making a face, “what?” You glanced at Hanzo and saw that he was watching the two of you very carefully.

“Yes,” Genji laughed, “just like that! Just keep smiling and looking over at him. Perfect.”

The amount of joy in Genji’s voice was infectious and you grinned. “I’ll keep it up on one condition,” you said.

“Of course,” he said nodding giddily.

“Tell me why you’re doing this,” you chucked, “it’s not like you to start shit, at least, I didn’t think that was your style.”

He shrugged, “What can I say – he is my big brother. I have to pester him at least a bit. Especially on the important things.”

“Important things,” you repeated, totally lost.

“Just humor me,” Genji said softly, “I think it will be worth your while.”

You eyed Hanzo again. He had his head tucked down by his shoulders like some grumpy turtle, glowering at his little brother. It was funny as hell and a giggle sputtered from your lips. “I’m in,” you smirked.

Genji’s cyber suit let out an excited puff of steam as he scooted a tiny bit closer and began muttering random noises at you as you nodded slowly. You kept smiling wider and wider, stealing little glimpses of Hanzo as the older brother began to fume.

Dear god it was so funny to see him like this, and you felt so bad for not feeling more guilty. But look at his face! All squished in anger with the top of his undercut splayed all over his handsome features.

“Now gasp and act like we just got to the good part,” Genji encouraged you, almost losing his control and collapsing into fits of laughter.

You did as instructed and let your jaw go lax, straightening your back as if stunned. “No,” you said loudly enough for Hanzo to hear, but not enough to draw unwanted attention from the others. Genji started hacking, coughing from trying to stifle his amusement.

“No! Him,” you scoffed playfully, gesturing right to Hanzo.

And that was the breaking point. Hanzo came storming over to you like a dark cloud on the horizon: silent and threatening. Shit. Maybe you’d gone too far.

“That is enough,” Hanzo growled at his brother.

“Would you like me to stop,” Genji asked innocently.

“Yes,” Hanzo spat.

“Then make me,” Genji challenged. “Someone ought to be over here keeping this lovely woman company, are you volunteering?

Hanzo was the one blushing this time, and you were shocked. You hadn’t thought him capable of such a thing. “I,” he stammered, “no! But that is no reason to be over here doing  . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”

“We were swapping amusing stories is all,” Genji said in a gentle tone. “The first one that came to mind just happened to be about you.”

“What did you tell her,” Hanzo hissed.

“Oh nothing too bad,” Genji chuckled, “but do you remember that time our mother got us all dressed up for that charity banquet where – ”

Something akin to terror crossed Hanzo’s face and a wave of pity assaulted your heart. “Hanzo,” you said gently, “he didn’t tell me anything about a banquet, it was just a joke.”

The older Shimada scowled again, this time at you and much less intimidatingly. “A joke?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “We were faking it. Genji was just mumbling gibberish in my ear while I pretended he was saying something scandalous.”

Hanzo looked utterly flabbergasted as he slowly realized he’d been pranked. “I – but – why?! Well, I know why you did it,” he said waving a hand at his brother, “but why did you play along?”

The vaguely pained look he was giving you was agony. You felt awful, shrinking into your seat. “He said it was important . . .” you said weakly.

With a loud groan, Hanzo shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “You are nothing if not determined, Genji,” he said pursing his lips.

“I am only as determined as you are stubborn,” Genji replied, standing up. “Do not make me interfere again or I’ll tell her about our first meeting with the elders when you – ”

“Enough,” Hanzo barked, literally shoving Genji away from you. It was oddly nice to see them acting like normal brothers.

“So you want to tell me what the big deal here is,” you asked Hanzo, “why Genji just had to torture you like that?”

A red tint began to fill Hanzo’s cheeks again as he sat beside you. “He was trying to force me to talk to you,” he said timidly.

“Talk to me,” you laughed, “about what?”

He let out an exasperated noise and let his head fall back. “I believe he wanted me to be more  . . . forward in my feelings toward you.”

You grew very still looked to Hanzo in disbelief. “Um, what?”

Hanzo took a deep breath and rubbed his neck. “I – I have always been rather fond of you. There is something about the way you smile so easily, the way your laugh is either so light and soft or so loud and powerful, the way your sympathetic eyes convey so much emotion so freely – you captivate me, so much it's proving problematic. I find myself unable to focus on anything other than you at times.”

The happy flutters in your heart and stomach were almost too much. “Really? You mean that?” He nodded, looking right at you with such intensity that your breath hitched. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He puffed out a harsh noise. “There are almost too many reasons to count. I am a severely flawed individual, you must know that. Not to mention the age gap, my lack of social skills, our current situation in Overwatch, and the fact that you could do much, much better than me. You are astronomically out of my league.”

“Oh good lord,” you groaned, swiveling so your knees almost bumped his. “I hate to have to tell you this, but I’m not perfect either. Far from it. And your social skills aren’t that bad, you just . . . need some practice. As could I. Snapping at Torb earlier was not my best option,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut as you reprimanded yourself.

“Torbjorn should have kept his comment to himself,” Hanzo said lowly, angrily, “your reaction was justified.”

“I appreciate the solidarity,” you giggled, “but what I’m trying to say is that I’m not ‘out of your league.’ Not even remotely. Besides, have you seen yourself? You’re fucking stunning.”

Your plainly- spoken compliment made a proud smirk creep up on Hanzo’s face. “Thank you,” he said graciously.

“Look,” you said, inching a little closer, “I’ve always liked you too, Hanzo, but I never would have imagined you felt the same. I told myself all the same things you did: that we were too busy, that you wouldn’t want me, that you’d probably be better of with someone else, but that never stopped me from thinking about you. Now that I know you’re interested in me too, there’s no way I’m going to be able to keep ignoring how flustered I get when I’m around you.”

Hanzo’s head tilted to the left as he gave you a fond smile. “Nor can I.”

The two of you began to chat more idly, the conversation full of light flirting and relaxed laughter until a question came into your mind.

“Wait,” you said thoughtfully, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything you like,” Hanzo said.

“Why did Genji make you confess now? What made tonight special?”

He was flushed yet again, suddenly unable to look at you. “No reason.”

“Uh-huh,” you said doubtfully, giving him a determined look until he cracked.

“My brother may have caught me staring at you rather inappropriately,” Hanzo confessed quietly. “I know that is a shameful thing to do but – ”

You clamped your hands over your mouth to stifle a loud laugh. “You what?!” He hid his face behind his hand and slumped forward. You leaned closer to him, curiosity getting the better of you. “You were ogling me?! Where?”

Hanzo frowned at you. “You want me to elaborate on my lewd behavior?”

“I mean,” you said sheepishly, “yes? Call it vanity or something. It’s been a long time since someone looked at me like that.”

“There is no way that is true for a woman as beautiful as you,” Hanzo said with a flat face. He believed what he said, and you were more than flattered.

“You’re sweet,” you murmured, brushing the hair from your face. “Now fess up, where were you staring?”

He gave you a quick once over and swallowed hard. “I’ve never been a fan of tight, sporty shorts like that until now,” he said, struggling against a smirk.

You sputtered out a laugh and buckled over onto your knees. “I’m glad I could help you change your mind then.”

“I suddenly find myself much more appreciative of V-neck shirts as well,” he chuckled, biting his lip as he eyed your chest. The moment you waved your hand at him he looked away though, coughing out a meager, “Sorry.”

“Well I suppose I’ll forgive you since I’ve been fawning over your pecs for the last hour,” you giggled.

He snorted out one rough ‘ha’ and grinned. “Is that so?”

The next night you were hot and sticky all over again, but not because the heater was broken. You and Hanzo had decided to make up for lost time.

@watch-your-grammer @collinssie @envy-kitty

[basedonatruestory-official]

CHAPTER ONE: ROOTS

I see the red light of my camera blinking at me and I know it is recording. I sit back on the bed and position myself so that I’m in the middle of the frame. I clear my throat and stare into the lens.

“I don’t really know why I’m filming this. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say, but I thought someone out there might need this or might relate and feel less alone. I don’t know...”

I fidget with my hands, scratching a tiny piece of skin near the nail of my middle finger. I stroke my thighs slowly and compose myself. I raise my eyes with newfound determination. 

“My name is Robin and this is my story.”

The first time you fall in love you're usually young, naive, full of hope and expectations that you made up in your mind. You wonder when your turn will come, as you see everyone around you exploring life through their first relationships, and then you meet someone who turns your life around. That’s how I was, at least. 

I was in my last year of middle school, I didn't have any friends and I spent all lunch breaks eating alone. Marvellous, right? Well, luckily my life was about to change: it was almost time for me to go to high school and leave everything that had happened in middle school behind. Taking my parents' advice I had decided to undergo a test to get into one of the most prestigious high schools in town. That’s where my journey starts: September 16th, 2009.

"Don't worry about the answers, just take your time. The test is three hours long." my mom says while driving.

"I know, I know. I'm not worried." I reply calmly, letting myself get distracted by the buildings passing by. It's true, I'm not nervous about this test because there are plenty of high schools in town and if I fail this I have loads of other opportunities. My mom is a lot more concerned than I am, I can tell because she can't stop talking, not even for one second, and she's usually pretty quiet when she's driving. I don't think she doesn't believe in me - I get fairly high grades after all - she just wants the best for me.

"Alright, see you later then. Good luck!" she exclaims turning from the front seat to face me. 

"Thanks, mom, see you later."

I get out of the car and start walking down a narrow road. I see other kids like me going in the same direction, towards the entrance gate.

"Yo, Robin!" I hear someone behind me shout. When I turn around I see Gillian running towards me, wearing a dark blue tracksuit. She's one of the few friendly classmates of mine if you consider pushing someone around a friendly gesture. I'm surprised to see her here since she's always talking about becoming a doctor.

"Hey, Gillian! What are you doing here?" I ask smiling lightly.

"I'm taking the test, duh. Have you seen Megan around? She's here too."

"No, I haven't," I reply shortly and we both fall silent; that's someone I don't want to see and she knows it. We keep walking towards the gate and we spot what must be five hundred kids gathered around the main door.

"Listen, I gotta go find my mom. Hope to see you later, if not I'll see you on Monday anyway!", Gillian quickly waves goodbye and I'm alone again.

I decide to stand by a small group of girls who are silently waiting like me. I notice a blonde girl approaching me, so I offer her a small smile.

"Sorry, do you know how it works?" she asks me shyly.

"Oh, um, they're supposed to let us in at 2, so...", I glance at my phone, "in two minutes."

"Ok, thanks. It's just that I don't know anyone and everyone else here seems to know each other.” She adds laughing and bending her head.

"Well, now we do as well. We can stick together if you want." I smile blushing.

"That'd be nice," she replies smiling back and nodding. 

"DON'T COME TO THIS SCHOOL!"

A boy is running and shouting in the middle of the schoolyard. We all laugh lightly and then hear the school doors open. As we turn around we see the principal standing in the middle of the doorway: he's a middle-aged man with curly dark grey hair. He sort of looks like a parakeet.

"Ok guys, you may come in. Slowly and carefully, please!"

He has a slight southern accent and a serious expression highlighted by a few wrinkles. 

All the kids start entering the building and, once we're all inside, two caretakers call us by surname to sort us in the right classroom. The shy blonde girl and I get separated but she doesn't seem to care.

It's three hours later when I'm finally done with my exam; the sky has grown dark and it's raining. My mom is one of the last parents waiting outside the main doors.

"How did it go?" she asks as soon as she sees me.

"I don't know, the questions seemed pretty easy. A little too easy maybe..." I reply uncertainly. I've never been confident enough to think I might have done something properly, I’ve always second-guessed myself. 

"Alright, let's not think about it for now. Do you wanna go home and drink some hot tea?"

"That sounds reaaally good!"

That always puts me in a good mood, my favourite is peppermint tea.

During a beautiful day in mid-January, four months later, my father is sitting at his desk and suddenly calls me and my mom. He has received an email that contains the results of my test. The first hundred kids who got the highest grades would automatically be admitted, while the others would have to be picked in case someone else pulled out.

All three of us are gathered around the desk looking for my name on that list and our search doesn't last long.

"There must be-" I get cut off.

"Second place?!" my dad exclaims.

"It's impossible! Oh my God!” my mom, I swear, almost shrieks. She is not the shrieking type.

I feel kind of hazy, I can’t believe that I got in and that I got second-place among all those other kids too! I wait a few moments until my parents have calmed down, then I turn on my computer and gather up the confidence to write about my recent accomplishment on social media. Apparently my classmate Mark thinks I’m ‘a loser who only cares about grades’, as so kindly put in his comment. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but having no one to stand by my side makes things harder. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and be in high school already. 

One year after taking that test, I find myself walking down that same narrow road and stepping through that same doorway. Only this time, it's my first day of high school and I couldn't be more nervous. There's a silver lining about fresh starts: you get to feel, and look, like someone new. Someone different. Someone better.

I was still pretty childlike in middle school. Tracksuits were my go-to clothing choice and makeup wasn't even an option. I have decided it’s time for an upgrade. I've started wearing black eyeliner and dressing more trendily, not that jeans are that trendy. Of course, all my clothes and makeup reflect the phase most of us go through in which we want people to think we don't really feel excited about anything, we hate the world and everyone who lives on it. Therefore I'm now walking towards class wearing an all-black outfit, except for my red glasses, and keeping my eyes fixed on the ground beneath my feet. I hear people talking inside the room and I hesitate slightly before going in. I don't look up until I have to find somewhere to sit, and I must admit I had thought it would go much worse than this. Nobody even stopped talking when I arrived.

I find a seat next to a girl wearing a dark outfit like mine; this was the moment I realised people wearing these outfits sometimes really feel like that on the inside too.

"Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name’s Robin." I make the effort of introducing myself before she does, which admittedly makes me more nervous than it should. 

"I'm Beca," she replies staring blankly at me.

"A lot of people are already talking to each other. Do you know anyone here?" I ask a little intimidated.

"No."

I hear some people laugh lightly behind us, one person standing out because they have a contagious laugh. When we turn around we see two boys sitting one next to the other in the last row of desks, and a girl sitting right behind me wearing a huge smile on her face.

"Jeez, cheer up!" she tells Beca, who doesn't reply and turns back after looking at her in the eyes very seriously.

"Alright everyone, take your seats and open your ears!"

The door slams closed and a bald man is now inside the classroom, standing with his back to the teacher's desk.

"My name is Mr Dwight, I'm your PE teacher. Let me be clear about something: there will be no place for drama and teenagers'... stuff. I want serious people who are willing to work hard."

Great, as if I could hate PE even more. Why is it mandatory anyway?

He walks towards the window and leans into it, looking at us. He's not young; he has icy blue eyes surrounded by tiny crinkles, a strong tan and a light stubble.

In that same moment, a curly-haired woman wearing red oval glasses opens the door, looks at Mr Dwight disapprovingly, yet in an affectionate way, and speaks.

"Hello. I am Mrs Sullivan and I'm your literature teacher. I guess Mr Dwight has already introduced himself, so we just have to wait for the other professors to arrive." she smiles sweetly. She looks like a not-so-young-anymore aunt who still feels like a kid inside.

Immediately after hearing laughter in the corridor, the door swings open. A tall blondish woman wearing really high heels comes in, followed by other teachers. Mr Dwight smiles at her with a glint in his eyes, just for a moment; I don't think anyone noticed except me.

When the bell rings, I wave at Beca and try to catch a glimpse of the girl who was sitting behind me, but there's no sign of her.

Sitting on the bus on my way home I think that this school might be a nice place to start over.

Read on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/654922355-based-on-a-true-story-chapter-one-roots

Read Chapter Two: Happy Birthday To Me.

[betsynagler]

New Tricks Are Hard

As many of you who come here even occasionally know by now, part of what’s going on in my ongoing midlife crisis is that I’ve been trying to make some sort of transition career wise. Just to recap the long story for those of you who need it: went to grad school in film to become a writer/director, started doing sound to pay the bills, been doing it for going on 25 years now while continuing to try and write stuff and make films and…er, that’s it, not such a long story after all I guess. Since the actual filmmaking and writing isn’t paying my bills, I’ve been trying to figure out what else I can do other than sound to earn a living.

Now, before those of you with whom I work stop calling me, IT’S NOT HAPPENING YET, I AM NOT OUT OF THE BUSINESS. Because there's this thing that happens in production when you even dip your toe into something other than your regular production day job. One person hears that you’re teaching a class, or that you're making a documentary, and all of a sudden everybody's saying, “I hear she's out of the business.” It isn't necessarily done out of malice, although there are always people who are super competitive and will take any available opportunity to find a way to knock you out of contention for whatever jobs they might also want, especially if you work in commercials like I do, which is a pretty small pool. That type of sniping happens a lot more among sound mixers, who spread rumors like a bunch of nearly-all-male fishwives when they think it’s to their advantage. I think the fast pace of rumor-spreading among people who work in production really has more to do with the fact that we have so much downtime on every job, and not always that much to talk about other than work, especially when you’re literally at work all the time and therefore have no outside life to speak of. You’ve gotta talk about something sometimes and the latest scuttlebutt that you’ve heard but not necessarily verified about your co-workers is going to be the best something to keep your colleagues interested — and everyone wants to feel interesting.

Now that I've gotten the “I’M NOT OUT OF THE BUSINESS” disclaimer out of the way, what I will say is that, in the past couple of weeks, I’ve had a couple of jobs as a video editor. They’re not my first, but I wasn’t really making an effort before to try that out as a possible new day job, for a few reasons which now seem to be diminishing in importance. One, I also like teaching, so I’ve been pursuing that. Getting a full-time faculty job, however, at a time when most colleges just want to chew up adjuncts and and spit them out with no health insurance is getting really frustrating (for public schools that are being starved by their states who are in turn being starved by the federal government, it’s economic necessity, but for many other universities it’s really not, it’s just greed, and part of the whole growing trend in this country toward two completely divided Americas, rich and poor…but whatevs). Two, I was worried for some time that the bulk of the editing work out there was reality TV, and you all know how I feel about that. It does seem now, though, that with so many entities getting some sort of presence on the web and wanting video for their sites, there’s a lot more content being created out there that doesn’t make me want to vomit, so hooray for that. Three, I've always had reservations about spending all my time alone in a little room with a computer. And yet I’m finding that that prospect has actually gotten more appealing to me as I’ve aged into introversion and discovered how pleasant the company of machines who don’t expect you to make conversation can be. Not to mention that I just can't spend all day on my feet any more, holding a pole with a mic on it over my head for long periods of time or working knees/back to move heavy cases and plug and unplug cables the way I have to when I work on set. Every year, a new part of my body cries out in pain and says “Are we really still doing this?” Plus, for me, editing is more intellectually stimulating than location sound. I enjoy the problem-solving and trouble-shooting of location work, particularly when I can anticipate and shoot the problems before they really become trouble, which is generally how you have to do it in our department, and which naturally implies that the problems aren't intractable, like certain DPs’ lighting, or the now-nearly-ubiquitous wide and tight framing when you have 2+ cameras. Problem-solving with a problem that can’t be solved is just probleming, which is basically gnashing your teeth and muttering to yourself that everyone on set can just go fuck themselves. You can’t possibly overestimate how much time as a location sound person is spent doing exactly that. I also still find it interesting to read the script pages when I arrive on set and picture how they'll translate, as well as watching actors and directors work — and not just the good ones, because it's always interesting to see someone make the wrong choice and consider what a better one might have been. I still do learn new things that way, but after so many years, there's not that much I haven't seen in terms of technique, and I’ve probably stored about as much as I can for future use considering that many of the futures in which I’d use such knowledge may well never happen.

The thing that's tough about taking on editing as a new occupation, however, is that, while I've edited a number of projects, I certainly haven't done it in the mass quantities in which I've done sound work. As an editor, there's quite a bit I still haven't seen — in terms of technique, individual work styles, and what directors want and expect. One way to learn that would be to apprentice in a lower-level position. Coming up in a two- or three-person sound department, I got to see a lot of other people mix and boom, which was incredibly helpful. I never would have started wearing gloves to get more reach and range if I hadn't worked with a couple of boom ops who I watched do that and discussed with them why they did. I couldn’t have acquired the plethora of wiring techniques that I now know if I hadn’t been able to watch so many mixers try so many combinations of moleskin and snot tape and Topstick and Transpore and HushLavs and all of the other bizarre shit people have developed over the years to make lavs sound good on other people. In the same way, there are tips and tricks that experienced editors have that I’ve only heard about or caught glimpses of, or tried to understand in online tutorials, which may be the godsend of modern life, but can’t reveal everything. Working as an assistant editor used to be the traditional point of entry to the editing ladder, but now that digital editing makes it so easy and fast to organize a project (no more searching for teeny tiny bits of celluloid that fell under your Steenbeck), and editing programs are pretty cheap, most anyone can teach themselves to edit and jump right into being the sole editor on their first or second bupkis-paying project. The fleet of lowly assistant editors who work the overnight shift digitizing, importing, synching and conforming just to catch glimpses of the master in action now mainly survives in L.A., where the bulk of narrative studio work, including most TV and film editing, is done. And that’s a terrible job, even when you’re 25.

One key thing I realized immediately that I didn’t know how to do was judge how long an edit is going to take. Most of my cutting hasn’t been on a deadline, or it’s been on a deadline which was given to me and I simply had to make, so I never needed to answer the question, “How long do you think you’ll need to complete this?” As a result, when I was asked that on my first editing job of the past few weeks, then had to decide if I could do it in 2/3 that time since that was all they had budgeted for, I said, “Suurremmmaybe?” And when I realized that even my first estimate was optimistic, I had to suck it up and eat those extra days on the budget I'd agreed to — which was at a low rate in addition to having too few hours, because that’s what you have to do when you’re starting out. The last job I had to work for the hourly rate I ended up with was probably one of those independent films that male directors somehow got funded in the 90s to play out all of their fantasy sexual conquests (I’m looking at you, Eric Schaeffer, but not just you, unfortunately). Something I also didn’t really know how to do before? Edit while someone else is watching. Pretty much all of the editing work I've done has entailed having a discussion with the director/producer, then going home and creating cuts on my own, getting feedback on those cuts from the powers that be, and then going back and making changes based on that, also on my own. On my second editing job these past couple of weeks, I had to sit with the director and work together nearly every day, which meant she was kind of just watching the gears in my head turn — a process that nobody should have to witness, ever. And it was bad enough having to try and come up with clever ideas about how to move the story along or improve the flow while she waited, since there’s nothing that makes you feel more stupid than having to be smart under duress. It was also trying to remember “Oh fuck, now how do I do that again?” fairly often, because all the nitpicky mechanical shit of how to do things quickly in an editing program is not yet ingrained, along with the occasional, “Oh fuck, what did I do that caused that to happen?” that comes from hitting a button by mistake when I don’t know Premiere well enough (”Command-Z” is also in competition for the godsend of modern life). This situation of not knowing what I was doing all the time in front of someone else was made doubly hard by knowing I shouldn’t be making it totally obvious just how much I didn't know. Everyone who’s had a job probably went through the process of working their way up by taking on new challenges — aka stuff they have to learn how to do as they go — and any employer who hires below the going rate should be aware that the person they’re hiring is probably doing that and that’s why they’re willing to work for less. Nevertheless, there’s always this charade where the employee pretends that they’re just giving the employer an awesome deal because they really like the project, and the employer pretends that the person they’ve hired is the super-experienced professional they couldn’t afford to hire who knows everything. And all of that stupid and pointless pretending? I’m not very good at that either – like most women, who tend to be more comfortable learning by asking questions about what we don’t know than faking our way through it, which sure seems more logical if you ask me, but whatevs. Anyway, thank goodness it didn’t really matter on this job, as the director I was working with was female, nice, and knows less about technology than I do, and so is just as big a fan of the “Should we Google how we do that?” technique as I am.

Basically, the hardest thing for me as an editor is that I'm kind of a newbie again, and that's rough when you're nearly 50 (okay I’m 48, but I have so many friends turning 49 or 50 this year that I figure I should just go ahead and try to get into the headspace now to try to diminish the trauma later on). Whereas I’m at the point with booming that I can often do it in my sleep — and sometimes I do — as an editor, I need to be not just awake but fully on. This is, like I said, partly why I wanted to switch careers: editing uses so much more of my brain, in addition to a whole lot less of my body. But these past couple of weeks have made me wonder once or twice, “Huh, do I really want to have a job that forces me to think that hard all day long?” I've tried to find some way that I can creatively employ myself in my downtime on set — like by tweeting, which I need to do more of and get better at (being pithy? Also hard), or other little tasks like creating new material for our bots — but it's hard to focus in the short bursts of downtime that I tend to have on TV, and on commercials I have to work less but appear like I'm working more, to make sure people know I’m working, which is also work. Plus, I find that most of my potential for focused, productive thought is ruined by having to get up at five. But then again, if I can’t use my creative energy at my job, then I don’t use all of it up there either — and I think this has always been the conundrum. We want to be fulfilled by what we do for money, but if that side job becomes too engaging, will we lose our drive to do and be something more? And on the flip side, how do you hold on to that drive for 2.5 decades and still feel like the goal is worth it when your everyday is unsatisfying?

I know the particulars will get easier if editing becomes my full-time job. I just didn't ever think I'd be starting again, even partly, at this age, and having to face these types of questions. That might be the biggest reason why I put off trying out editing as a job for so long, and of course now that I have waited this long, it’s harder. You know how science has shown how our brain activity wears in neural pathways that make habits normal and easy for us? These days, when I try to do something new, it’s like I can feel those pathways being scraped in with that tool my dental hygienist uses. And yet, smushing together those tiny pieces of what were once celluloid and are now zeros and ones that somehow appear as little purple rectangles to powerfully tell a story or convey a point is fulfilling for me in a way that hitting all my cues during a dialogue scene will never be. In one way they’re quite similar: a feat of strength and dexterity that only a handful of people will ever witness and probably never remember, because the point of doing sound right is that nobody notices, vs. making it possible for someone else to tell their story seamlessly in a style that will most likely only be attributed to them. They’re both ultimately just tiny names somewhere in the credits that you have to search for, and accepting that as my future might be the real growing up I have to do.

[ineverhadmyinternetphase]

In My Way - Chapter 19

AO3 link, First Chapter

Genre: Chaptered. Actor!Dan AU, fluff, bit of angst, slow burn, getting together (eventually)

Summary: Fiction. Daniel Howell is 21 and Britain’s newest star. He’s just been cast in the much-anticipated film adaption of Last Man Standing, the popular teen fantasy novel with a huge fanbase hanging off his every tweet. In other words, Dan has made it big.

Phil Lester couldn’t care less. He’s a stressed out PHD student working part time at a bookshop while he struggles to get into post-production. He’s 26 and still lives in a tiny flat on the fifth floor of a building with a lift more broken than it is in use. He loves books, but he thinks big film adaptions screw with the plot too much.

Needless to say, Phil is less than impressed when Last Man Standing is getting filmed in his hometown. And he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with obnoxious, arrogant, so irritatingly perfect leading actor   Daniel Howell.

Warnings: Swearing, Ace!Phil, Bi!Dan, slight a- and bi-phobia, discussions of sexuality

Word Count: 3000-5000 per chapter (ish)

A/N: Whoops sorry this took a while again, but I’m still beavering away and I promise you will get all 25 chapters of this fic eventually ^_^ (also somehow this fic won phanfic awards??? Thank you to anyone who voted <3)

@mecaka could not have done this without your help, thank you for being my star and betaing this constantly for me even when I leave it literally a month before writing the tiny last scene xD you are my saviour <3

---

Phil’s flat felt far too empty with only one person in it.

He was sure there hadn’t been quite this much space before. The floor felt too clean, there was too much space on his sofa, his TV was on too quietly. The kitchen didn’t hold as much food, the pans were tidied away far too quickly. His bed was far too wide.

Phil moped around the place on his own, finding it harder and harder to concentrate. Writing his PhD thesis was nowhere near as fun without someone constantly distracting him by climbing over his legs. Anime was less captivating without sharp running commentary. One time, Phil had made the mistake of flicking to the film channel and Reckless had been playing. Seeing Dan Howell’s face on the big screen made Phil flinch and look away, quickly changing channels.

Plus, Dan on screen just looked kind of… wrong. Phil still loved the film, but the Dan on there was fake. Where once Phil would never have noticed the actual ‘acting’, now he could see the illusion Dan finely painted, in the details of his careful expressions, the mask he wore of another character.

It wasn’t Phil’s Dan up there. It was everyone’s Dan.

Phil flung the remote down, grumbling to himself about dumb actors ruining his favourite films for him. He’d resorted to running out to the café next door earlier, desperate to get some actual writing done in a place that didn’t have treasured memories leaking from every corner. He’d been there an hour and got through editing the first part of his draft before his phone buzzed.

Phil tried not to show his disappointment when it was PJ asking to meet up later.

So Phil had packed up his bags and returned to his flat, thesis still in desperate need of attention but Phil in desperate need of distraction.

PJ had opted for a pub in town to meet in. They were going to eat out and have a drink or two and then return home happier for it, Phil knew that objectively, but it was still hard to drag himself into respectable-ish clothes and head out of the door. He’d become used to staying indoors all night, wrapped up in someone else’s arms. It felt strange, actually going out again.

The black car was still sitting at the end of his street. Phil cast it a worried glance and upped the pace of his stride, hurrying through towards the centre of town as quickly as he could without actually running. No one had approached him yet, but Dan had warned him over skype that hype would be increasing soon.

“The film premiere is in a month, so watch out up until then,” he’d told Phil through a mouthful of cereal, the image on Phil’s computer far too grainy for his liking. “All the publicity will go insane.”

“I’ll be prepared,” Phil had promised him,then got lost watching the way he smiled.

PJ was sitting in a booth over in a quiet corner. Phil was forever grateful that his old university friend was so similar to him, still enjoying a quiet night rather than a noisy meeting place. Neither of them had ever been much into clubs, and they certainly hadn’t been fans of the more rowdy crowds. This was probably exactly what he needed – a meal with a friend. Even if all Phil really felt like doing was sliding back into bed and moping some more.

PJ waved him over with his usual cheery smile. His greeting was as warm as ever, though he cast Phil something of a knowing look when Phil’s reply was a bit morose. They’d been settled in for a while, and Phil had only offered a few grunts to the conversation when PJ abruptly changed the subject with a small sigh. “You’re moping, Phil.”

“Huh?” Phil sat up then, dropping his fork in his lasagne.

PJ chuckled, but his eyes were warm as he looked at Phil. “See? Moping.”

“I’m not,” Phil denied reflexively.

PJ wasn’t buying it, simply snorting in response. But he also didn’t push it. Phil was eternally grateful for his friendship, for knowing when Phil needed to talk and also when Phil needed to sort his thoughts out on his own. Phil should get better at thanking him.

“So what are you up to now?” Phil finally forced himself to say, dragging himself out of his own morose thoughts.

“Well, I’m back with the company, but my boss isn’t too happy with me,” PJ admitted.

Phil squinted at him. “Why not?”

PJ shrugged. “I don’t think he much appreciated me taking so much time off to work on the set. I had to, though – an actual film set. And I got paid for my hours, so it was worth it.”

“That’s great,” Phil said with an effort, and he meant it. Really, he did. It was just… impossible for him to think of the film set without thinking of Dan, and Phil had been trying to get out of his mope.

He wondered if Dan would have liked this pub. Probably wouldn’t have approved of the music choice.

“It was, and all thanks to your Dan,” PJ answered with a chuckle, but his expression was careful.

Phil grimaced a bit, wriggling. “He’s not my Dan.” Despite the shiver of warmth that flowed through him at the sound of that.

PJ eyed him closely. “Isn’t he?”

Phil bit his lip.

“You miss him, don’t you?” PJ questioned him quietly.

Phil froze. The answer was obvious, he felt it flowing through his veins, with every pulse of his heart, like an ache deep in his bones. But he didn’t know how much it was safe to admit, especially when Dan wasn’t here to make Phil feel better about it.

But PJ was a good friend, and Phil knew he could trust him. So he glanced up to meet PJ’s eyes and gave a tiny nod.

PJ’s smile was sympathetic. “He misses you too, trust me.”

Phil shifted about a bit, muttering, “How do you know?”

“Because I had to work on the set with him practically every day,” PJ answered wryly, “And I put up with his constant questions about you. Like, which would Phil prefer black or red jacket, or, if I show up at his flat for the fourth time this week is he going to think I’m creepy, never mind his constant freaking out over what to tag you in on Twitter that day.”

Phil, despite himself, was biting back a smile. “He really did that?”

“Mate, you have no idea,” PJ answered with feeling. “The only person who got it worse than me was Louise, we used to have a schedule for Dan-freaking-out times for which one of us would deal with it first.”

Phil was full on grinning by then. Dan had always seemed so suave and cool and put together, but Phil had caught glimpses of the mess he suspected lay hiding underneath. For some reason, it made Phil feel a little better that Dan had been just as insecure as Phil. Or maybe not as much, but at least a little.

They carried on with their dinner then, and Phil relaxed into it a little more. Talking about Dan seemed to loosen the tight feeling in his chest a bit, and he felt himself starting to have a good time in a way he hadn’t thought he’d really be able to. PJ understood him, though, and they had a lot of shared stories from the film set. Swapping stories about the weirdest habits they’d seen from the actors to geeking out over the cool techniques they used to simulate magic.

Things were going well until PJ got a phone call. He glanced down at the screen and whispered an apology to Phil, saying, “Sorry, I’ve to take this, I’ll just—” he pointed to the door.

Phil nodded, shifting his knees out of the way so PJ could get out, and then he was alone. He poked morosely at the remnants of his lasagne, and of course, it didn’t take long for his thoughts to curve back around to Dan.

Dan, who’d probably be sitting in some swanky restaurant in London right now. Without Phil.

Well, no, more realistically Dan would be curled up in his flat in his pyjamas with messy hair eating stir-fry out of a bowl, but still. He was still without Phil.

That tightening in Phil’s chest made a reappearance.

Phil shook his head, stabbing his fork into his lasagne and releasing a soft sigh. If he’d thought himself ridiculously obsessed with Dan before, then being without him was only calling it more and more into perspective. Dan had been gone less than a week, and so far they’d skyped four times and texted each other almost hourly, and Phil still felt that crushing weight of loneliness more often than not.

Phil had thought he knew what it felt like to miss someone. He’d missed his mum when he was at uni, he’d missed his grandma’s dog when she passed away, he’d missed his brother when he moved out. But all of those paled into the background compared to the bone-deep ache he felt at the lack of Dan.

It didn’t help that literally everything reminded him of Dan. Every song that came on the radio Dan had offered an opinion on, every time Phil went to work he was reminded of all the spaces Dan had curled up asleep. Not to mention that every nook and cranny of Phil’s flat held some memory of Dan that was all too precious. Phil was making a conscious effort not to forget anything, instead sealing Dan away in his memory forever.

PJ returned then, pulling Phil out of his thoughts. Phil turned to greet him, a crease appearing in his brow when he saw the way PJ seemed to be bouncing on his feet a bit.

“Hey,” PJ greeted, and was his voice trembling?

“Are you ok?” Phil asked.

“What? Oh, yeah.” PJ slid back into place opposite him, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the table.

Phil narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“I am!” PJ insisted, then broke out into a face-splitting grin. “Well, ok, something’s happened. But it’s good.”

“What is it?” Phil arched a questioning brow, taking a sip of his drink.

PJ bit his lower lip, practically bouncing in his seat. He waited politely for Phil to put his drink back down, and then announced, “I’ve just been offered a job working full-time for Xander.”

Phil’s eyes burst wide open. He stared at PJ in shock, mouth falling open. “Wait – Xander, as in, the one from the film set?”

“Yep.” PJ nodded, and he was laughing before he could finish his sentence. “Just called me up – he’d mentioned, maybe, there’d be space at his company down in London, but I never thought – this quickly—”

“That’s incredible!” Phil paused, shaking his head, and then pulled his friend into an awkward around-the-table hug. “PJ! That’s incredible!”

“I know, right,” PJ agreed, voice thick with emotion. He was trembling a bit when Phil pulled back. “I’d never dared to hope I’d actually get it.”

“You completely deserve it, though,” Phil hastened to add. “You’ve worked so hard, and you’re so talented – I always knew you’d do it.”

PJ grinned at him.

The rest of his words registered for Phil then, and Phil frowned a bit, shooting PJ a close look. “Where did you say this job was, again?”

“In London,” PJ confirmed, and Phil’s heart sank. “I won’t be starting for a couple of months, have to work out my notice here and sort out some finances – and find somewhere to live, of course.”

Phil nodded, PJ’s excited chattering starting to fade into the background. His heart was sinking down to his knees. London. Why did so much of his life seem to revolve around London? It felt miles away – well, it was miles away – and he’d barely even got used to the idea of Dan being there.

Well, ok, he wasn’t used to that idea at all, but he’d been working on it. On making it work long-distance. But now PJ was going to leave him, too?

Phil was having a really hard time keeping the distress off his face.

He was going to hide it, though, because PJ deserved happiness. Phil was proud of him, knew that this was a literal dream come true, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin his friend’s moment with his own moping. He’d get over himself eventually. This was great news for PJ.

Phil just about managed to keep it together for the rest of the evening, until they’d finished up their meals and had a drink and split the bill between them. They said their goodbyes, and PJ went off to his own place while Phil started the long walk back to his flat.

He could get on the bus, of course, if he wanted. The roads were all open again now the set had gone. The city had returned to its normal state, no more disruption.

Phil still walked the entire way home.

On his way passed the street where the filming had happened, he paused, staring a little morosely at the place where the ROAD CLOSED sign had stood for so long. Right there was where he’d first met Dan, in a situation that still made him go a little pink. There was where he’d first got to go onto a film set, got to meet some fantastic people, and, of course, where he’d shared more moments than he could count with Dan.

Phil couldn’t bring himself to walk straight passed.

Instead, he stopped, staring at the spot contemplatively for a while, and then pulled out his phone. He snapped a photo and then headed straight back home when drizzle started to drip from the cloudy sky again.

Phil waited until he was back home curled up with coffee under a blanket (his flat still felt eerily empty) when he got his phone out again. Dan still hadn’t answered from earlier, probably fell asleep or something, but Phil didn’t linger too long before he pulled up Twitter.

There, he posted the photo of the empty street along with the caption, Just not the same without @danisnotonfire and the rest of the film crew. Manchester misses you <3

As ever, the replies instantly came flooding in. Phil’s follower count had continued to steadily increase since he and Dan started featuring in each other’s timelines, but they hadn’t posted anything in awhile. The odd selfie went up, but as they were still mostly trying to keep their relationship private, they were careful not to make it too apparent how much time Dan had been spending in Phil’s place.

Now, though, there was no such need for caution. Most of their fans seemed to think whatever they had would be over now that Dan had gone down to London, although there were a dedicated few so-called ‘shippers’ who seemed almost desperate that they stay together.

Phil couldn’t help but agree with them.

He scrolled through a few replies to his photo, smiling a bit at a few of them.

@phanforlife: @amazingphil is that what you said to @danisnotonfire when he left

@dansfans101: @amazingphil dw he misses you too we’ve all been seeing the mopey tweets

At that one, Phil chuckled. He too had seen the rather telling tweets from Dan over the past week, things like isn’t this spring much colder than its supposed to be and having lonely dinner for one again am I the worlds worst celebrity

Phil wasn’t too proud to admit that he’d almost been proud of that last one.

After scrolling through a few more replies, Phil set his phone away and stretched out on his couch, glancing up at the ceiling with a soft, yearning sigh. This entire room felt too cold, too empty.

And then his phone buzzed in his pocket with a new Twitter notification.

@danisnotonfire: I miss Manchester too <3

Phil bit back a smile, despite the burning feeling spreading to the back of his throat. His eyes were a little damp. It was ridiculous, too, this whole entire thing, because not so long ago he’d been freaking out about being on Twitter at all. The number of notifications on his phone had been far too overwhelming, but now, Phil yearned for them.

They were proof that it had been real. Dan had been real.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a new text.

Dan: skype?

Phil didn’t hesitate at all in leaning over to grab his laptop screen. Dan might not be here in person, but he wasn’t really so far away. For now, a grainy webcam picture would have to do.

---

The next time Phil ran into a problem, he was heading back from town with handfuls of shopping bags and desperately trying to get back into his flat.

He was just on his way back from a meeting with his supervisor, which had gone surprisingly well. She approved of the first draft of his thesis, and only had a few pointers of things to fix and where to go next. All in all, she was very nice, and the end of Phil’s degree was in sight.

That kind of terrified him, so he tried not to think about it too much.

He’d popped to the shop on the way back only because he was literally out of food, and ended up walking into several of the shelves because he was buried in his phone. (Dan was texting him for the first time that day, ok, and had sent him a very serious picture of a dog. Phil had his priorities right). As such, it had taken him a little longer to get around the shop, and he was ninety percent sure he hadn’t picked up half the ingredients he was supposed to, but he had got to see Dan’s excited key smashes from the dog talk, so it was worth it.

He was heading down his street, fumbling for his keys in his pocket, when he was accosted by a strange-looking man with a pen tucked behind his ear and a very eager smile on his face.

“Hello!” He announced, sounding like someone reading the news. A hand was shoved in Phil’s face. “Dan Foster, just here to ask a few questions if you’ve got time?”

Phil blinked. He shuffled around the bags in his hand to reluctantly shake the man’s hand, giving him a squinty look. He didn’t look like anyone Phil recognised. “Erm. Hi?”

“Hi!” The man’s grin widened if that was possible. “So like I said, a few questions. Have you always lived in Manchester?”

“Uh,” Phil said intelligently. “Er, I guess?”

“Wonderful.” There was suddenly a notebook in the man’s hand. “And you’re how old?”

“Uh – 26?” Phil took a step back. “Who are you, again?”

“David Foster, and if I can ask, where do you work?”

David Foster. The name meant nothing to Phil. The man was now jotting something down in his notebook. “Where do you work, sir?”

“Um—” Phil was getting a bad feeling about this. He tried weakly to point at his front door over the man’s shoulder. “I just – I live there, I just –”

“Is this your permanent address?” The man’s smile was starting to look a bit creepy.

Phil tried to move around him. The man blocked his way.

“Yes,” Phil answered weakly, lifting up his bags. “I just – I really need to get home—”

“Anyone there waiting for you?” The man asked smoothly, pen poised above his notebook.

Phil shook his head. His phone buzzed in his pocket – Dan would be waiting for him on Skype. “Actually, I – I have to make a call—”

“Some other time, then.” The man backed off, finally, and gave a final little smile at Phil.

Phil smiled awkwardly back and started walking forward as soon as there was enough space in front of him. He couldn’t get back inside fast enough. There was a strange clicking sound from behind him that made Phil jump, and he turned instinctively just fast enough to see the door of a black car slamming shut.

The same black car that had been there before Dan left.

Phil’s stomach suddenly dropped. He hurried back inside with more urgency than before, struggling to get all the bags inside his flat and dumped on the kitchen counter before he went straight to his laptop and to Dan.

“You’re late,” was the first thing Dan said to him.

Phil made a face. He was still adjusting the pillows on his bed, precariously balancing his laptop on his knees in the process. “I had to buy food. Nothing else would have priority over you, don’t worry.”

“But I thought you’d be back ages ago.” There was a slight whine hiding in Dan’s tone, and it made Phil hide a smile. “Also, put your laptop down, you’re going to drop it.”

“I’m not,” Phil argued, quickly saving it from falling off his knees.

“You will, you’re too bony for your legs to be a safe resting place,” Dan disagreed. Phil made a face back at him. He’d had plenty of complaints from Dan about how his bony legs weren’t comfortable, but, well, there wasn’t exactly anything Phil could do to fix that.

Dan looked a bit tired today. He was pale, and his hair was a curly mess, and he was still in his pyjamas lying on his bed. Phil had got the tour of his bedroom in their first skype call the night Dan got back to London, and Phil had made appreciative noises at the size of it. It remained the only room he’d seen in Dan’s flat, though, as Dan explained he felt too awkward giving a tour when Tyler was around.

Phil hadn’t seen much of Tyler, either, except when Dan complained about him leaving the bathroom door open or messing up the fridge order. (“You have a fridge order?” Phil had spluttered, and Dan had sniffed and haughtily changed the subject).

“Did you have a good day?” Phil asked when he’d finally got his pillows sorted.

Dan blew out a frustrated little sigh. “Kind of. Waiting for my agent to send me the details of an audition, but I don’t know when it will be, so I can’t really plan anything.”

“Audition?” Phil perked up in interest. “What for?”

Dan smiled, his eyes lighting up a bit. “It’s for a stage show. Don’t know if I’ll get it, though.”

“Really?” Phil settled himself down comfortably. “Tell me more.”

That led to Dan launching into a detailed description of the play’s nature, and the part he was going for (one of the leads, though not the main lead, Dan stressed – he wasn’t as experienced on stage as he was on screen). Phil listened excitedly, but he was struck once again by how very different his and Dan’s lives really were.

Not that it was putting Phil off. If anything, he just wanted to climb right inside Dan’s world and live there for a while.

“What about you?” Dan asked when he’d talked himself out. “Good day?”

“Yeah. Mostly.” Phil scratched at the back of his head. “Ran into a weird guy on the street.”

Dan tilted his head, smiling. “Isn’t that kind of usual for you?”

“Yes, but this was weirder than normal.”

“You have to tell me now.”

Phil grimaced. “He just asked me a bunch of questions, and then got into the black car. You know, the one on the street?”

Dan grew very still. His voice came out a bit strangled. “The same one from before?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s still there?”

Phil blinked. “Uh. I don’t know about right now, but it was. It has been, I mean.”

Dan’s expression had tightened. Phil didn’t like that much. “And this guy was talking to you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t say anything, though,” Phil hastened to add. “Nothing really important.”

“That’s good.” Dan was chewing on his already-abused lower lip. Phil wanted to buy him lip balm. And maybe kiss it better. “Don’t tell them anything, ok? No matter how much you like random small talk.”

Phil bit back a smile. “I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”

Dan let out a tiny breath, and his shoulders finally relaxed. That was better. He looked more like Phil’s Dan now, not the Dan always around on screen. “Anything else weird happen today that I should know about?”

Phil shook his head.

“What about the meeting with your supervisor?” Dan looked up, then, and grinned. “Wait, I just heard Tyler leave, gonna bring you into the kitchen.”

Phil grinned back. He liked getting a little peep into Dan’s life again, seeing the place he called home. The flat was big, a bit empty, but full of lots of little things that Phil could guess Dan had put there. A galaxy cushion on a sofa that Phil just caught a glimpse of, an entirely black candle sitting at a perfect aesthetic angle on a windowsill.

The kitchen counter was messy, and the sink was full of dirty dishes. That also made Phil feel a bit better, more like Dan was a real human. It was easy to forget that sometimes, to think he’d imagined those happy few months with Dan in his life, in his flat, in his arms. Dan deposited him on the counter, and it meant that all Phil could see were Dan’s elbows and hips and the hem of his giant pyjama camouflage top (seriously, how did clothes look baggy on Dan? He was taller than Phil and Phil struggled to get clothes that fitted him easily). Watching him prepare a meal, even something as simple as microwave popcorn, felt relaxing and comfortingly domestic.

This was definitely Phil’s Dan.

As he watched, Phil explained about the meeting with his supervisor, how it had gone so weirdly well. Dan ducked down enough to specifically beam at him with a giant thumbs-up, which sent something fluttering in Phil’s stomach. He was smiling back before he realised it.

“So you must be almost done, then?” Dan asked as he carefully placed the popcorn in a bowl. “Like, soon I won’t be fighting with textbooks to get your attention?”

“You have my attention anyway,” Phil promised, grinning at Dan’s snort. “But yeah. I just have to make a few improvements and adjust my conclusion slightly, and it’ll be done.”

“That’s a strange thought,” Dan mused. “Phil who isn’t a student. I can’t really imagine it.”

“Honestly, nor can I,” Phil admitted.

Dan shot him a look at that. There was a question in his eyes, one that scared Phil a bit, but one that also excited him. He wondered if Dan would ask.

Dan did, in a kind of roundabout way. “So no plan then? I mean, you don’t need one. Exactly. Not yet, anyway, there’s plenty of time and you haven’t even graduated yet and—”

“Dan,” Phil interrupted his rambling and leaned a bit closer to his webcam.

Dan sent him a soft smile, the expression gentle and calm and everything Phil could ever want to see. He wanted to reach through the screen and poke Dan’s dimple.

“I’ve been thinking about a plan more,” Phil confessed, watching as Dan set about balancing his laptop and the bowl of popcorn so he could head back to his bedroom.

“Yeah?” The screen tilted alarmingly as Dan launched himself onto his bed.

“Yeah, just, like.” Phil swallowed. “Nothing certain, but. You know. London.” London has you in it.

Dan’s eyes brightened. He dragged his laptop closer to his face until it was resting on his chest and his eyes loomed large in Phil’s screen. They were an impressively deep brown colour. “Really?” His tone was full of hope.

Phil chewed on his lower lip, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I mean. There are companies there, good ones. And that woman on your film set gave me her card. I can probably dig it out from somewhere.”

Dan’s eyes brightened still further, but then his expression fell a bit. “Sarah? Was it Sarah?”

“Um.” Phil squinted, trying to remember. “Maybe?”

“If it was, there might be a problem.” Dan wilted a bit. “She left on maternity leave.”

Phil felt his insides crumble a bit. He’d sort of been vaguely holding onto the hope that he knew someone from Dan’s film set. Without that, he didn’t really feel like he was a good applicant at all.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t apply, though,” Dan pressed.

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, and let out a low sigh. “If I ever graduate. If they’d ever even consider my application.”

“They would,” Dan answered decisively.

Phil arched a brow.

“Well, they should,” Dan argued. “You’re awesome.”

Phil couldn’t hold back a small smile at that. If Dan Howell was saying he was awesome, then maybe Phil shouldn’t fight him too much. Even if it was a bit difficult to believe. He’d just – never had to apply for something before, not quite like this. Applying for university courses had always just been a case of getting good references and writing a vaguely appropriate personal statement. He’d walked into the job at the bookstore simply because he used it all the time to work, and one day had caught Lilith struggling so much that he jumped in to help.

This would be the first time he was applying for something real.

Dan was considering him closely through the webcam, and not for the first time, Phil wished their connection was better so he could stare at Dan’s freckles rather than pixels. Of course, the ideal would be to have Dan in his arms, but Phil would take what he could get.

“I think you should apply,” Dan said finally, much more decisively than Phil had been expecting.

Phil blinked at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Like, if you want to, obviously.” Dan was talking too fast, the way he always did when he was a bit nervous. But his gaze remained unfalteringly on Phil’s face. “I know it’s a huge decision, and I know it’s asking a lot, but – but if I never say it then I’ll feel bad. I want you with me, Phil.”

Phil’s stomach swooped. Something warm grew in his chest, spreading out until he was tingling right to the tips of his fingers, and he stared at the laptop screen like he could reach right through it and hold Dan’s hand. He kind of wanted a hand to hold through this.

“I want that too,” he managed to gasp, grinning at the answering expression on Dan’s face. Dan looked surprised, almost, as if he hadn’t been expecting Phil to agree.

As if Phil could do anything else.

“It’s hard, without you,” Phil confessed, and Dan’s eyes softened in understanding.

“I know,” he answered, and rolled closer to his laptop screen until his face was as close as it could get. “I meant what I said. About missing you.”

“Even with all the glitz of London life?” Phil teased. His chest felt tight.

“Especially with all the glitz of London life.” Dan let out a loud sigh. “Do you have any idea how busy the next few weeks are going to be for me? There are so many interviews before the premiere, ugh.”

“Acting life,” Phil answered wisely, as if he had any idea what he was talking about.

Dan made a face. “Acting life can fuck off. That side of it, I mean. I wish I could just do the actual acting without any of this other nonsense.”

“You like the attention really,” Phil pointed out sagely, snickering when Dan looked chagrined. “I mean, I’ve seen you gloating whenever your Twitter followers go up.”

“That’s entirely different,” Dan sniffed, and Phil laughed at him. Sometimes, Dan still acted like the haughty, arrogant actor Phil had first met (and slightly hated), but now it was more likely to spark a sense of protectiveness in Phil. Like he wanted to wrap Dan up and put him in jumpers.

If only that was possible, from so far away.

There was a bang in the background, and Dan’s face fell. He craned his neck away from his laptop screen, then sighed. “Sorry. That’s Tyler. He’s bought dinner.”

“Go eat,” Phil agreed, proud when his voice only shook a little bit. His chest still felt tight every time they had to end a call, every time he had to say goodbye to Dan. It didn’t get any easier, no matter how many times they’d said it now.

Dan smiled softly at him. “I’ll text you tonight.”

“Needy,” Phil scoffed, but he meant, yes, please.

When they hung up, and Phil was left looking at a blank screen again, loneliness crashed over him like a wave. He felt homesick, which was ridiculous, because home had always been here, but now – now, home seemed to be wherever Dan was.

London, Phil thought. It didn’t seem quite so impossible anymore.

---

Dan closed his laptop but proceeded to stare at its perfectly pristine white surface for the better part of several minutes. He could hear Tyler crashing about in the kitchen, banging pans and plates and cutlery in what Dan knew to be a vociferous exclamation that yes, he was home, and Dan should stop wittering on to his boyfriend person and get back out here to the kitchen.

Dan smiled, but he didn’t look away from his laptop yet. Which was ridiculous because Phil wasn’t actually in there, and yet to Dan, it contained the whole world in that moment. His only visual tie to Phil.

He was a ridiculous sap.

After a particularly loud crash from the kitchen, Dan winced and hopped up to his feet, exiting his room. “Are you actually destroying things, Tyler? Because if you are, you’re paying the deposit.”

“Oh, there you are,” Tyler said delightedly. He had the biggest grin on his face when Dan appeared at the kitchen door – well, Tyler always had the biggest grin on his face. His eyes were sparkling in a way Dan knew to be entirely too dangerous. “How’s the boyfriend?”

“Still in Manchester,” Dan answered morosely. He collapsed onto one of the chairs and watched Tyler bustling about with what looked to be some interesting noodly meal.

“We need to stop you moping,” Tyler answered seriously. He was now doing something dangerous-looking involving flames on the hob and a pan setting on fire. Dan drew his chair back a bit.

“I don’t actually mope,” Dan disagreed, watching Tyler through suspiciously narrowed eyes. “Like, if I was actually moping I’d be walking around in a blanket, or drinking copious amounts of hot chocolate, or—”

“That jumper is as good as a blanket,” Tyler informed him with a smirk.

“—Shut up, no it isn’t – but my point is, like, I wouldn’t be functioning like a normal person – shut up, I am functioning—”

“You haven’t been out of the house in five days,” Tyler sing-songed, setting a finished plate of a rather exquisite looking meal down in front of Dan and joining him at the table.”

“But that’s normal,” Dan defended himself.

Tyler gave him a pitying look.

“No, really, it is.” Dan attempted to use chopsticks to grab a mouthful, glared a bit when Tyler could use them perfectly.

“I’m not doubting you, Daniel,” Tyler reassured him, “It’s just the sad truth.”

Dan didn’t even have it in him to retort properly. He just let out a heavy sigh and stabbed something with one chopstick. After all, Tyler was right – Dan knew it, really. He was sitting in his pyjamas mooching food that his friend had cooked instead of being out at some gathering or whatever. It wasn’t like he was short of invitations – with the premiere of Last Man Standing coming up, everyone wanted to get a glimpse of him.

It was just – Dan had done the whole celebrity lifestyle thing before, and hated it. Parties and clubs and excessive drinking just really weren’t his thing. He much preferred staying in and watching stupid videos on the internet.

That had just never felt so lonely before. Manchester had spoiled Dan – he’d got completely accustomed to just sending a whiny text and having Phil be right there, coming every time Dan called with a roll of his eyes and a fond smile. Dan missed that. Like, really, seriously missed that.

“See?” Tyler’s amused voice cut across his thoughts. “Moping.”

Dan didn’t even bother to deny it this time. He just sank his face into his hands and groaned.

Tyler made a sympathetic noise. “Just get him to come visit. I won’t mind actually properly meeting the man who stole you away.”

“Can’t,” Dan grumbled.

Tyler tilted his head, giving Dan a significant look. “Are you worried about the press? We’ve had this conversation, coming out isn’t anywhere near as terrifying as it looks from your side of the fence.”

“That’s not even the issue,” Dan grumbled, and then paused, lowering his hands. Well. It was some of the issue. The thought of everyone knowing he was with another man – that was more than a bit terrifying. Dan’s family didn’t even know. The only person was Tyler, and that was because Dan had needed someone to confide in, someone to help him sort out the mess his head had been in at the time. Tyler always knew exactly what to say. After all, he’d been through it himself.

Only… not quite like this. Dan was bi, after all, and his relationships with women had been pretty well documented so far (Dan had to bite back a smile at the memory of Phil confronting him because he’d seen something about an ex-girlfriend of Dan’s in the paper. As if she was any competition). But sometimes, Dan wished he was just… one or the other. Gay or straight. Being caught in the middle was hard to explain, even to himself. How was he supposed to manage telling other people?

“It won’t be as hard as you’re thinking,” Tyler advised, reading correctly into Dan’s expression.

Dan groaned.

“Eat your dinner,” Tyler ordered.

Dan obediently shoveled in a mouthful, and then spoke around it, much to Tyler’s disgust. “But like I said, that’s not even the issue. Not the whole of it.”

Tyler sent him a disbelieving look.

“Like, there’s so much more going on here,” Dan tried to explain himself. “Phil has a whole life in Manchester. I’d be taking him away from all of that, and for what? He doesn’t want a life in the media. He freaks out every time someone new follows him on Twitter, like, what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Well, he clearly likes you enough,” Tyler added.

“Fuck knows why,” Dan muttered, stabbing his chopstick against his plate repeatedly.

“Stop it, Daniel, you’re moping again,” Tyler told him. “Nothing bad will come of Phil at least visiting you.”

Dan paused for thought. He wanted to believe Tyler, really he did, but – but it was easy to find the distance between him and Phil overwhelming when Phil wasn’t actually here, reminding him physically that Dan’s fears were unfounded.

Because really, why would someone like Phil even look twice at Dan. He was living in a completely different world.

Except he said that London was a possibility, Dan’s brain reminded him, and Dan almost choked on a smile. A possibility. Phil was looking into it, had found the editing company – and Dan knew Phil loved that, that his real joy was in editing. What if Dan could help that come about?

“I suppose,” he said aloud, startling Tyler mid-mouthful, “I suppose nothing could hurt if he visited.”

“Exactly.” Tyler sounded proud of himself, if a little choked. “And when he’s down here and sees all the glitz and glamour of your life—”

Dan snorted.

“—He’ll realise exactly what he’s missing out on in the dreary horrible northern part of your country and move down here for good.” Tyler let out a satisfied sigh at the thought. “And I can finally stop dealing with your constant moping. I’d even let him move in. Temporarily. If you aren’t excessively loud in bed.”

Dan snorted louder. “Trust me, not going to be a problem.”

Tyler sent him a curious look. Dan shrank back into his seat, avoiding meeting his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about this – not only did it make him exceedingly uncomfortable, but also, this part was Phil’s secret to tell. Dan had no idea how comfortable Phil was with telling others. So, hastily, he added, “Well, I mean, London is a thing, though. For Phil. Like, he’s thinking about it.”

Tyler brightened instantly. “Well, there you go!”

“But he’s only thinking about it,” Dan stressed before he settled back into moping. “Like. He loves editing, he knows the name of a company. But he isn’t doing anything about it, not yet.”

“So do something for him,” Tyler shrugged.

Dan stared at him.

Tyler caught the look and raised both brows. “What? Think about it – a word from Dan Howell and he could get into any of the companies here, you know that.”

Dan blinked. He… actually hadn’t thought of that before. Generally, he wasn’t about using his influence to get ahead anywhere, but – but if it meant Phil could come here…

No. No, Phil would hate him. That was a bad idea.

“I should just let him apply,” Dan disagreed, slumping down further in his seat.

“If you already know who he’s going to apply to, there’s no problem with having a quiet word,” Tyler pointed out. He grinned. “That would get you out of the house, too. Two birds, one stone.”

Dan glared at him. But the thought was in his head, and it wouldn’t shut up – after all, Tyler was right, he could have a word with any one of the people who’d worked on his set, mention Phil casually. It had worked for PJ – Xander was the one who got him the job, or so Dan had heard. There was nothing wrong with Dan doing the same for Phil, was there?

Was there?

---

“There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?” Dan said, halting on the steps of the giant office building that housed the company currently editing his film.

Tyler patted his shoulder. “Nothing at all. Go get ‘em.”

But Dan still felt something sour in his stomach as he pushed the doors open. But that was dumb. He was helping Phil, not upsetting him or making him mad. And he already knew Phil had an interest in applying here. There was nothing wrong with helping him get his foot in the door.

And then, there would be something concrete that would get Phil to be in London. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.

No, Dan thought to himself as he waved to one of the managers and went over to have a word. No, there was nothing wrong with this at all.

[jacewilliams1]

Hot chicken, icy wings

“What do you mean you’ve never heard of Nashville hot chicken?!”

I couldn’t believe that this guy—the guy who says “ten” when the server at the Thai restaurant asks how hot, on a scale of one to five, he wants his entrée—had never heard of Nashville hot chicken. He’s lived in North Carolina for most of his life, where at least two things are readily available: fried chicken and hot sauce.

Gary (left) and Elliott (right), ready for adventure.

Gary is one of three pilots in the corporate flight department for which I’m the director of maintenance and has been a huge influence during my flight training. I’ve been involved in aviation maintenance since I was 18 years old, and in my late 30s I started flying with the goal of becoming a pilot in our Falcon 900LX, as well as the DOM. I know how to fix ‘em, I guess I just wanted to see what it was like to break ‘em, too. That, and you just can’t beat the office view.

As I worked my way from student pilot to private pilot, then on through my instrument rating, Gary and I decided that once I got checked out in an airplane that would make it from Monroe, NC (EQY), to Nashville (BNA) without multiple stops, we’d make the trip to get ourselves some Nashville hot chicken for the first time, because I’d never had it, either. I got my A&P and IA in Nashville some years ago (thanks again, Bakers!) but was fully entrenched in the course work, so I didn’t have a lot of time to explore the local cuisine.

I got checked out in my flight school’s PA-28R Arrow, and off we went on a chilly February IMC day with thousand-ish foot ceilings and smooth air. We landed at BNA, got the crew car from Atlantic, and headed downtown to pick up Gary’s friend Ted.

“Hey Ted, where’s the best hot chicken around?”

“Well, Prince’s is probably the best, but somebody just drove a car into it last night, so let’s check out Party Fowl instead.”

The hot chicken was as good as I was hoping it was going to be. Hot chicken really is nothing more than spicy fried chicken but, man, it’s some REALLY good spicy fried chicken.

Once we had bellies full of cayenne-stained, crispy-skinned greasy goodness, we dropped Ted off at his office building and headed back to the airport.

Ready to get greasy at Party Fowl.

The weather was drizzly, chilly, and generally not what I was used to flying in. Part of my preflight planning was taking a look at the icing forecasts, freezing levels, etc. The freezing level and icing forecast over the Appalachians that day all came together at about 9000 ft. I filed direct, KBNA—KEQY at 7000 ft. Piece of cake. This is where my inexperience started to show. Or, another way to say it is, this is where my inexperience continued to compound.

Most of the airways showed an MEA of 7000 but some, which I obviously missed, were 8000 and we were heading east, which meant a minimum altitude of 9000. I paid no attention to sector altitudes and didn’t give a thought to the fact that ATC might need to take me higher to satisfy their terrain avoidance minimums.

I paid for our fuel, preflighted the airplane (quickly) in the cold drizzle, and we climbed in. Gary was adamant about letting me make all the calls without getting too deeply, or at all, involved in the decision making. He wanted me to have the experience of analyzing the data and making the calls. I still don’t know if I love him or hate him for that! Depends on the day, I guess.

We took off from runway 2C and got into the clouds at around 2300 feet. The leg to Nashville did quite a lot to make me more comfortable flying in IMC, so as we went into clouds, I told Gary that I was far less nervous now than I was when we started out. The words coming out of my mouth should have given me a clue that I needed to get back down to earth but I was feeling confident at the moment, which tells me now that I should have not felt very confident at that moment.

We were happily, and smoothly, cruising along in the clouds at 7000 ft. when ATC issued me a climb to 9000. I remember reading the instruction back and initiating the climb while thinking to myself this is a bad idea. I had it in my head that I’d filed for 7, so we were going to stay at 7, but I climbed anyway. The good thing about flying with a GoPro rolling is that I can go back and try to match up my inner monologue with my outer voice. I didn’t say much, but I asked Gary a few general questions about icing and what the indications were. I’m sure he knew exactly what I was thinking, but again, he was letting me make the calls.

Life is good in between the layers…

He explained some of the indications and different types of icing, accumulation rates, most prone areas, etc. I nodded and said, “Uh huh, okay,” while looking back and forth between the wings as nonchalantly as a nervous, newly-minted, low-time, bug-smashing pilot could look while sitting beside a 13,000+ hour jet jockey.

We leveled at 9000 ft. and flew in smooth silence for several minutes. Gary was drumming on his knee while I was trying not to look like I was way out of my comfort zone, which I was.

I tapped on the airspeed indicator and said, “Airspeed looks like it’s dropping.” I expertly paused for about six seconds, because I didn’t know what to do. Then I asked authoritatively, “Pitot heat?”

Gary said, “Yeah. Give it a shot and see if it changes.”

The airspeed indictor was bouncing between 80 and 110 knots. I said, pointing at the GPS, “Yeah, our ground speed is staying up.”

I turned on the pitot heat and watched the airspeed indicator continue to bounce for a few seconds, then slowly move up to about 130 knots and stay rock solid.

“Yep,” I said.

“Uh huh,” Gary said. We were in agreement.

More silence. I was wondering about how my kids were going to remember me, and Gary was probably wondering why we don’t have countdown timers on toasters yet, or something like that.

I said, “I wonder if they’ll give us seven again?”

Gary, knowing full-well the answer, said, “I don’t know, you could certainly ask.”

I asked. They said no.

“We’ll keep an eye on it,” the jet jockey said.

A few seconds later, Knoxville approach asked me how badly we needed to get down. He may be able to get us a little lower.

In my best non-terrified voice, I said, “Yeah, we’re just picking up a little bit of ice here and we’d like to get down a little lower.”

Gary confirmed that we did have a little trace of ice on the wings and that, sure, the pitot probe had iced up, but there was no cause for panic just now.

It was similar to a big brother telling his little brother that he really isn’t bleeding too badly; we can probably just rub some leaves and dirt on that gash and it’ll heal right up. Although he wants to believe his big brother, little brother still isn’t convinced that he isn’t going to die in an icy fireball.

Gary said that, worst case scenario, we could land in Knoxville since they had long runways, plenty of approaches, and we were catching glimpses of the airport through the holes in the clouds. Yeah, um, I was thinking the same thing.

Breaking out—finally.

About the time that I was ready to divert to Knoxville, approach called us and said they could get us down to 8300. I quickly accepted and started us down. I leveled off and watched the ice almost immediately melt off the wings, along with the many pounds of worry from my shoulders. Apparently, we were just on the edge of the icing and 700 feet was enough to get us into warmer air.

The ice melting away, larger and larger holes in the clouds, and the terrain slowly gaining altitude below us gave me confidence that there wouldn’t be an NTSB report filed on our behalf. At least not today. Not long after the ice started melting, the clouds started breaking up and around Asheville we broke out completely under a high overcast with a smooth ride. We flew about another hour or so back to Monroe, and it was beautifully uneventful.

After watching the GoPro footage of the “icing incident” played back on my computer in the comfort of my own home with an adult beverage in hand, I saw that it wasn’t much of an incident after all. As we were picking up that tiny bit of ice, Gary was in the right seat looking like he was on a Caribbean cruise while I was in the left seat acting as if I was about to initiate reentry into Earth’s atmosphere in a space capsule sold to me by a used-rocket salesman wearing plaid pants and white shoes. She’s a real peach!

It’s not that my CFII didn’t teach me icing avoidance or how to plan my route over lower terrain in order to stay well below the icing level. He taught me all of that, and a lot more. I think the problem is that I never really made the connection between training and reality. It was tough for me to visualize picking up ice on the wings while I was wiping the sweat from my brow under the foggles. I’m a tactile learner, so sometimes a concept doesn’t completely sink in until I experience it firsthand. Of course, that’s not to say that I’m not wary of base-to-final stall/spins because I’ve never experienced one, it’s more like I didn’t have an appreciation for how fast a spin can happen until that same instructor intentionally put us into a spin during a power-off stall. PARE was just an acronym until I had to use it.

I would like to say that picking up a little bit of ice taught me a lesson and I never again made any sort of plan that didn’t match real-world expectations, but I can’t. After a few laps in the pattern in a Seneca II, my instructor pulled one of the mixtures on me early in the takeoff roll and I swerved, filled the cockpit with expletives, and skidded a bit (a lot) before finally pulling the “good” throttle to idle and bringing us to a stop. When I told Gary about the slalom session in the Seneca, I told him that I should’ve been better prepared because, “I even briefed an engine loss prior to rotation!”

He asked me, “When you did your takeoff briefing… did you mean it?”

Hmm. Well, now I mean it.

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: editor@airfactsjournal.com

The post Hot chicken, icy wings appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2020/02/hot-chicken-icy-wings/

[the-coconut-asado]

HOW I GET INTO BARS IN MANHATTAN

I am going to tell a story about good and bad service and it’s going to take me a few paragraphs before you get to the recipes. Buckle up and pour yourself a cocktail.

Back in eighties New York no smart restaurant or bar staff line-up was complete without a generous dollop of sass. I liked the honesty of the ‘take it or fuck you’ service culture, often accompanied by a smile and a shrug. Now, on a bad day, (and most days in New York are good), you get a thin veil of courtesy, dipped in the nail polish of smug contempt.

Now, I have been to some great bars in Manhattan with sizzlingly good service. Dan the mixologist at Attaboy for example, a speakeasy in Chinatown, left me schoolgirl-dizzy with delight from what in retrospect were a few vaudeville tricks delivered with precision-charm. First there is the theatre of the entrance: a bashed-up door to an old tenement building on the edge of Chinatown, leading to a tiny corridor of a bar. Dan glided over and asked me what kind of things I liked to drink, what I wanted from life and if I watched The Crown on Netflix (I may have imagined at least two thirds of that). He then decided that a Kingsman Negroni would set my world alight. Damn! he was right, and I was almost teary when we had to leave to make our dinner booking.

Some other bar experiences have not been so serendipidous. Take the rooftop bar at a new budget-yet-hipster-with-no-coffee-in-your-room boutique on the Lower East Side. Staying there last summer, I tried to book myself and a friend in for a drink on my first evening. I got sizzlingly good booking service (see above) by way of reply: “Absolutely no need for you to book Mrs Bentley! As a guest you get automatic access with a plus one!”

If you thought this was sorted, then you would be wrong.

My mate Mel and I rocked up to the rooftop pretty early on that stiflingly hot summer evening. The bouncer at the door had that combination of faultless good manners and computer-says-no attitude that sets your teeth on auto-grind. Yes, he said, we were free to go to the back indoor bar, but the outside bar (let’s face it the ONLY bar anyone wanted to go to) was full.

We squinted through the doorway. It really didn’t look that full.

“We want our guests to experience the pleasant ambience in the bar, so we like to keep numbers down” he whispered. I forgot to mention he was a soft talker, straight out of the Seinfeld playbook.

While he held us at bay with his lullaby tones, the fedora-topped host was pretending to ignore us, using the same body language as the Beverly Hills sourface in Pretty Woman.

I fixed a smile on my face and continued: “If we go into the back bar, will you tell us when space comes free?’

“I’m afraid I can’t do that” the bouncer whispered in downsized Matt Damon-like tones: ‘We let people in on a first come first served basis. Unless you booked’.

‘I tried to book, I was told that I didn’t need to as I am a guest.’

‘If you haven’t booked you need to wait in the back bar.’

‘In that case we’ll wait here”, Mel chipped in.

‘I’m afraid you can’t wait here ladies, you’re blocking the walkway’ – ah! the host had finally decided to notice us.

“I think we will wait though’ I replied, still smiling winningly, with an only faintly discernible tick in my cheek.

This was a dance and we decided to settle into the rhythm. The host went back to studying her fingernails and the bouncer intensified the low voice so that we could only hear every third word. He seemed to be saying " You do have entry to the bar, but not if it is full.”

“But it’s not full!!”

“It’s our policy and there’s nothing I can do. I am triste for you.”

I could have sworn he said triste, or he may have said ‘piste’ which is what Mel and I should have been by now. And the French flavour of superiority he had adopted made me angry. Don't worry mate, I thought, I can play this game till les vaches come home.

The stand-off continued. The two of us refusing to move, the gatekeepers refusing to meet our gaze. And all the while we could glimpse the seductive but disappearing sunset on the terrace. Then, quite suddenly, balance of power shifted in our favour. Three socialites – a good two decades younger and well hipper than us, I’ll leave it there  -  swanned past us. They had clearly booked. And they were clearly the right demographic. I sashayed over to the host.

“I’m confused. I see those ladies booked and you let them in. And yet no one has left the outside bar. Should I have gone medieval with the booking service when they said I could bowl up as a hotel guest,and insist they should make a reservation for me? Or maybe I should just be younger?’

Busted. For a split second her insouciant mask slipped and she grimaced. And then she let us in. And the sunset, the view, and the heady aroma of NYC jeunesse d'ore was worth it - for a couple of hours at least. I haven’t been back. 

But before you get ‘triste’ that the world really is only for the young, the hip and the restless, then leave the bars and head for the food and drink festivals – where even my 92 year old auntie pictured here (who by the way is hip enough to use Whatsapp to great sarcastic advantage) gets great service.  

The artisanal food markets around the City such as the weekend Smorgasburg – which I have followed from Brooklyn Bridge to a Williamsburg car park to its most recent leafily affluent home in Prospect Park – give you great views (mostly), superiority-free service and delicious food and drink. It also gave me the inspiration for my Gingerbread Ice cream Sandwich, which I am sharing for you here. 

The best bars also serve amazing bar food. And while, Kingsman Negroni aside, I have rarely remembered a good cocktail,  I can snap-recall great food I have eaten with it. Here are a couple of food combinations I love in a bar-snackable format. Chin-chin.

Freaky Beets

If Kale is the food currency of New York, then beetroot is the bitcoin, i.e it’s both alternative and hyped. If you want clean food that is also unctuous and delicious then whip this up the next time you need a superfood boost to carbon-neutralise your alcohol intake. Small plates are also the perfect bar food. This one is a mash up of some Ottolenghi inspiration and a great little recipe I spied in Olive Magazine. Serves 4 as an appetizer.

Ingredients:

Four red raw beetroot and 2 raw golden beets, topped, peeled and cut into chunks (use non latex gloves to stop you getting your hands stained);

2 tsp. chilli flakes

2 large carrots, cut into chunks

Tblspn cumin

2 tbpn. Olive oil

Kosher salt and black pepper

2 tbsp. sherry vinegar

1 tsp honey.

3 tsp hazelnuts

3 tbsp. greek yoghurt.

Juice of ½ a lemon.

1 250g pouch ready to eat freekah.

A few basil leaves.

How to make

Heat the oven to 200C (or 190C Fan).

Pop the hazelnuts onto a baking sheet and roast for 5-10 mins until they are slightly browned and the skins peel off easily by rubbing a little. Chop and set aside.

Toss the chunks of beetroot and carrot with the chilli flakes, cumin, oil and seasoning, spread out in a shallow baking pan and roast for 40 mins.

Take the beets out and toss in the sherry and honey, then return to the oven for a further 5 minutes.

Mix the Greek yoghurt with the lemon juice, then season to taste.Warm the freekah through with a little water in a small saucepan.

Toss the warm beets and carrots with the freekeh in a serving bowl. Drizzle over the yoghurt dressing, then scatter with the hazelnuts and torn basil. Season again and drizzle with a little more oil, then serve.

Chilli fried squid with smashed borlotti beans

This takes literally 20 minutes from start to finish. To be eaten lingering over a glass of wine with a special someone that you don’t want to be seen stuffing your face in front of. Serves 2

 `ingredients

1 400g can borlotti beans

A few leaves of sage, chopped finely

1 sprig rosemary. Needles chopped finely

1 long red chilli

1 tsp red wine vinegar

Generous glug of olive oil.

½ tsp chilli flakes

2 garlic cloves, chopped

2 anchovy fillets, chopped

Extra virgin olive oil

6 small squid, cleaned, trimmed, flattened and scored,  and suckers separated

Parsely to serve.

How to make:

Prepare the squid, rub some oil over it, season, and leave to one side on a plate.

Put the olive oil into a sturdy pot on a low heat, add the garlic and cook very slowly for five minutes. Add the sage, rosemary, chopped chilli, vinegar and anchovy fillets. Stir for a minute or two to combine, then add the borlotti beans and the chopped tomatoes. Continue to cook on a low heat for about 15-20 mins until the flavor combine and you have a thick consistency. Mash the beans a bit with a fork (but not too much, you stil want discernible beans on display in the finished dish).

Heat a frying pan, and when searing hot throw in the squid and chilli flakes and fry for 30 seconds to a minute until you have browned charred bits of squid but not yet overcooked or rubbery.

Fill a couple of pasta bowls with the beans, add the quid on top and garnish with chopped parsley. Drizzle a little olive oil over the squid and season again before serving.

Gingerbread ice cream sandwich

I had one of these on a scorchio day at the Smorgasboard in Prospect Park. Been wanting to recreate it ever since. My recipe leans heavily on The Violet Bakery for their chewy, treacly ginger nut, coupled with a non-churn ridiculously easy and foolproof ice cream inspired by the legend that is Mary Berry. Makes 6-8 sandwiches.

Ingredients:

For the ginger nuts:

210g plain flour

11/2 tsp ground cinnamon

11/2 tsp. ground ginger

¼ tsp ground cardamom

¼ tso. Ground coriander

1 tsp bicarbonate soda

125g unsalted butter

100g dark muscovado sugar

100g treacle11/2 tsp boiling water

Caster sugar for dusting

 For the ice cream:

4 large eggs, separated

100g caster sugar

300ml double cream

100g stem ginger, chopped into small pieces

2 tbsp syrup from the jar

30g chopped crystallized ginger

 How to make

First, make the ice cream.

Whisk the egg whites in a large bowl until stiff peaks form.Slowly whisk in the caster sugar, and continue to whisk until the mixture is stiff ang glossy.

Whisk the cream in a separate bowl until you have soft peaks. Fold the cream,egg yolks, and the stem ginger, syrup and crystallised ginger into the meringue mixture until well combined (don’t be heavy handed with this stage). Pour into a plastic container and freeze for two hours.

While the ice cream is freezing, make the ginger snaps.

Preheat the oven to 180C (170C fan). Line a baking sheet with baking parchment.

Measure all the dry ingredients (except for the muscovado sugar) into a bowl and mix well.

Beat the butter, brown sugar and treacle with an nelectric whisk until light and fluffy. Add the boiling water, then the dry ingredients and mix until combined.

Put some caster sugar in a small bowl. Scoop small spoons of mix, roll into a ball and then roll in the caster sugar, then place on the baking sheet and press slightly in the middle (these biscuits will spread a lot so don’t press down too hard). Repeat with the rest of the mix.

Pop into the oven and bake for 15 mins. The biscuits will still be softish when you take them out of the oven but they will harden as they cool down.

When the ginger nuts are completely cold and the ice cream firm but scoopable, Sandwich a scoop of ice cream between two ginger nuts and wrap in baking parchment before putting upright into a loaf tin. Repeat with you other biscuits, so they all fit snigly into the tin, then return to the freezer until you are ready to eat them. You can also serve this up as scoops of ice cream, on its own with ginger snaps on the side. 

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.16

“Stay on Target”

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 15 - Threat Assessment 17 - As You Like It >>

Two arrows flew through the air in quick succession, and across the room, one of them hit dead center on the target. The other at least hit the target.

The first arrow belonged to Morita, shooting a polyalloy pulley/cam compound bow. The second was Lorca, with a traditional Japanese bow. "You didn't miss," said Morita amiably, offering Lorca his bow back.

"It has good balance," said Lorca, admiring the layered wood and bamboo a moment before making the trade. "Still can't believe you brought that on-board." They were in the largest cargo bay on the ship, rows of supplies pushed aside to provide the longest possible shooting corridor.

"It's only a hankyu. Half-size." She shot off an arrow with the bow and it struck next to the arrow from her compound shot. "A yumi is much larger. And it was a wedding present."

"You make that look so easy."

Morita almost smiled. "Years of practice, sir. My father insisted." As a child, she had resented all the archery practice forced upon her by her father's enthusiasm for cultural history, much preferring phaser weapons, but there was something to be said for the usefulness of knowing traditional ways.

When Lorca had outlined the details of his plan, he had originally called for a sniper rifle, as large as they could locate. Morita had countered, "Why not a bow?" And when she showed Lorca the size of the bow she had in mind, he'd agreed wholeheartedly, with the caveat that he hadn't shot a bow in years. Thus, the cargo bay refresher course.

Returning to the compound bow, Lorca's next shot was very close to dead center. "Think they'll buy it?"

"That we're rich, eccentric hunters with a passion for archery?" asked Morita. "I'm sure they'll agree we're eccentric."

Lorca held himself back from laughing. Everything on the ship was somber and tense now. He needed this plan to work more than ever to restore confidence and remind the crew firsthand the importance of their mission in space.

He lowered his bow and looked at Morita. "How are you holding up?"

She loosed another area. It went a tiny bit wide of center. "Fine, sir."

"Off the record?"

Morita looked over at him, feeling mildly annoyed. She didn't like the idea that her captain doubted her ability to keep it together when she had given him no cause for such concern. "Walter's loss is a blow, but... that's space. We all understand the dangers we signed up for. I miss him, but I'm here to do a job, and I intend to do it. To honor his memory." The last words were directly lifted from the short memorial address Lorca had given the crew that morning.

"If it were possible, I'd sub you out for this next part, but..."

"Is there another expert archer onboard?" said Morita, sharper than she usually addressed him. "Or maybe Captain Georgiou is good with a bow. I hear a lot of aliens can't tell us apart. Off the record."

Lorca pursed his lips and then his eyebrows jerked up momentarily in acceptance. "All right, I deserved that. You're too much a part of this for me to replace you, Reiko. I apologize."

Morita nodded her head in approval of the sentiment, nocked another arrow, and let it fly. It landed dead center on Lorca's target. "Thank you, captain."

They headed to retrieve their arrows for another round. "You should probably get in the habit of calling me Gabriel for the next few days."

"You're probably right... Gabriel." It was hard for Morita to say it. "Actually, Da Hee suggested I invite you to dinner tomorrow night. She can give you some pointers on being my wife." They both heard it at the same time. "Husband," Morita corrected herself breathily, almost amused at the slipup.

Lorca suspected Morita was probably the more decisive of the two in the relationship, and wondered if that same dynamic was going to play out between himself and Morita over the next few days as they faked it for the hunt. The idea didn’t particularly bother him. "Tell Daisy I accept."

"I hope you like Korean food."

"I guess we'll find out."

They retook their positions. Lorca took a breath and gently exhaled, loosing his arrow as he did. It hit dead center.

Preparations for the final phase of the operation continued, but otherwise all was quiet. It wasn't just the ship-wide malaise at the knowledge one of their own had fallen. It also felt like the calm before the storm. There was a tenseness in the air, an expectation of something still to come.

At least grief was starting to loosen its stranglehold on the crew's state of mind. There was too much to do on the ship to wallow. The grieving could be sorted into three groups: the first, and largest group, knew Chen only in passing. The sum effect of his death on them was that they were propelled into a state of ready mindfulness, reminded of their own mortality and the dangers of deep space, which would continue for about a week before subsiding back to the previous level of tension they had felt about their lives in deep space prior to the incident. They would be more cautious, and then resume living as they had.

The second group consisted of people who were taking this loss as a chance to project their own self-importance and insecurity onto the situation. They were the most outwardly affected, but almost to a fault, none of them had known Chen very well or suffered anything by his loss other than a glimpse of their own mortality. Their response to his passing was to make it somehow about themselves by pretending they had known Chen—even known him well enough to count him as a friend—and they wanted to make sure those around them knew how much Chen had meant to them and how very sad they were about his passing.

The third group were those select few who actually had known Chen, worked alongside him, and considered him a friend long before he had drawn his final breath. They were the quietest group, because what they felt was an empty gaping hole where Chen had been that would follow them for several months to come, and which they did not as a general rule want to give voice to, lest the hole's presence overwhelm them. While the members of the second group loudly worried about what Chen's death meant to them personally, the third group stood to the side and thought to themselves, "But you didn't even know him. You barely spoke a word to him at any point. This grief shouldn't be yours."

Lorca, of course, belonged to a fourth class of people: the non-grieving. There was nothing he could do about Chen's death at this point. He'd done his bit memorializing Chen and communicating Starfleet's regrets to Chen's family, and now he had other things to worry about, like the transponder.

Arzo had set up the transponder project in engineering where he could easily fall back upon the engineering crew's expertise to make the necessary modifications. When Lorca arrived to inspect their progress, he found them well ahead of schedule and on track to finish the transponder a day early. He listened intently as Arzo outlined the revisions they had made and what would be necessary to operate the device upon reaching Luluan, but his eyes wandered to the middle of the engine room. Billingsley was checking the warp coil field alignment, her magboots clicking faintly along the walkway as she made a good show of performing an entirely superfluous inspection in his eyeline.

To the casual observer, she seemed to be pointedly ignoring Lorca, but she lingered just a little too long at certain spots, shifting her weight and chewing on her finger as she pondered her field modulator for no good reason. Lorca had little trouble remembering what she looked like under the uniform or recalling her affection for biting, which seemed to be the point.

"Good work, Arzo," said Lorca as Arzo finished his project summation. "Chief!"

Billingsley pretended not to know she was being called for, looking around in blatantly feigned confusion before letting her gaze settle onto the captain. "Sir?"

"Would you mind checking the viewscreen in my ready room? I think Russo left something out of alignment."

"Certainly, captain," she said coolly, but with an intense smolder in her half-hooded eyes, and turned back to the warp coil.

Oh, she was good. "Now?" he said pointedly.

Billingsley passed off the field modulator to an ensign who probably should have been running the check in the first place and followed Lorca out.

"Turbolift?"

"Sure."

But when the turbolift arrived, it wasn't empty. Ensign Kerrigan was standing inside. "Bridge?" he said helpfully, looking at the two of them.

"If that's all, I'll get back to engineering, sir," said Billingsley immediately, turning on her heel.

"Thanks, chief," Lorca called after her bitterly. He stepped into the turbolift with a deeply annoyed sigh which Kerrigan mistook as the usual flagrant animosity between the captain and chief engineer. The turbolift hummed to life. "How're things with Lalana?"

Kerrigan seemed almost to startle at the question. "Oh, fine."

"Just 'fine?'" said Lorca, intending it as a joke. Kerrigan seemed almost to shrink in response. Lorca immediately sussed out that he'd stumbled onto something that, while hardly the action he'd been looking for in the turbolift, was at least of interest. "Ensign?"

Kerrigan realized that his lackluster response had been horribly insufficient and blurted out, "It's great, sir! Everything's great!"

"Computer, halt turbolift."

Kerrigan's face fell. He had over-corrected and made it even worse. He stared at Lorca in abject terror, failing to form anything more than a nervous "ah" sound.

After a moment in which it became clear Kerrigan was not going to produce an explanation on his own, Lorca asked, "Is the problem Larsson?" That morning, Lorca had approved a second interspecies project with their lului guest from a most unexpected source: Lieutenant Einar Larsson, a member of Lalana's security detail. The Swede's proposal had been extremely blunt. I will ask the lului questions about the history of her planet and record what she says without any of the waste of time interpretation bullshit historians do. Also I am the best person to do this because Lalana already knows me and if you ask her she will pick me to do it. The proposal had even read like Larsson spoke: a monotonous run-on sentence. When questioned, the Swede had admitted to a personal passion for history – minus the "interpretation bullshit" – and Lorca had been sufficiently impressed by Larsson's straightforwardness and confidence to let him go forward with the project despite it being well outside the man's professional wheelhouse. (While some ships had a historical officer posted onboard, the Triton did not.) As a bonus, since Larsson was already assigned to watch Lalana, his project wouldn't entail the redistribution of any more personnel resources than were already being used, and as a final bonus, on some level, Lorca thought Larsson's historical survey was going to be unintentionally hilarious, as the man's proposal had been. Let Starfleet make of that what they would.

Kerrigan looked genuinely surprised to hear the name. "Larsson? No, sir."

So not Larsson, but the poor ensign's responses were practically screaming something was amiss. "So there is a problem."

Kerrigan shook his head frantically. "No, sir. No."

Lorca, already an imposing figure beside the scrawny ensign, drew himself up and crossed his arms. "Ensign, spit it out." There was no mistaking his tone. It would be unwise for Kerrigan to make the captain ask again.

Still, Kerrigan hesitated a moment. His options seemed to consist of being stranded in the turbolift forever with an irate captain or coming clean. He wasn't sure which was worse, but the first prospect clearly presented more immediate peril. "It's... it's not a problem, per se, captain. It's just, she doesn't like me very much. But it hasn't affected the work any, I promise. The next time Starfleet encounters a lului, we will be able to communicate fully." On that point, at least, Kerrigan sounded very confident.

Which was all well and good, but Lorca was more interested in the first part of Kerrigan's statement. "Lalana said she doesn't like you? She likes everyone." Though she had expressed a dislike for crowds, Lorca had never heard Lalana express anything less than ardent enthusiasm for any individual she had met, even ones she shouldn't like, like Peter Bhandary, Margeh, and T'rond'n. She hadn't even seemed particularly put off by Beldehen Venel, a man who was organizing the slaughter of her people for profit.

"She didn't... say it," clarified Kerrigan.

Kerrigan had spent more time with Lalana than anyone else on the ship, and might have gleaned some behavioral cue Lorca had missed. "Then how do you know?"

"Uh..." Kerrigan seemed entirely lost.

"Does she... knock her hands?" Lorca knocked his finger joints together twice in perfect imitation of the way Lalana indicated distress. "Twitch? Vibrate? Change colors?" Kerrigan's head shook back and forth. "Help me out here, Mr. Kerrigan."

Kerrigan pondered a moment. "It's more... what she doesn't do, captain."

"The hand spin?" asked Lorca, thinking he had it, and then realized Lalana didn't always rotate her hands when they were talking, so that couldn't be it, unless she secretly disliked everyone on the entire ship.

"Partly?" said Kerrigan, voice cracking. "It's more like she doesn't look at me. And... and she walks around a lot."

Lorca let that sit in the air a moment. "She walks around the room?"

"Yes, sir."

Lorca gave up. "Computer, resume turbolift." Kerrigan visibly relaxed as the turbolift started to move again. And then Lorca went, "Computer, halt." Kerrigan wanted to die. "I don't think she hates you, ensign. I get the impression, to her, the universe is all sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns. My guess is she hates being stuck in quarters all day. Maybe move your language survey to the gym?"

"The gym? Sure." Kerrigan didn't sound very confident.

Lorca cleared his throat and fixed Kerrigan with a mildly disapproving look.

"I mean, yes, captain!"

Confident he'd solved the issue, Lorca ordered the turbolift to resume once more. It moved all of six inches and the doors opened onto the bridge.

As Lorca relieved Benford and Kerrigan relieved Russo, the young ensign thought to himself, Sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns? Really? He couldn't think of what words might actually be used to describe his impressions of Lalana, but he was certain it wasn't those.

Lorca was pacing when the comms beeped. "Incoming transmission from the Shenzhou," reported Kerrigan. "Personal for you, sir."

"I'll take it in the ready room," said Lorca automatically, wondering what it signified.

Quite a lot, it turned out. After the brief exchange of pleasantries, Captain Georgiou went right to the point and informed him of Starfleet Command's request for her thoughts on the Triton and its captain. "I only thought it right to inform you, Gabriel, and let you know what I said in the report." She was, as always, measured, calm, and magnanimous. Every bit the legendary captain.

"Thank you, Philippa," said Lorca calmly. It was the first time he'd ever addressed her so familiarly, but inwardly his thoughts were roiling. "I appreciate it."

Georgiou's smile seemed somehow grim in light of the seriousness of their conversation, but it softened slightly. "And perhaps one day I will get to meet your alien. Lt. Saru was very impressed with her."

The phrasing jumped out at Lorca. He sniffed in dismissive amusement. "Oh, she's not my alien," he said casually, as if he hadn't a care in the world. "She just happens to be on my ship."

Georgiou's smile gave way to a small laugh. "Well said, captain. Good luck on your mission." The transmission terminated on the other end.

Luck has nothing to do with it, Lorca thought, jaw tightening in anger. He grabbed the foam ball on his desk and threw it against the wall. It bounced off, harmless and totally unsatisfying. Damn that Walter Chen.

Every remaining step of this mission was going to need to go off without a hitch, or else.

Part 17